The Hilarious Story about the Time I Had a Late-Term Abortion

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.


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.

Happy Birthday, Dammit!

I had a birthday recently, and like most of my birthdays, it was a quiet affair once the voices in my head were all silenced with large amounts of Boone’s Farm. My husband was out of town and the tax deductions had school, so I mostly piddled around and worked. Then I decided I needed cake. There’s a really profound metaphor for my life in the fact that the grocery store only had half-cakes for sale.


But I got into this Facebook argument with someone who wanted to bitch and whine about the fact that I bought myself a cake.

Exhibit A: there’s a metric crap-ton of receipts that prove that I buy myself cake all the time. I mean, like, she-needs-rehab proportions of how often I buy cake.

Exhibit B: it was my birthday and imma havin’ cake.

Exhibit C: it was tasty, even if half of it was already missing when I bought it.

Exhibit D: you’re not the boss of me, don’t tell me about cake!

Exhibit E: Cake! Everybody loves cake! Cakes have layers!


Really, this person’s problem was not with the existence of cake or the eating of cake, but with the purchasing of the cake for myself. She seemed to feel that it was someone else’s responsibility to buy me cake, although I did notice that not once during the entire exchange did she offer to do it herself. Apparently, by some definition of being a girl, I was supposed to sit by and wait for someone to buy me cake.

And wait.

And wait.

And be hungry while waiting. And go totally cakeless while I waited.

There are about ninety-three things wrong with her very anti-feminist “someone should buy you cake” concept. While I am in total agreement that there should be legions of people walking behind me holding cakes for me on any given day, I have to argue that in the absence of overthrowing a neighboring government and enslaving their citizens into my own private cake army, I have two choices: not have cake, or have cake.

Not having cake is so unacceptably jacked up an option as to almost make me throw my head back and laugh at her. Having cake is…well…completely logical and the option I went with.

This pretty much boils down to a very important concept of self-love (not that kind of self-love, we’ll talk about that next week). It’s 2013, I’m a grown-up, and I have both keys to a working automobile and a debit card linked to a bank account that actually has money in it thanks to the job I have. I can sit around being sad because it’s my birthday and no one brought over a cake, or I can act like an adult and get myself a cake.

I chose the second choice.

I’ll also have you know that I toyed with the idea of having an inflatable bounce house brought over and erected in my yard, but that was really only a fun passing thought because a) I’ve never had a bounce house for my birthday and b) because the look on my kids’ faces when I bogarted the bounce house and wouldn’t let them in would have been the best birthday present ever. I could just see them fighting to storm my bouncey castle and being horribly confused when my cake army poured boiling tar on them from the ramparts. I giggled over envisioning their pitiful cries as they begged to be allowed in my bounce house only to result in my shouting, “No! This is my bounce house! You will only get a bounce house when you have a college degree and a job to pay for the four-hour rental plus delivery fee!” (Besides being an epic parent fail, I also found out that bouncey castle rentals are $400, and I realized that was a shit load of self-bought cake, so I skipped it.)

People, we’ve got to stop whining about what’s wrong with our lives and do something for ourselves once in a while. Yes, I could have bitched at my husband when he made it home from his business trip at 11pm for not making sure cake magically appeared on my birthday, and yes, I could have moped around the house generally feeling sorry for myself and my lack of cakehood. Or I could get off my ass and buy a cake. Which choice made me happier, and which choice actually resulted in CAKE?

Now, the “Happy Birthday to Me!” icing I decorated it with was actually just a fun, superfluous add-on to make people in my home feel guilty for not having bought me a cake. I said I was a self-sufficient, confident woman…I never said I was a saint.