Why I Chose To Have My Abortion At A Party

By: Amanda Patton

There is this notion, even within some parts of the pro-choice community, that there are right and wrong ways to talk about/deal with your abortion. I’ve seen hundreds - if not thousands - of patients go through the abortion process. I’ve seen many women who feel isolated and alone. Who feel like they can’t tell anyone. Who have to go through their abortions without friends, family or a partner because they are too afraid to tell them. Too afraid because they know being honest with their loved ones about their abortion could have dire consequences. Sometimes, as is the case in abusive situations, it is truly not safe to tell others about their abortion.

I have seen how incredibly heartbreaking and scary it can be to go through abortion alone. And I know how stigmatizing it can be when well-meaning people try to police the way women feel or speak about their abortions. It can be a sad experience for some, but there are also many women who are made to feel guilty for feeling genuine relief, happiness, or a lack of regret after an abortion.

Having seen this story play out in so many different ways for many different patients, I’ve had a long, long time to imagine how I would want my abortion to go. But the fact of the matter is that I spent many years quietly wondering if I could get even pregnant. This year in particular is when I started to really be afraid that I was infertile. The extreme life changes I’ve experienced over the past year completely shook my perspective on whether or not I want to have a family someday. Many of my friends have settled down, gotten pregnant, and had children, while I got divorced and realized that I couldn’t be further away from having the family that I never knew I wanted until recently.

Over the past few months, I started thinking more and more about my presumed inability to get pregnant and it hurt. I felt like I had lost my ability to choose without even realizing it and that led to a lot of tears. It took up a lot of space in my mind and those who are closest to me are very much aware of my struggle to come to terms with the uncertain future of my fertility.

A week before I found out I was pregnant, my doctor asked me if I could possibly be pregnant. I emphatically said, “No, I'm sure it’s not possible. I’m so sure of this that I stopped using hormonal contraception 5 years ago and I’ve still never been pregnant. Is there testing I can have done to get a final diagnosis of infertility?”

The doctor said she understood why I was declining birth control. “If you’ve never been pregnant and haven’t actively tried to prevent it, I can see why you would think it’s not possible to conceive. The first step in figuring out if you’re infertile is for you to actively try to get pregnant. But it doesn’t sound like you’re ready to try yet.”

A week later, I took a pregnancy test and assumed it would be negative like all the other tests I’ve taken over the course of my adult life. This was the first time it said “positive” and I was shocked. I took two more tests because I didn’t believe it was possible. My first emotion was happiness, which was even more shocking to me considering I spent most of my life saying that I didn’t want kids. Yet here I was, in a library bathroom staring a positive test in the face, and I was incredibly happy and relieved to know I was actually capable of getting pregnant. So happy to realize I am not infertile. And I was excited that I had this opportunity to build my own family on my own terms.

But that joy was short-lived as a wave of panic washed over me. Family and friends quickly pointed out the reality of the situation.

“You won’t have any support.”

“Do you really think you’re capable of being a single parent?”

“Where will you go?”

“Who will you live with?”

“How will you work and raise a child alone?”

“How will this impact your current health issues?”

“Is this fair to the child and everyone else involved in this situation when you’re still rebuilding your life from scratch and thousands of miles away from your family?”

The people who I thought would be begging me to keep the pregnancy were actually the ones who seemed most surprised/concerned that I was thinking about having a kid. And the more I thought about their words, the more I realized that I was letting my emotions get in the way of logic. This may be my body/my decision, but it was clear that there are a lot of lives that would be impacted by the outcome of this pregnancy and I take that seriously.

Even as I began scheduling my blood tests and ultrasounds in preparation for the abortion, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. All these years of working in abortion clinics and yet I still wasn’t sure whether abortion was the right decision for me. I guess you really just don’t know until you’re faced with the decision. I cried a lot. I consulted with my closest friends and family. I even told my work about what was going on because I knew I would need to take some time off.

But my final decision became crystal clear when I had my first ultrasound, and the doctor and I discussed the potential developmental impacts/risks my current medications could have on this pregnancy. There is no guarantee this would be a healthy or doomed pregnancy, but there was also no way to predict how the pregnancy had already been impacted by my daily medication regiment.

I realized that this was not the way I wanted to start a family. If I was going to become a single parent, I at least wanted to give my future child the best shot at being as healthy as possible and we were already off to a really bad start.

It was incredibly hard to make that choice, but once I knew abortion was the best option for me right now, I decided that I was going to embrace the lessons I learned and use this as an opportunity to share my experience, show that sadness is not the only emotion folks have during an abortion, and celebrate the fact that I’m not infertile and I DO have control over my reproductive future.

This was going to be my first - and possibly only - abortion. I was going to make the best of a bad situation and accept the messiness. I asked myself, “If you could have your ideal abortion, what would it look like?”

The answer: I would do it at a regular doctor’s office. ☑️ My insurance would cover most of the cost. ☑️ There would be no protesters. ☑️ I would do the medication abortion so I could feel a sense of control and peace over the process. ☑️ I would be surrounded by people who love me and support me. And the vibe would be one of celebration and gratitude, not sadness or regret.

One of my best friends offered to throw me an “abortion shower.” I’ve had patients tell me that they wish they could have hosted an abortion party. So I wasn’t shocked by the concept of an abortion shower, and of course, I said “hell yeah, let’s do it.”

....

A medical abortion takes several days. Friday was the day I took my mifeprex at my doctor’s office. It’s the first pill, which stops the growth of the pregnancy. Everyone at the doctor’s office was incredibly kind and I never once felt judged. Afterwards, I went home and two friends came over with food, books, and flowers.

The next day, I went to my doula’s house to do the second medication, misoprostol, which causes the body to cramp and push the pregnancy out. This results in a lot of bleeding, cramping and nausea, which can last hours or days. I was lucky that I had a trained doula there to give me unlimited hugs, peppermint tea, back rubs, and a hand to hold my hair back while I puked.

Later that night, friends began arriving at my doula’s house for the much-anticipated party. We pulled the mattress into the living room and surrounded it with balloons, cupcakes, and young progressive feminists who were eager to attend their first abortion shower. Everyone took turns rubbing my back while I held a heating pad on my stomach to soothe my cramps. And all jokes aside, there were no party games, no fetus dolls, or keg stands (yes, there was singing and crude jokes, because dark humor is my primary coping mechanism, and anyone who knows me well is aware of that).

It was literally just me, a bloody and emotionally vulnerable pregnant woman, laying on a mattress in a living room in Oakland, surrounded by a circle of sanitary pads, antibiotics, pain meds, loving friends, emo music, and delicious comfort food.

So why did I throw an abortion party and post about it online?

Because I wanted to teach folks that a safe, legal abortion doesn’t have to be scary or painful.

Because I wanted to celebrate the fact that, even though I truly thought I was infertile, the truth is that I CAN get pregnant, and someday I will probably be able to have a child when I am better prepared to give it the healthy life it deserves.

Because I just moved thousands of miles from my support system and I desperately did not want to be alone during this difficult time.

Because I do not believe that abortion should be stigmatized or that women should be shamed into keeping it a secret. It is a common medical procedure that many people go through. We should treat it as such.

I am incredibly lucky to have had the chance to do my first abortion on my own terms in a safe and loving environment. A lot of women do not have that privilege and I am well aware of that. I do not take any of this for granted. But if I want to do my medication abortion during a party and make jokes to help me process/cope/deal with the situation, that is my choice. And isn’t choice what this entire movement is about?