Fear and loneliness: the story of a failed abortion

At 45, without wanting it or dreaming of it, I had a risky pregnancy with a long-distance partner. I immediately thought of the possibility of having an abortion.

Nine months ago, he had started a long-distance relationship. A story with a romantic beginning, in a boat in the middle of the majestic landscapes of Patagonia. We had come there with my family to reconnect with nature after the confinement due to the pandemic. At one point we asked a man to take our picture. He decided to take it with his phone then asked me for the number to send it to me. We both knew immediately it was a ploy to keep in touch. So that was it. The fleeting encounter turned into a long-distance adventure.

The formula seemed perfect. We saw each other once a month in his city, in mine or in a region that we wanted to visit. The agreement was to enjoy the moments together, to have a honeymoon a month, instead of a life as a couple with all that routine and coexistence entail.

Sometimes the ghosts of what we usually understand as a “normal” relationship have surfaced in our conversations; Tiny ideas of a possible marriage, of trying to control something that was light and easy and pleasant in some way.

It was almost the end of the year when I started behind. I was alone when I took the test, like the more than three months that the pregnancy lasted. I was also alone when I lost my baby. The distance, which was no longer just physical, was my partner’s excuse for not being there. When he found out, he asked me if I wanted him to travel. The only question was the certainty that she had to live it alone. This distance of kilometers has become an emotional distance and, at least for me, also a spiritual one. Obviously, this easy and beautiful relationship was not prepared to face a strong onslaught of life. And the lack of emotional maturity of not being able to offer space for joint support ended up breaking what was left of the relationship.

In order to face this moment without support, I decided to bring out my more animal side. I felt like a wolf locked in my cave licking my own wounds. And I rose for my children who were alive. But it wasn’t easy. I had already gone through difficult experiences in life: ending a toxic marriage, a torturous separation process, among others. But the experience of an abortion is one of those shots that throw you on the canvas. It’s both physical and emotional pain, a duel that’s hard to get out of.

The dryness and crudeness of the ultrasound diagnosis during a routine check-up was resounding. He only uttered two sentences: “My heart stopped beating two weeks ago. You need to talk to your gynecologist for a scratch.” Not a word of apology, not a word of comfort, even though I had been with my dead baby inside for two weeks.

The gynecologist, who turned out to be much more empathetic, explained to me in a very pragmatic and graphic way that there were two solutions: wait for the abortion to occur spontaneously or operate and do the curettage. At that point, I decided to wait a weekend for it to happen naturally.

Three days later, my body started to do the work of letting go. I got up in the bathroom writhing in pain, bleeding way more than usual with a slippery feeling of something falling that I haven’t been able to get over yet. I spent a whole day bleeding. The doctor told me to go to the emergency room. There I was diagnosed with the loss of 70% of the fetus, but 30% remained. Three more days passed and at the next check, that percentage was still there. Next, it was time to program the pavilion.

One of those nights I dreamed of a doll that was sinking in water, someone saved her but they gave her to me swollen and lifeless. Then I dreamed of a shooting star. I interpreted it as my baby had a brief passage through this world to show me that the one I had to give birth to was a new me, that I had to be ready to be reborn.

I reconnected with a friend I hadn’t seen in years. She told me about her two miscarriages, one missed and one spontaneous. Then other friends also told me about theirs. Another woman who is undergoing post-abortion therapy has emerged; family constellations also appeared, bach flowers and a long journey of acceptance and healing on all levels began to materialize and allowed me to go through the grieving process with an understanding of death as an experience as natural as giving birth.

I understood that women must support each other, talk about it. That we cannot continue to experience our abortions in silence and without information. I found this path and today I am grateful for what I have been through, and at the same time it does wonders for turning pain into learning.