Why Are Even Smart, Liberal Men Freaked Out by Abortion?

Four weeks after my abortion, I was dating again.

It was my second night out with a wide-eyed, pretentious poetry MFAer. We were three whiskey sodas down when he suavely brought up his recent bout with testicular cancer. His woes -- the monthly check-up tests, the weirdness of post-surgery masturbation -- flowed from his tongue without any hint of doubt that such talk might be second-date TMI.

Reaching his hand across the table and playing with my fingers, he asked innocently enough, "Have you ever had surgery?"

Um ... yes. I was still spotting from the procedure; I was reminded of it every time I pulled down my pants. In a drunken split second I debated avoiding the A-word. My abortion had basically been the uterine equivalent of minor knee surgery, annoying and a bit painful, but not soul-destroying or existentially angsty. At the same time, I didn't want to draw needless attention to the fragile and somewhat bloody state of my uterus, especially with someone I might want to invite in there later on.

Still, lying reeked of shame and regret, so I decided to answer him casually and matter-of-factly. If he turned out to be a bible-thumping right-winger screaming "Murder!" I didn't care much anyhow. I'd realized we didn't have long-term potential around midnight when he made the suggestion we go drop acid in Fort Greene Park and read Whitman poems to each other ("Fort Greene Park was, like, Whitman's favorite writing spot").

As soon as "I had an abortion recently" left my lips, his hand withdrew clumsily and his eyes, seeking refuge, darted up to the 1950s pinup poster on the adjacent wall. But apparently all that breast display was too evocative of fertility. He jumped up from the booth. "More drinks?" he asked -- and then scurried off without waiting for my reply. As far as appropriate date conversation goes, it seems that a dude is allowed to passionately elegize his one removed ball, but I couldn't even make passing mention of a discarded bundle of cells.

***

I was twenty-five when I discovered I was a month pregnant. I wasn't dating the fetus-daddy anymore, and I was without health insurance, having been laid off from my crappy fact-checking job.

I was the living, breathing example of that small percentage of women who get knocked up for being careless with their pill intake. I had no doubt I was going to terminate the pregnancy. In fact, my certainty gave me odd satisfaction. I'd spent countless weekends in college escorting abortion patients through the obnoxious church groups outside Planned Parenthood. One elderly protester, Teresa, would debate me for hours, and every time the argument was losing steam, she would let out a knowing, self-satisfied laugh, reducing my pro-choice position to lack of experience: "Ah, honey, you've never been pregnant. When you get pregnant for the first time, you'll feel a connection instantly. You'll know your child loves you and you won't be able to harm it."

Lo and behold, when I looked down at the two plus signs, there was no instant connection. The invasion in my abdomen felt more like a cruel joke than a loving creature who would paw at my breasts and call me "Mommy." Afterwards, I considered calling Teresa to brag about my angst-less procedure and the sweet aftertaste of relief. But I didn't have her digits, let alone her last name.

Besides, I knew friendlier ears. I honed my improbable pregnancy and ensuing abortion into a kvetching monologue about life's little inequities -- I get pregnant on birth control, while teenagers in Utah practicing the pray-to-God-and-please-come-on-my-ass method remain distinctly un-knocked-up? It's not like I broadcasted my uterine news to co-workers, distant cousins, or Facebook cronies. It was simply something that happened to me, and I shared it with my friends like I would've shared any other story. It would have felt wrong not to. My female friends laughed when I laughed, commiserated when I needed it and treated the procedure as lightheartedly as I did. That's all I wanted. To be able to define my own experience, not the other way around.