When It Was Time: On Abortion, a Dying Certainty of Choice • by … it... · 2020. 3. 12. · On...

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7/30/19CLICKHEREforNews&Views

ANIMALS + HEALTH,SCIENCE,ANDTECHNOLOGY + SEX&GENDER

WhenItWasTime

OnAbortion,aDyingCat,andtheCertaintyofChoice

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Theweekbeforeweputourcattosleep,allIcouldthinkaboutwastheabortionI’dhadmorethantwentyyearsbefore.Itwasn’tsomethingI’dthoughtaboutmuch:notlostinmemoryorrepressed,butdeemedsimplynotthatimportant,likeabusridetakenorasandwicheatenlongago.

Portia,ourcatofnineyears,wasdiagnosedwithterminalcancerinlateNovember,afterhavinglostalmostathirdofherbodyweight.Ithadspreadthroughoutherliverandabdomen,ourvetexplained,andcouldnotbetreated.Weweretotakeherhomeandbringherback“whenitwastime.”

“Howwillweknow?”Iasked.

“You’llknow,”hesaid.

SoIspenttheweekwatching,waitingtoknow.Andevenattheveryend,Ican’tsayIwassure.

•••

Withtheabortion,therewasneveradoubt.Iwastwenty-three,anIUDfailurestatistic,andtherewasonlyonesolution.Thedoctorwhotestedmegavemealistofclinicsalongwithmypositiveresults.

Iwasshaken,yes,andupset,butneverambivalent.Icalledpromptlyandscheduledhalfadayfortheprocedure,anxioustohavethewholemishapcleanlybehindme.Iinformedmyboyfriend,Ben,whohadleftsixweeksearliertostartmedicalschoolintheDominicanRepublic.HereturnedtoNewYorktoaccompanyme.

TheclinicwasontheEastSideofManhattan,nearCentralPark.WetookthesubwaydowntownfromtheUpperWestSide,whereIlived,andgotoffat59 Street.WewalkedovertoFifthAvenueontheparksideofthestreet.

Inside,Igavemynameandsatinawaitingareaarrangedinanattempttobecomfortable:magazinesonacoffeetable,metalchairswithturquoisevinylontheseats.TheairwashushedasIfilledoutforms.Therewereothersintheroom—couples,mostly,afew

th

womenalone.Anyconversationsaroundmetookplaceinwhisperedclips,andIdidn’tpayattentiontothem.Iwasthereforonereason—togetsomethingoverwith.

Beforetheactualabortion,therewassomerequisitecounseling,whichBenandIattendedtogether.Fortheprocedure,Iwentbymyself.Iwasgivenagreenhospitalgownandtoldtoundressbehindawhitecottoncurtaindrawnhaphazardlyinfrontofme.Iwrappedthegownaroundmynakedbodyandtieditwithatwistedcottonbelt.Thesleevesseemedhuge,andIfeltexposedandcold.Icrossedmyarmsovermychest,myhandsreachingtowardmyshoulders,asIemergedandstoodinfrontofthecurtain.

SomeoneindicatedagurneywhereIwastoliedownwhileananesthesiologistattendedtome.Justhiseyeswerevisible,hisnoseandmouthcoveredbyabluemask,therestofhisheadconcealedbyawhitepapercap.Ilookedathimonlyonce.Liketheothermedicalstaffstandingaroundme,hespokeinaquietvoice,businesslike,notunkindbutdevoidofemotion.Ihadneverbeeninahospitalbefore;IdidasIwastold,countingbackwardsfromonehundred.Irememberfeelingcalm,comfortable,overcomebyaforcefulwaveofsleepataroundninety-seven.

WhenIawoke,Iwascrying,anditwasthesoundofmysobsthatawakenedme.Theyweresadcries,criesofloss,trueweeping,thoughIfeltneithersadnessnorpain.AsIgainedconsciousness,rememberingwhereIwas,anurseapproached.

“Somepeoplecrywhentheywakeupfromanesthesia,”shetoldme,thenreassuredmethateverythinghadgonewellandIwouldbeabletogohomeassoonasIfeltreadytogetup.

Ilaystillonmyback,waitingastheshadowsofmycriesslippedbelowmyblinkingeyesandnormalcycreptback.Ilookedoveratthewomaninthebedbesidemeandofferedasmallsmile.

Weneverdiscussedtheabortion,BenandI.Iassumedhisopinionsmirroredmine,thoughIrealizenowhemayhavehadallsortsofdifferentfeelingsthatIhadn’tconsideredthen.Hesuggestedwetakeataxihome,butIdeclined,preferringinsteadtowalkbacktotheWestSideandcatchthetrain.IknowIwalkedslowly,beinggentlewithmybody,andIrememberIlookeddownatthestreetalot,asifnegotiatingwiththepavementtohelpmehome.Ididn’thurt,butIwasawareofthepartofmybodythatwasmywomb,andIspenttherestofthedayrestinginbed.Ineverdescribedwhathappenedtomethatmorninginanyotherwordsthan“Ihadanabortion,”andthenonlyoccasionally,whensomeoneelsewastalkingabouthers.

•••

ButIdidhaveanabortion,andthedifficultyIhadknowingwhenitwas“time”forPortiabecameunexpectedlylinkedtothatday.Friendssharedtheirpetstories,howtheiranimalscouldbarelywalk,andhowtheydiedintheirarmsastheywept.“Youjustknow,”theypromised.“It’sthemosthumanethingtodo.”

YetIdidn’tknow.Itwasn’tasthoughPortiameowedinagonyorcollapsedontherug.Sheseemedquitepeaceful.Truetohernature,shesleptmostofthetimeonmygraydeskchair,curledintoaballofblack.Ifyoutouchedher,shegaveoneofthoseprrrwatsoundsandraisedherhead.Ifyoupettedher,shepurredandwatchedyouwithherremarkablegreeneyesthatmademethinkofEgypt.

Whatwasdifferent?Shewasmoreaffectionate.Alwaysaloner,neveralapcat,nowPortiafollowedmeormyhusband,Paul,aroundthehouse.Shesatclosetoourtwodaughters,whomshe’dknownsincetheywerebabies.Shelookedupatus,herexpressionlikeaplea,thoughIwasn’tsureforwhat.

Ifiguredshewashungry;shecouldn’treallykeepanythingdown.Usuallywhenshelookedatmelikethat,I’dgivehersomefood—cannedtunaordeliturkeythatsherelished;nomorecatfoodforPortia.Sheateravenously,butonlysmallamountsatatime.Later,Imightfinditregurgitatedinasmallpoolnotfaraway.

Andshesmelled.Shecarriedaperpetualodorofurinethatwecouldbarelystand.Iwasn’tsureifitwasbecauseofherliver,orbecauseshe’dsimplystoppedcleaningherself.Iputtowelsontheplacesshelikedtosit.

EventuallyIsawthatshecouldnolongergetupontothedeskchairbyherself.Whichmayexplainwhyshewasonourbedwhenshethrewupawateryversionofthetunashe’deatenashortwhilebefore.Itsoakedthroughthetopcomforterintothedownquiltbelow,andIweptasItoreapartourbedanddraggedtheblanketsdowntothewashingmachine.

IstudiedPortiaduringthoseweeks.“It’soddtoknowshe’llbedyingsoon,”ItoldPaul.Iimaginedthatshehadasecretknowledgeoftheend,thatshewaslikeadashconnectinglifetodeath,thererightinfrontofmeonthekitchenfloor.Itookoffherfleacollar,surprisedathowlooseithadbecome.IsnippedoffabitofherfurandputitinaBaggie.Ithoughtofwhatshedidintermsof“lasts.”

Nevertheless,itwasunderstoodthatwewouldn’twaituntiltheveryend;thatwewouldbetheonestodecidewhenherlifewasover.

“Aslongasshe’scomfortable,”Paulsaid.“Aslongasshehassomequalityoflife.”

I’dwatchhercloselyforevidence,andIacknowledgemydecisionthatitwastimewasatleastpartlyoneoffrustration.I’dhadenoughofthewashing,thestench,thepuddlesI’dbeenwipingupformonths.

•••

ThefirstimagethatcomestomymindwhenIthinkofPortia’sdeathisofherlyingunconsciousonhersideonthecoldsilvertableinthevet’soffice.She’sstillalive,thoughyouwouldn’tknowit,tranquilizedandawaitingthelethalinjection.Hereyesareclosedandherlipstick-pinktonguehangssidewaysfromhermouth.We’reinthecatroom,wherewe’dcomebeforeforyearlyvaccinations,andsnowisfallingoutsidethewindow.Portia’spositionitselfisnotcat-like,heressencealreadylost.

ThesecondimageisofPortia’sfaceasIhadcuppeditinmyhandsminutesearlier:anattempttoreassure,tofindafinalgazeofunderstanding,tosaygoodbye.Thegesturewasquickandunsatisfying,andIrealizedI’dbeensayingthisgoodbyegradually,wellbeforethisgrayafternoon.

Mycryingintheabortionclinicisnotavisualmemory.Itisadisembodiedsound,waftinglikeaghost,floatingthrougharoomIcan’tpicture,settlinginsidemebutrootedtonothing.

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SusanHodaraSusanHodaraisajournalist,memoiristandeducator.HerarticleshaveappearedinTheNewYorkTimes,CommunicationArts,andmore.Hershortmemoirshavebeenpublishedinassortedanthologiesandliteraryjournals;onewasnominatedforaPushcartPrize.Sheisaco-authorof“StillHereThinkingofYou:ASecondChanceWithOurMothers”(BigTablePublishing,2013).Visitherwebsitehere:www.susanhodara.com.

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