Today (well really yesterday) at the doctor's for a totally unrelated issue, the nurse ran through the litany of illnesses to which I was to answer yes or no. "It says here 'two failed pregnancies,'" she said. Relief washed over me, and I thought, right or wrong, how nice it was that instead of mentioning abortion outright, as in my previous office visits, the medical profession had caught on to using a sterilized term that shielded me from the horror of what I did eleven years ago. Alas, the nurse wanted clarification when she asked, "By 'failed pregnancy' does that mean two miscarriages?" I said, "No, but since I've known you for five seconds let me just tell you about the most horrific, regretful event of my entire life!" And then I laughed and we discussed how stupid it is that the question is even asked during such a ridiculously unrelated appointment.
And on my way to the car it occurred to me that my husband will never be forced to divulge this horrific, embarrassing information to any medical professional ever. And it ticked me off to realize yet again how we aborted our baby together but I'm the only one who has to keep telling people about it.
So refresh me, because I've forgotten how this pain, that is exclusive to me (and not him) empowers me as a woman.
:: ashli 1:10 AM # ::
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