(Washington Post illustration; iStock)
By Britany Robinson, August 22
Washington Post
Technically, I wasn’t alone when I had my abortion. There was a doctor at my feet. A nurse at my head. She offered to hold my hand, but I dug my fingernails into my palms instead — hoping one type of pain might distract from another. I wasn’t alone, but in so many ways, I was.
An hour later, I returned to the waiting room. My not-quite-boyfriend’s chin was folded against his chest. I poked his shoulder and motioned toward the door.
“Let’s go,” I said.
I tried to slip my arm through his as we walked through the parking lot on that frigid Chicago morning, but he was stiff and unresponsive. I pulled back and held my elbows tight instead.
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Source: Washington Post