Monologue On Abortion
The room is small and claustrophobic. It smells like disinfectant and latex. The lights are too bright, too clinical. A woman sits behind desk, when I walk up to her she smiles a little too big. The way nurses sometimes do, like they are trying to make you feel better, which they probably are. It always comes across as so fake, so insincere. It always makes me want to scream, and today is no different, in fact I think today is worse. Everything in me wants to yell at her “you know what I’m doing here right? You can see it on that nice chart of yours. I know you can. So why are you smiling at me? That’s not helpful right now.” I stop myself, because I know yelling at her won’t make me feel any better, and honestly she is probably actually
…show more content…
very nice. I check in and the sickly sweet receptionist points to one of the waiting room chairs. They are the kind that look like they might be comfortable, but end up feeling harder than if they weren’t padded at all. And they have some kind of weird way too bright abstract pattern on them. The second I sit down the knot in my stomach gets even tighter then it was before, which honesty I didn’t think was possible. I turn to the extensive paper work the woman gave me to fill out. Patient name? Miranda Owens. May we contact you by mail? No. May we contact you by home phone? No. May we leave a message on your cellphone? No. Person Responsible for the bill? me. When was your last period? Two months ago I guess. Number of pregnancies? Well… I guess one. Number of births? Zero. There will be zero births happening. I sign my name and immediately feel sick. Morning sickness or fear? They have become the same thing that this point. I pull my legs in close to me, so that my feet are resting on the edge of the chair. I wrap my arms around my legs are begin picking at my cuticles. This has been a bad habit of mine for my entire life. Whenever I get nervous about something I start pulling at my nail beds until they are raw. I know it’s a habit I need to break, but there is something about it that is so comforting I can’t bring myself to stop. If the doctor doesn’t come out soon though, I won’t have a single healthy finger left. The women around me don’t seem to be doing much better. I don’t think anyone ever comes to Planned Parenthood without being at least a little nervous, no matter what you are doing. Especially here in Arizona where being somewhere that offers abortions is extremely taboo. Most of the other women are around my age, some a little older, college age maybe. Most of them look nervous as well, there is a sort of silent camaraderie between us all. Each of us here for slightly different reasons, but ultimately waiting for the same thing: good news. The news that what we have been fearing is over. For some that means finding out that they are STI free, for some it’s finding out they aren’t pregnant, for others getting on the birth control I never knew existed, or if they are like me they are waiting to be told that the nightmare is over. To be told that they aren’t pregnant anymore. Growing up I never got much sex ed. In fact the idea of sex was so frowned upon in family that for a long time I did’t understand why so many people were doing it. If all it was going to do was send you to hell why bother? It wasn’t until I was around 15 that I started to realize that maybe that wasn’t true. I started to see that maybe sex wasn’t something evil. Sometimes, I wish I could still hold my parents views. At least then I wouldn't be in this mess. Most of the time though, I wish that my parents held my views, I think that may have had the same affect ultimately. My parents were so against sex that they stopped me from attending any sexual education classes at my high school. I think they hoped that if I didn’t know anything about sex, I wouldn’t want to have it. There plan didn’t exactly work. Not that going would have really been helpful. My boyfriend got sex ed, and he still didn’t know who to put on a condom when it came down to it. I suppose I really should put sex ed in quotation marks, because what our school offered wasn’t really sex ed. It was more one woman telling all of the students about how they shouldn’t have sex, and reminding them of all of the consequences if they did. Thanks Mrs. Banks, but that doesn’t really help in the real world. What we needed to know was how to use birth control. We needed to know how to protect ourselves. We needed to know that condoms don’t have a 98% success rate if you use them wrong. We needed to know that there were other options available to us. Honestly I should just feel lucky I didn’t also get some horrible STI along with getting pregnant. My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s my boyfriend.
Him: I love u. see u when it’s over. I’ll b there to get you. Good luck <3.
Me: I love you too. Seeing this text from him almost makes me cry. The only reason I don’t is because I am in a public place. Otherwise I would be in tears. At least I have someone who loves me, because if my parents ever find out that I was pregnant they would disown me. They can’t stand the idea of me not being there “perfect” little girl. The only reason they even let me date my boyfriend is because he is the school president with a 4.0 gpa. I’m serious. They made him give them his report card. If they learned that he knocked me up… I can’t even imagine what they would do. Suddenly someone is calling my name. “Miranda. Miranda Owens. Miranda.” I snap out of my fear day dream and back into reality. A nurse is calling me back. I stand and walk with her. She leads me down a long hallway and into a smaller room. It’s closer to an office, but the desk is less personalized. It’s clear that multiple people share the same space. The walls are covered with posters, most of them with facts about STIs and teenage pregnancy, all with bright flashy colors. One of the posters has a picture of baby wearing a graduation cap and a caption that reads: Will He Graduate Before You? It is weirdly comforting. It helps me realize that I am here for a reason. I need to graduate. I need to have my life, before I can raise another life. “Miranda, why don’t you take a seat. A doctor will be right with you.” The nurse says to me before she backs out of the room and closes the door. I sit down in a wooden chair across from one of those nice big swivel chairs that are often seen in law offices. It seems weirdly out of place here among the big bowl of condoms on the desk and the posters informing me that one in four sexual active people will contract an STI before the age of 25. Before too long the door behind me opens. “Hello Miranda, I’m Dr. Alice Walken and I will be performing your procedure today should you choose to go through with it.” A kind looking women of about 40 says as she takes the seat across from me. She has brown hair that falls to about her shoulders and a stark white lab coat on. Her eyes are a striking blue and she has very pronounced laugh lines. She’s very pretty, the kind of woman that I dream of being when I’m in my 40s. “I want to go through with it.” I say back. “Ok. That’s fine, but I do need to go through your options with you.” Dr. Walken says back with a bit of a smile. “First off, you know that abortion isn’t your only option right?” “Yes I know.
A nurse when through all of my options with me when I made the appointment. I want an abortion. I can’t carry this baby to full term. I’m a senior in high school, and I’m applying for college. My parents would kill me if they found out I got pregnant. I can’t. I can’t have a baby right now. Why? Why did’t they teach me? Why didn’t they teach me what they pill was? Why didn’t they should me how to put a condom on? I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t be a mom.” I begin speaking very fast. My words all kind of blurring together. I start to sob. Uncontrollably and loudly. “I’m sorry.” “Look Miranda it’s ok to be afraid, but you shouldn’t go through with this unless you are completely sure you are making the right decision.” She says as she hands me a tissue. “I’m sure. I’m sorry it’s just been a rough few weeks. I’m fine. I’m sure that this is what I want to do. This is what I have to do.” “Ok then. We need to go over some medical history and run some tests and then we will start the procedure. The actual procedure should only last about 10 minutes, but we are going to give you a sedative. You will need a ride home. You have that right?” Her voice is extremely steady. It’s clear that she has said these words a million
times. “Yes. My boyfriend is coming to get me,” I respond. “Let’s get started then.” She goes through all of my medical history, which doesn’t take very long. I have been fairly healthy my whole life. I’ve only been to the hospital once when I broke my arm in the 5th grade. I was on antibiotics for a few days when my pediatrician thought I might have walking pneumonia, even then it turned out to just be a really bad cold. When we are finished with my medical history she draws some blood. This process seems to take forever, but then again I’m a wimp when it comes to needles. Finally the time comes to actually go through with the procedure. For a fleeting moment I feel slightly sad. My brain starts to play the “what if?” game. What if we raised this baby? What if I started a family? What if that is the right choice? And then I shake that idea off. We aren’tready. We aren’t ready for this baby. We aren’t ready for the responsibility. We simply aren’t ready. A sigh of relief washes over me. I’m making the right decision. I know that. This is the right choice. A nurse brings me into the procedure room. It’s the most sterile thing I have seen in my entire life. The whole room is shiny from all of the metal surfaces, and once again smells like disinfectant. She lays me down on a surgical bed in the middle of the room. The next thing I remember is waking up in a recovery room. It’s over. My first thought waking up is it’s over. I sit up and look around. A few other people are in beds next to me and a nurse is standing in the corner looking at a chart. She notices me and comes over. “Let’s see here… Miranda.” She says as she picks up my chart. “It looks like everything was extremely successful. Somebody will be by shortly to discharge you.” “Thank you.” It’s over. It’s over. It’s over. I don’t have to worry about this again. I’m free. I lay back down. The relief that floods into the my body tells me that I did the right thing. I made the right choice. It’s over. It’s over. It’s over.
very nice. I check in and the sickly sweet receptionist points to one of the waiting room chairs. They are the kind that look like they might be comfortable, but end up feeling harder than if they weren’t padded at all. And they have some kind of weird way too bright abstract pattern on them. The second I sit down the knot in my stomach gets even tighter then it was before, which honesty I didn’t think was possible. I turn to the extensive paper work the woman gave me to fill out. Patient name? Miranda Owens. May we contact you by mail? No. May we contact you by home phone? No. May we leave a message on your cellphone? No. Person Responsible for the bill? me. When was your last period? Two months ago I guess. Number of pregnancies? Well… I guess one. Number of births? Zero. There will be zero births happening. I sign my name and immediately feel sick. Morning sickness or fear? They have become the same thing that this point. I pull my legs in close to me, so that my feet are resting on the edge of the chair. I wrap my arms around my legs are begin picking at my cuticles. This has been a bad habit of mine for my entire life. Whenever I get nervous about something I start pulling at my nail beds until they are raw. I know it’s a habit I need to break, but there is something about it that is so comforting I can’t bring myself to stop. If the doctor doesn’t come out soon though, I won’t have a single healthy finger left. The women around me don’t seem to be doing much better. I don’t think anyone ever comes to Planned Parenthood without being at least a little nervous, no matter what you are doing. Especially here in Arizona where being somewhere that offers abortions is extremely taboo. Most of the other women are around my age, some a little older, college age maybe. Most of them look nervous as well, there is a sort of silent camaraderie between us all. Each of us here for slightly different reasons, but ultimately waiting for the same thing: good news. The news that what we have been fearing is over. For some that means finding out that they are STI free, for some it’s finding out they aren’t pregnant, for others getting on the birth control I never knew existed, or if they are like me they are waiting to be told that the nightmare is over. To be told that they aren’t pregnant anymore. Growing up I never got much sex ed. In fact the idea of sex was so frowned upon in family that for a long time I did’t understand why so many people were doing it. If all it was going to do was send you to hell why bother? It wasn’t until I was around 15 that I started to realize that maybe that wasn’t true. I started to see that maybe sex wasn’t something evil. Sometimes, I wish I could still hold my parents views. At least then I wouldn't be in this mess. Most of the time though, I wish that my parents held my views, I think that may have had the same affect ultimately. My parents were so against sex that they stopped me from attending any sexual education classes at my high school. I think they hoped that if I didn’t know anything about sex, I wouldn’t want to have it. There plan didn’t exactly work. Not that going would have really been helpful. My boyfriend got sex ed, and he still didn’t know who to put on a condom when it came down to it. I suppose I really should put sex ed in quotation marks, because what our school offered wasn’t really sex ed. It was more one woman telling all of the students about how they shouldn’t have sex, and reminding them of all of the consequences if they did. Thanks Mrs. Banks, but that doesn’t really help in the real world. What we needed to know was how to use birth control. We needed to know how to protect ourselves. We needed to know that condoms don’t have a 98% success rate if you use them wrong. We needed to know that there were other options available to us. Honestly I should just feel lucky I didn’t also get some horrible STI along with getting pregnant. My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s my boyfriend.
Him: I love u. see u when it’s over. I’ll b there to get you. Good luck <3.
Me: I love you too. Seeing this text from him almost makes me cry. The only reason I don’t is because I am in a public place. Otherwise I would be in tears. At least I have someone who loves me, because if my parents ever find out that I was pregnant they would disown me. They can’t stand the idea of me not being there “perfect” little girl. The only reason they even let me date my boyfriend is because he is the school president with a 4.0 gpa. I’m serious. They made him give them his report card. If they learned that he knocked me up… I can’t even imagine what they would do. Suddenly someone is calling my name. “Miranda. Miranda Owens. Miranda.” I snap out of my fear day dream and back into reality. A nurse is calling me back. I stand and walk with her. She leads me down a long hallway and into a smaller room. It’s closer to an office, but the desk is less personalized. It’s clear that multiple people share the same space. The walls are covered with posters, most of them with facts about STIs and teenage pregnancy, all with bright flashy colors. One of the posters has a picture of baby wearing a graduation cap and a caption that reads: Will He Graduate Before You? It is weirdly comforting. It helps me realize that I am here for a reason. I need to graduate. I need to have my life, before I can raise another life. “Miranda, why don’t you take a seat. A doctor will be right with you.” The nurse says to me before she backs out of the room and closes the door. I sit down in a wooden chair across from one of those nice big swivel chairs that are often seen in law offices. It seems weirdly out of place here among the big bowl of condoms on the desk and the posters informing me that one in four sexual active people will contract an STI before the age of 25. Before too long the door behind me opens. “Hello Miranda, I’m Dr. Alice Walken and I will be performing your procedure today should you choose to go through with it.” A kind looking women of about 40 says as she takes the seat across from me. She has brown hair that falls to about her shoulders and a stark white lab coat on. Her eyes are a striking blue and she has very pronounced laugh lines. She’s very pretty, the kind of woman that I dream of being when I’m in my 40s. “I want to go through with it.” I say back. “Ok. That’s fine, but I do need to go through your options with you.” Dr. Walken says back with a bit of a smile. “First off, you know that abortion isn’t your only option right?” “Yes I know.
A nurse when through all of my options with me when I made the appointment. I want an abortion. I can’t carry this baby to full term. I’m a senior in high school, and I’m applying for college. My parents would kill me if they found out I got pregnant. I can’t. I can’t have a baby right now. Why? Why did’t they teach me? Why didn’t they teach me what they pill was? Why didn’t they should me how to put a condom on? I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t be a mom.” I begin speaking very fast. My words all kind of blurring together. I start to sob. Uncontrollably and loudly. “I’m sorry.” “Look Miranda it’s ok to be afraid, but you shouldn’t go through with this unless you are completely sure you are making the right decision.” She says as she hands me a tissue. “I’m sure. I’m sorry it’s just been a rough few weeks. I’m fine. I’m sure that this is what I want to do. This is what I have to do.” “Ok then. We need to go over some medical history and run some tests and then we will start the procedure. The actual procedure should only last about 10 minutes, but we are going to give you a sedative. You will need a ride home. You have that right?” Her voice is extremely steady. It’s clear that she has said these words a million
times. “Yes. My boyfriend is coming to get me,” I respond. “Let’s get started then.” She goes through all of my medical history, which doesn’t take very long. I have been fairly healthy my whole life. I’ve only been to the hospital once when I broke my arm in the 5th grade. I was on antibiotics for a few days when my pediatrician thought I might have walking pneumonia, even then it turned out to just be a really bad cold. When we are finished with my medical history she draws some blood. This process seems to take forever, but then again I’m a wimp when it comes to needles. Finally the time comes to actually go through with the procedure. For a fleeting moment I feel slightly sad. My brain starts to play the “what if?” game. What if we raised this baby? What if I started a family? What if that is the right choice? And then I shake that idea off. We aren’tready. We aren’t ready for this baby. We aren’t ready for the responsibility. We simply aren’t ready. A sigh of relief washes over me. I’m making the right decision. I know that. This is the right choice. A nurse brings me into the procedure room. It’s the most sterile thing I have seen in my entire life. The whole room is shiny from all of the metal surfaces, and once again smells like disinfectant. She lays me down on a surgical bed in the middle of the room. The next thing I remember is waking up in a recovery room. It’s over. My first thought waking up is it’s over. I sit up and look around. A few other people are in beds next to me and a nurse is standing in the corner looking at a chart. She notices me and comes over. “Let’s see here… Miranda.” She says as she picks up my chart. “It looks like everything was extremely successful. Somebody will be by shortly to discharge you.” “Thank you.” It’s over. It’s over. It’s over. I don’t have to worry about this again. I’m free. I lay back down. The relief that floods into the my body tells me that I did the right thing. I made the right choice. It’s over. It’s over. It’s over.