The original title of this post was “Oh, You’re Pro-Life? Here’s A Primer on Why You’re a Douche.” I decided after much soul-searching and two bottles of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill to change it.
Since late-term abortion is a hotly contested issue in this election, one that is currently dividing the nation like nothing but racism, pussy grabbing, and Trump U can, a few women have come forward to publish the heart-wrenching stories of their own late-term abortions. Their intentions were to clear up the misconception that the JackassOP is sharing, this notion that women can change their minds a week before their due dates and demand that their doctors rip the fetus limb from limb and suction the pieces out into oblivion.
These women shared very legitimate reasons for late-term abortions, namely, that something had gone horribly wrong and they had to terminate their pregnancies to save their own lives. They eloquently made the very valid point that no one is having a late-term abortion the week before her due date simply because she’d changed her mind about the whole thing.
Except I’m here to tell you that I did. Literally. Like, an actual week before my due date. Here’s how it went down.
I was happily married and already the mother of a wonderful, precious baby girl. My husband and I decided to go for two, and we ended up pregnant again. This is where I need to stop and make sure the rabid pro-lifers in the audience are keeping up, since I don’t want to go too fast or use any big words that they can’t understand.
Moving on. I’m pregnant, it’s a week before my due date, and I just can’t do it anymore. I’ve literally changed my mind. It’s not that I didn’t want another baby, but I just couldn’t stand being pregnant anymore. My clothes didn’t fit, I couldn’t reach the gas pedal when I drove because I had to scoot my seat way back, it was all just a giant fiasco. Plus, Thanksgiving was coming up and I just didn’t want to hear my in-laws’ asinine jokes about checking my timer to see if I’d popped yet.
I went to my doctor on a Monday and begged her to end it. She checked me over, smiled sweetly, and told me to fuck off. (Not really, but pretty much.) The “thing” I was carrying inside me was officially her patient as well, and the bitch wouldn’t do anything to upset that little parasite.
So I cried all the way home–while leaning the seat way back to reach the gas pedal–and got online. I Googled all the different ways I could just make this happen on my own. And let me tell you, they were pretty gross. The only one that didn’t sound painful or like it would cause permanent injury was to walk a lot, so that’s what I did. I went to the mall, purposely left my wallet in the car so I wouldn’t buy anything, and walked for hours.
By Wednesday, it kinda worked. I felt this terrible ripping pain across my abdomen, a sure sign that I’d managed to abort my own baby in the food court. I immediately called my doctor, who told me to meet her at the hospital. Once I got there, they hooked me up to all kinds of machines (none of which, I later found out, make you have an abortion…the shit heads…) and discovered I was having contractions. It worked! Those home abortions tips really worked!
Then it stopped. Nothing. Nada. Not even a flutter of escape. But fortunately, my doctor must be some kind of immoral baby-killing guru because she looked at the printout and measured me, then declared me ready to have this baby. She told me to get a good night’s sleep–yeah, like that’s gonna happen…lack of sleep is the whole reason I’d changed my mind on being pregnant in the first place!–and said to come back first thing in the morning and I could have my abortion. She mentioned that I’d be there for at least 48 hours afterwards, and that I had to pack a few things for the fetus to wear home. She also mentioned something about needing a DOT-approved car seat for the fetus to ride in, but I wasn’t really paying attention due to the euphoria of successfully changing my mind.
The next day, sure enough, they hooked me up to some stuff, gave me an IV and an epidural (fuck you, all you haters who think I should have had to writhe in pain for being such a godless, leg-spreading whore who got herself pregnant and then didn’t want to have it), and thirteen hours later, the procedure was done.
It was really weird, though: there were no steel hooks driven into the back of the baby’s skull, no vacuuming machines, no limbs being ripped apart. It was actually a whole lot like the first time I gave birth.
AND THAT’S BECAUSE IT WAS EXACTLY LIKE THE FIRST TIME I GAVE BIRTH, YOU HATE-MONGERING TWAT-WAFFLES! DO YOU SERIOUSLY BELIEVE THAT WOMEN ARE “CHANGING THEIR MINDS” THE WEEK BEFORE THE DUE DATE, SO THE DOCTOR KILLS THE BABY?! NO, YOU NASTY CRAPAHOLIC! THE DOCTOR DELIVERS THE FUCKING BABY BECAUSE IT’S A LIVING BABY! WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU RIP IT APART WHEN IT’S A SEVEN-POUND-SEVEN-OUNCE HUMAN FUCKING BEING?!
Whoa, sorry. I don’t know what happened. I haven’t been that ragey and hormonal since the last time I was pregnant and ended it all a week before my due date. I’m kidding.
Now, in all seriousness, this mostly-true story (true about the not wanting to be pregnant part, not true about getting rid of my kid; she’s amazing and turns fourteen this month) is meant to illustrate the sadness I feel for pro-life douchebags who’ve been lied to by someone with an agenda and then don’t have the intelligence to discern fact from fiction. There are horrible, life-destroying reasons why a mother has to terminate a pregnancy near the end, and none of them are ever because the woman simply changed her mind. But small-minded assholes believe the bigger assholes who told them this, and they struggle every day under the weight of their own stupidity.
Please, people, be sensible. Think it through. Listen to the medical facts, not the political rhetoric. And if you wanna have your own abortion–at any point along the way–get some advice that doesn’t come with a dose of Bible verses and some slut-shaming. You’re welcome.