I was 19 years old. I recently had found out I was pregnant at a local clinic. It had felt as if a bomb had gone off inside me. I was hysterical when the doctor told me. I told her I couldn’t afford to support a baby, after all I’m still a kid myself and that the man who had gotten me pregnant was going behind my back with another girl and was high out of his mind constantly. The doctor had tried to pressure me into keeping the baby, but I knew that is not what I wanted. She called persistently yet overtime I ignored the call, until finally I just blocked the number all together. Shortly after, I went to my mother’s work, still crying my eyes out, trying to keep it together but failing miserably.
Before I even told her she looked at me and said, “you’re pregnant.” She knew. I started crying once again and she ran up and held me after I had admitted it and told her I couldn’t keep it. She whispered to me, “I had an abortion when I was 16, you are not alone.” I was incredibly grateful for my mother at that very moment. The day of the abortion, the sonogram technician had asked if I wanted a picture of it, because I had asked her to turn away the screen so I didn’t have to see my baby inside me. The word yes slipped out before I realized what I said. After, I was waiting in a room for my pain medications before the abortion itself. I looked down at the envelope which contained the picture inside. It was dead silent in the room, besides the ticking clock. I had known, if I opened this envelope, I would end up running out of this room and keeping the baby. I slowly ripped it open, but stopped. I walked slowly to the trash, and took one last look at the envelope, and threw it away. I had a choice that day, and I am very fortunate that I was able to choose my fate.