It was a Saturday. I think that I walked all the way home from San Francisco General to Church and 26th. For once, I didn’t care how I got home and how long it would take. I walked dazed through the flat land of the Mission, and climbed up and up into the hills to end up in Noe Valley. I could have taken a cab or the bus, but I didn’t feel like it. It was dark when I returned home, but I wasn’t tired. Though I turned on the hallway lights in the apartment, I sat in the dark of my bedroom for a while.
The moment I dreaded had finally come. I had always wanted a pregnancy that would be celebrated. But I didn’t want to have this child. I didn’t want to have a child now because it was not the right time. I was not ready, even financially, to have a child. I wanted a child that would be raised by a father as well as a mother. I wanted to have an expected, loved child.
I decided to have an abortion, as I had decided long ago, as a last resort.
Looking back, I knew that I was pregnant moments after my lover gently pulled away from between my legs and lay next to me. Something inside made me open my eyes wide from that sexual afterglow and say to myself, “Uh oh.” Of course, I later pshaw-ed my reaction, but the fact hung over me like a wet washcloth that I had not inserted a second cap of spermicide before or during the last time we had sex.
It was August; my therapist was gone for the month. As lovers, Robert and I had only known each other the last week he was in town on business, but we were besotted. He wasn’t from San Francisco, much less from the United States. He was British and white and single. He was several years older than me, and he liked me a lot. I was 27, a black singleton and a writer who had just landed a day job at a law firm in North Beach. I was looking for love and commitment first. I was not ready to have a child until I was sure I had that.
© and source/ rest: A Last Resort
(Excerpt etc. first posted on. Orig. attribution above.)