Not Something From The Olden Days

The constant talking about teenage mothers in the media used to surround my thoughts, not wanting to think nor believe that it was possible. The cool clear jelly sent shivers up my spine as it was smeared over my exposed stomach. The two litres of water that I had previously drunk that filled my bladder began to churn. The ultrasound device was cold, gently but firmly being pushed around my belly. The prenatal heart beat listener caught its purpose; the soft tapping of a small heart beat broke the silence between the nurse and me. On the ultrasound screen, a vague outline of a baby could be seen. The nurse repeatedly told me that I was a brave young girl; all I could do was thank her, not knowing what else to say.
The ten minute walk felt as if it was three days going by, the cars were driving slowly and the traffic lights refused to change and the clouds overhead changed into a million different shapes, thanks to the wind. She had to know, I had to tell her sometime, five months had already passed and she had to let me keep it, surely? She had commented a few weeks ago that I had put on a bit of weight; secretly I knew what the reason was. She looked up when the sound of the flyscreen door creaked open, walking in, eyes downcast, she asked what was wrong. Taking me upstairs to talk, I said that I had something that I needed to tell her. Blurting it was accompanied with a gush of tears, which had been held back for the past five months from the point of denial. My boyfriend and I discussed the thought of having an abortion, him on centrelink and I did not having a job, as I was fifteen closed that idea, with the slamming of a door. The reason why I had waited so long to tell her was because I was 5 months gone, and there was no way that they could terminate the pregnancy. Or so I thought. Mom told dad, I sat there when she told him balling my eyes out. Something killed me that instant, the changing of emotions in his eyes, fear, hatred, scared, humiliated, sad, disappointment and worry.
Four thirty in the afternoon saw the booming of the three local phone books being slammed on the wooden table. Dad’s hands trembling as he flicked through the pages, abortion, that is what he was after. Numerous times I told them that I did not want to have an abortion, this was rejected with the rebuttal – it wasn’t my choice, I had already made the decision and now it was their turn to fix it. They found someone that would legally consider it. A fifteen year old, who is pregnant to a immature twenty one year old, five months gone and only just told her parents? Most of the people answering the phones laughed. I wished that it was a joke, but it was not. Brisbane. 6. 30 Am. two days time. During that time there were things to be organised. $3500, another ultrasound, and facing the heart ache from my parents.
The feeling of fear swept through me as I waited for the nurse to come and conduct the ultrasound and examination, mom sat on a chair two metres from the bed, not able to look at me or in any direction towards me. Two ladies from the reception talked about me in hushed tones. The words fifteen, five months, just told her parents, emergency to get in and many more floated down the corridor to where I could hear them. I wondered where they found out all this information, then realised that mom knew one of them and then it all added up. The nurse popped her head in the door and came to perform the task at hand. When the baby’s body came up on the screen, mom let out a horrible gasp and left the room. The feeling of dread gripped all the nerve endings, organs and muscles in my body, half recognising that it is mine and the other knowing that there is now way that I cannot get out of the abortion. The nurse told me that it is a boy, a fine young healthy boy. Also, that his foot was the size of my pinkie. Waiting outside for me was mom, tears in her eyes.

Silence engulfed my presence between the ultrasound and the four am wake up call to drive to Brisbane. I could not look either of them in the eye. The waiting room was full of women of various ages; we all knew what we were there. An overnight bag was tucked under dad’s arm; he was the one with me. At the time I wanted mom to be there, looking back I realise that he was the one who was the strongest at that point. First in, I was hit with a wall of questions, why are you here? Why didn’t you have this done earlier? How could you put your family through something like this? I explained to the best of my ability, although the nurse was not happy with my answers, deciding to send me to see the doctor. Sitting behind a desk, wearing a blue plastic robe she sat, she told me that she was not convinced that I wanted to have the abortion today, and until I proved this, she would not go through with it. Obviously not satisfied with my indecisiveness, she refused to operate, tears stinging my eyes I returned to the car. Four people sitting in the car, parents in shock of coming all the way there for nothing, one too young and oblivious the other desperate to be in control of everything. A vibrating sensation signalled a phone call was coming from my jean pocket. Unaware of whom it was, answering it, a wave of relief came over my parents. It was the clinic. They were offering me a week to think about it, and another opportunity next week if I decided that I wanted to go through with it. If I choose to not take that opportunity, I would be overdue for Brisbane, needing to be sent to Melbourne for double the price. My parent’s eyes boring into my head, I knew that I did not have any chance other than to say yes.
Same place, same early morning, except this morning protesters were lined up against the door. Screaming things, waving anti abortion sticks in our faces and the distilled and shocked looks veered my way, like tiny daggers carving away at my flesh. They were seizing me up, analysing my motives for walking up to an abortion clinic at that time, the dumbfounded age discriminative glances irritated me. The ground looked mighty fine at that point, the pebbles embedded in the white washed pavement, proving to be a temporary distraction until I got to the door. It was dark in the stairway, spiral staircase leading up to a door with no light shining through it. The gloom of what I was about to do sunk in.
The examination room, pristine white, spatulas, heart rate monitors and many other instruments of action were located around the room. A red wristband was attached to my arm, stating in bold black letters that this patient is allergic to popcorn. She laughed at the allergy when she wrote it, explaining that they most likely will not be serving popcorn at any time during the process. Directed to go sit in a waiting room, shielded from the world, a pair of frog covered pyjamas sat next to me. Their eyes looking at me as if I was an unnatural being, it could have been paranoia, although it did not seem like it. Other women were directed into the room, a television in the corner blasted out the day’s weather, not that we could see what it was going to be like, the windows were covered with maroon heavy curtains, blocking out any glimpse of sunlight. Head in my hands, to stop it from spinning and thinking about what was going to happen in a few minutes. From what seemed like a far off distance, a voice called my name, a strong voice, full of power; it came closer as I brought my mind back to reality. Standing to greet the man calling me, he asked me to follow him. A room, with bright lights and a window facing the city building district greeted me, like the first room it was pristine clean. Floors recently mopped and the distinct smell of disinfectant filled the room. He pointed to a hospital bed, that had what looked like crutches at the end, and asked me to jump up. Lying down, a needle was placed neatly into the fold between my arm forearm and my upper arm. The murmuring of the people’s voices telling me that it is just the pain killers being released into my blood stream seeped into my ears. Over my head, an oxygen mask was placed and I was asked to count back from ten. 10... 9... 8... 7... 6... 5...
Bright light seared through my eyelashes, making me want to not open my eyes. Biscuits and crackers are all that I can see, pain griped my lower body; I reached for a biscuit and shoved it into my mouth, waiting for the surge of sugar to reach the bloodstream. The ceiling was white, the carpet was blue and the chairs were a horrible white. I knew that this was not the end of it. Another day to go, the rods were inserted and the preparations were made.
The day was not something that I wanted to go through with, sitting in the same room, looking at the same biscuits, crackers and thinking about the situation, with a longing to keep the child that is inside of me. Tears of heart ache sliding down my cheek, rolling down my chin, the nurse asked me what was up, through the sobs, words of anguish spilled out, trying to reason with her and myself secretly. It was too late, in a few hours I was going to go into labour. Whilst being shown to a hospital bed, needles of pain struck into my lower stomach, wincing to try to avoid the pain, I begged for relief. A wheat bag was thrown my way, a distraction or a relief was something that I was unsure if it was or not. My bladder was threatening to break, calling for the nurse; I told her that I need to use the toilet. This was allowed, only if I didn’t give birth in the toilet. Promising, that no, I wouldn’t, or at least try not to, a crumpled heap of mass hobbled towards the toilet. Relief struck as my bladder began to empty, though the agony of the contractions made my head spin. Unable to get off the toilet successfully, a doctor helped me back to my bed, every time a nurse walked by, a moan for pain killers would suppress past my lips. A constant no tormented me, birth time was 2.30, another hour away, and the contractions were getting closer. Half of the time I had no idea what was going on, eyes rolling around the back of my head, pain engulfing the whole body.
Dozing off, a sharp pain awoke me from my slumber, a quick glance up at the clock signified that it was time. A bell on the bedside table began ringing, a nurse came and announced that antibiotics were needed to be inserted anally, and that rolling over was a necessity. Not that it was something that I enjoyed, nor would ever enjoy; any resistance would ultimately hurt more. Doing what was expected, rolling over and getting it over and done with, a man wheeled my bed into the clean sterilised room. It took three people to move me onto the operating table, as I could not move myself, two legs were propped up on the instruments that looked like crutches and the oxygen mask was lowered over my face. 10... 9... 8...