Abort Mission - Part IV
In Part III, our narrator and their mother arrive at Planned Parenthood, but their mom promptly leaves for Sephora. After an initial ultrasound, our narrator clocks other people waiting in the office and goes in for one final consultation.
Though I had become comfortable in my former seat, I seized this as an opportunity to sit with the only other visibly queer person in the waiting room–green jorts.
I don’t think I told you my name before by the way. I’m River, he/him pronouns work for me, he said, holding out his hand.
I use they/them pronouns. I said.
I guessed, he said, and we smiled, in a way that only comes from when two queers clock each other in the most gender-affirming way that signals I see you.
I asked River at what step in the process he was at. He said he’d finally just got his bloods done.
This whole thing just never goddamn ends, I said. I had no idea how many steps there were. I’d somehow naively assumed that I’d just come in, have the abortion and be on my merry way.
River laughed. For real, it’s like a labyrinth up in here.
We both nodded and looked down at our shoes. If it wasn’t already obvious how queer we both were, you only had to look at our matching pair of Doc Martens, treads entirely worn.
Do you smoke? River asked.
My brain knew the answer was no, but instead my mouth said: yes. After all, I wasn’t going for the smoke, but for who the smoke was with.
River gave a half smile, and gestured towards the door with his head.
Do you think we’ll miss our place? I said.
On the abortion list? he said.
We stood up and a few stares followed us out the door. We passed the metal detector, and took the elevator down, River already passing me a cigarette on our way out. They were the skinny kind. The cunty kind.
I’m trying to quit…mind if I just have a couple puffs of yours?
He nodded.
Once outside, River lit the end and breathed in, closing his eyes momentarily as the fall chill brushed past our cheeks.
He passed the cig over to me, and I took a drag then started sputtering, my body bent in half like the letter C.
River tried to hold back his amusement at the tragic scene, but ultimately failed.
Sorry, River said, wiping tears of laughter out from the corner of his eyes. You’re not trying to quit are you? I shook my head. Have you ever been a smoker? I shook my head again.
I mean, can you blame a bitch for wanting to get out of that depressing waiting room…? Plus, I wanted to get to know another queer in here. I fiddled with the hem of my shirt. He smiled.
We stood there in silence for a moment, looking out onto the street, the buses, the cars, the hustle and bustle of the city.
Isn’t it wild how people are really just out here going about their daily business, meanwhile we’re out here doing…doing…this…River said.
Aborting fetuses, which are really just big old balls of cells? I said.
I mean, yes, if you put it like that. River said, bringing the cig back up to his lips.
I watched a person in a bobble hat walk past the entrance, look at their phone, then back up again. They walked towards us.
Is this, um, is this, Planned, um, Planned Parenthood? they said while fidgeting with their sleeve. We both nodded, gesturing towards the door.
14th floor, River said.
They thanked us and scurried into the building.
Well, how are you feeling about it, I asked River after a few moments of silence, in lieu of the vulnerability required to ask the same of myself.
I mean, it’s not ideal is it? He said, meeting my eyes. I pursed my lips in agreement. I guess I’m trying to just remind myself that I’m just that 1 in 4. One of the over a million abortions each year in this country alone. How common this experience really is, but how little it’s talked about.
I nodded.
Especially as a trans guy. It almost feels like I am doing it wrong somehow.
What do you mean? I asked.
Transness…guyness, I guess.
He threw his hands up in the air.
Supposedly men aren’t meant to get pregnant, especially not gay men! But here I am… preggers, he said, looking down at his stomach. He tapped the end of the cigarette gently with his thumb, watching the ash fall away into the wind, as he took another drag with quick succession.
Neither are lesbians, I said. Look at us, smashing glass ceilings, I said. River laughed.
Our parents would be so proud. This time the two of us cracked up.
I gestured towards the cigarette. He raised their left eyebrows in a you sure?, to which I nodded. I took it slower this time, less deeply into my lungs, thankfully a little more gracefully than the last.
The whole thing is so unfair, I said. I think that’s what gets me the most. The people that impregnate us just fuck and move on, fuck and move on. Meanwhile here we are, dealing with the consequences of their actions. I guess technically it’s our actions too, if it was consensual, which shouldn’t be taken for granted. But you know what I mean.
River nodded.
I just find it so unjust that I have to spend the day here, knocked up, after just one instance of straight sexual intercourse where, mind you, I didn’t even come, and then I had to push the abortion out a week because my mum was hosting mahjong, putting her schedule ahead of my own body and now because I’ve waited this extra week, the whole fetus thing may have affected my blood stream. Meanwhile she’s out there, trying on makeup at Sephora, and I’m, well, here.
I pointed down towards my feet.
Okay, fine maybe that’s mean of me to say, because at least she’s here to support me, making dinner and all, but still, it’s like she’s here for this, but at the same time she doesn’t even talk to me about it–oh did I mention, she initially wanted me to keep it?! Oh and the girl I’m seeing, or was seeing, who I really really genuinely like, will probably never talk to me again because I fucked up so bad, even though we’re meant to be open, but just…ugh, it’s all just so fucking unfair.
You don’t gotta tell me twice, he said. This whole world is new to me. I hate when people use this term, but people used to call me a “gold star” lesbian.
We both rolled our eyes in commiseration, loathing the phrase.
I knew I was on my own gender journey, from dyke to enby to a trans guy. But I didn’t realise I’d also transition my sexuality. I’d always hated the male gaze, but then I realised it was just the straight cis-male gaze. So I guess one might say I went from dyke to twink almost overnight.
I guess that’s what happens when your top surgery has healed and you discover Grindr for the first time.
I laughed. Not due to the content, but in his delivery, so matter of fact.
I mean, even if you try, you can still wind up here. Look at me, I used a condom and even took Plan B, and this still happened. I swear to God, I’m never using that brand of condoms ever again, plus I’m boycotting that pharmacy for their defunct products.
I feel you. If it helps at all, I’ll boycott with you. River said.
This seemingly insignificant gesture of solidarity managed to somehow tip me over the edge. I’d been holding it together this whole time. Hadn’t cried once. Told myself that it was totally fine and normal, nothing to be ashamed of, then all the sudden, liquid started falling out of my face. It started at the eyes, then the nose. My throat began to amass what felt like a golf ball, and my cheeks felt hot.
Sorry, I don’t know what's happening. I’m really not sad about the pregnancy. I know it’s not a real baby. Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m crying right now.
River reached into his pocket and offered me a crumpled tissue.
It’s clean, promise.
I didn’t care either way, but said thanks and took it.
River looked at me, tears rising now in his eyes too. He moved towards me, and put out his arms. I folded into them, and he closed his arms around me. He held me there in silence, the only sound my sniffles and occasional hiccup, to the sound of New York traffic passing by.
I just hate how the guy that did this to me remains unscathed, I blubbered into River’s well-loved leather jacket. For all I know, he is probably just at home jerking off to some annoyingly conventional hetero porn. Or maybe he’s watching some disgustingly fake and stupid lesbian Asian porn. Stupid fucking fetishiser.
River rubbed my back through my coat.
Stupid fucking fetishiser, he said in agreement.
I laughed, creating a snot bubble just under my nostril. I wiped it away with the back of my hand.
Sorry, I’m such a mess, I said. Pulling away slightly, now that my breathing was beginning to get back to a semi-regular pace. River put the cig back to his mouth.
No apologies needed, he said. If there is ever anyone that can even vaguely empathise with your situation, it’s me. He pointed at chest.
Don’t forget, I used to be a lesbian too. Oh, and not to state the obvious, but I too, am very much pregnant.
He moved his finger from his chest to his stomach.
Just a coupla pregnant gender-bending hos up in here, I said. River giggled.
I guess that’s right, he said.
We stood there, facing the road for a good amount of time, breathing in the crisp air, grounding us back into the present.
River stubbed the end of the cigarette on the bottom of his rubber sole, putting the end back into their pocket.
Thank you, I said.
Thank you, he said.
We both smiled.
Shall we? He said, propping back the door, as I walked through it.
*****
We went back through the metal detectors, then took a seat next to each other in the corner of the room. We sat in silence, thigh against thigh, knowing that what we had found in each other on this day was special. A sense of gratitude washed over me, and I felt less alone. I sensed he felt the same.
Almost as if on cue, my name was called.
Good timing, River said as I stood up.
Indeed, I said.
I was back in the maze, back in the game, if you will. I was taken down the same corridor, but this time I was instructed to take a right at the end instead of a left.
The room looked much like the first, with a hospital bed in the middle. I went up and began to mount myself onto the bed, but the nurse stopped me halfway, pointing at the chair opposite instead. She confirmed my name and date of birth and then passed me a small cup, like one of those ones you swig mouthwash in at the dentist, or try smoothie samples at the supermarket. Inside it was a pill.
What is this for? I asked. They told me this was the abortion pill. I clearly looked confused so she explained further.
All this time, I’d thought I was going to be on a bed and some kind of procedure would then take place. I didn’t even google it because I didn’t really want to know, I just knew that I needed to get it done. She told me that even though I was over the eight-week threshold, I was within the time limit for a medical abortion, so in this case, the pills should be sufficient. I would have to take home four pills to take in 24-48 hours from now. She talked me through the process and the potential side effects, and then had me sign a form acknowledging what I was about to do. I signed and swallowed with a swig of water from another cup. I was shocked at how simple it was. As I left the room, I stepped on the pedal of the trash can and dropped both cups into it. And that was it.
I walked back to the waiting room where I thanked the nurse and reached for the exit door.
Just one more step, the nurse said, and directed me towards the waiting room. Again? I asked. For the implant, she said.
I sat down and checked the time on my phone. I’d been there for over two hours at this point. Fuck’s sake. It really was quite the Herculean admin task.
When I was called up for the final step, I was finally told to sit on the hospital bed again. This new nurse with a mousey brown ponytail asked whether I was left or right handed. Right, I said. Then she inserted it into my left arm, just above the elbow. With her ponytail swishing, the nurse told me that it will last five years. I nodded and hopped off the table.
See you in five then, I said.
See you in five, she said and smiled.
And with this, I was finally released back into the world.
As I walked past the waiting room, I saw River sitting exactly where I’d left him.
I guess I am finally no longer with child, I said. Well, in 24-48 hours.
Happy for you, he said.
We hugged, holding each other for an extra few seconds, our bodies saying instinctually, “I got you.”
We should grab coffee some time, I said.
I’d like that, he said.
Even if we never did, we meant it in the moment.
*****
My mum was waiting for me outside, sitting on the steps reading a book. She pulled me into a tight hug that said all the words she couldn’t verbalize. I hugged her tight in a way that said, one day, maybe I’ll have a kid and maybe you’ll become a grandma, but I promise, it will be in much better circumstances when I am ready, financially prepared and actually know, trust, and ideally love the other person. I didn’t say any of these things, but I shared it telepathically instead.
When she let go, I noticed her eyes were puffy, her cheeks blotchy. For the first time I considered how difficult today may have been not just for me, but for her too.
I got you a snack. She held up a Ziploc which I could immediately see was full of clementine segments.
Thanks Mum. I said, opening the bag. But you know I’m not a baby anymore, I can peel my own oranges.
Yes, I know that. But you’ll always be my baby, no matter how old you are.
I tilted my head onto her shoulder to hide my emotions. In that moment, I couldn’t bear to even look her.
The fact that she had spent time individually peeling clementines for me–the portable knife-less version of cut fruit–was my mothers love language out in full force.
In that exact moment, I was struck by the purity of a mother’s love. That as her child, there was nothing that I could do or say would ever change that, even if the choices I make would never have been the same as those she would have made for herself.
I popped a segment into my mouth, releasing sweet orangey juice towards the lump in the back of my throat. We walked arm in arm towards the station in the comfort of familial silence. Though we didn’t exchange a single word, this simple act of love was all I needed to know that I, and our relationship, was going to be okay.
When we got off the subway and back up the stairs into service, my phone rang. It was a group video call from Em & H.
I answered it, excitedly, and as their two squished together faces filled the screen, I let out a deep exhale.
******
Epilogue
By the end of the pregnancy scare, I had peed on 6 plastic sticks. Though, I’m not sure this was considered a ‘scare’ since fertilization did occur. When I eventually left my sublet with Em and H, I found a tote bag full of them. I hadn’t felt I could get rid of them at the time. As a warning? Maybe. As a reminder of my past? Perhaps. To spook people out for future Halloweens? Quite possibly. However, I did feel that transporting them from one home to the next did cross the border from nostalgia to hoarding urine soaked trash. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them all out, though.
So, I kept one. It is pink and white with both lines faded almost entirely by now, though if you look close enough, you can tell. I keep it in the same bag as my sex toys, as some kind of perverse joke from past me to future me.
Each time I come across it, something deep inside myself swells. I’m not quite sure how to label the feeling, but I do know that I am proud. That in a world that wants us to make decisions to please others, this was one clear example where I chose myself.
And I am really, really happy that I did.
Ly Rosengard (they/them) is a queer, non-binary, Chinese-English Londoner living in Brooklyn (another one!). Ly is a writer of prose, poetry and recently scripts. By day, Ly is a LGBTQIA+ human rights advocate, by night, they are a writer obsessed with the intersection of mental health & mental illness, queerness, friendship, love, and people power. Ly is currently working on a novel, short stories & a documentary on eroticism, comradeship & the BIPOC queer and trans kink scene here in New York. They’re also working on The Mental, a substack of candid conversations about lived experiences of mental health & mental illness. Ly has been published by The Independent, The Times, Third Place Zine (forthcoming), and published poetry in Chronicles of Pride. Ly has had support from Kenyon Review Writers Workshop (2024) and Tin House (2024). Lily holds a BA in Philosophy & Religion from the University of Cambridge, and an MA in Human Rights from University College London.
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