The What happens when you discover you’re pregnant just as your success career is taking off? JENNIFER SAVIN paradox experiences the true cost of ‘leaning in’ for young women

Growing up, my best friend was a shy blonde girl named Carina. We met on our first day of school and became welded together instantly. Going for dinner at her house, which always smelled of clean washing and cigarette smoke, was one of my favourite things to do. She was the youngest of four, whereas, at home, I was the only one. Her mum used to buy Milkybar yoghurt pots especially for me, immediately engulfing me into the fold, and I loved the feeling that came with pretending I was part of a busy, bustling family hive. Before I’d even learned how to write my name in joined-up letters, I’d already decided that one day, when I was a proper adult, I’d have four children of my own, too. Three girls and one boy, just like Carina’s clan. I even carted four dolls around with me in a special purple pram, getting practice in nice and early. At five years old, I didn’t know how to tie my shoelaces or plait my hair, but I did know I wanted to be a mother.

Although it’s been years since those dolls were packed away, at the back of my mind, this was still how I imagined my life would eventually play out. Only one day, I discovered that – on paper at least – I suddenly was a “proper adult”. One who, on a rainy Wednesday evening in February last year, found out she was pregnant. I sat on a closed toilet seat in my small south-London flat as my housemate-turned-boyfriend of just three months, Ben, hovered in the doorway. I looked down at the stick.“Oh, f*ck.” There was no rush of elation, urge to protectively clutch my stomach and whisper “thank you” as often happens in films. Instead, it felt like I’d been diagnosed with a tumour.

Turns out, I didn’t need hormonal injections to conceive, as a doctor had once informed me I probably would (I have polycystic ovaries). It also turns out that using an app to work out the days of the month that you’re fertile (so you can abstain from sex or use protection) isn’t a fail-safe method of contraception either. Instead staring back at me from the window of a thin plastic stick was the very real possibility of an entirely different future. One that, despite being 25 years old, with a regular salary, shiny career prospects and supportive partner, I knew with intense ferocity that I did not want.

That’s because as I stared at the stick, it was not a child I saw before me. It was a threat to the life I’d spent years pulling together. Notably, there was the job I loved and had worked my arse off to get, in one of the most competitive industries in the country. The idea of having to take a break from that? To take myself out of the loop? Risk losing my contacts and seat at the table? That wasn’t something I was willing to entertain. There was also my bleak bank account to consider and the fact that my relationship was still in those heady first few months where things could go either way. In addition, I lived in a cramped flat with two others (plus half a dozen mice) – a situation I couldn’t see changing any time soon. In that moment, in that bathroom, I saw promotions, the chance to travel the world and a social life filled with last-minute dinner plans and weekends away evaporate.

I went to bed later that evening wondering if some kind of maternal instinct might kick in overnight. It didn’t. What did kick in was a cocktail of calmness, guilt, urgency and lowlevel embarrassment as I phoned the Marie Stopes International clinic and arranged my abortion.

The decision

I know what some of you might be thinking – I’m selfish. Shirking my responsibilities. An immoral millennial who prioritised a career and having fun before my “child”. “How can you even entertain the idea?” you may want to ask.

And my answer would be opportunity. That’s how. The very

“It felt like I’d been told I had a tumour”

thing our mothers and fathers fought to give us is the very thing that makes deciding to have a family so much harder. I look at my parents’ generation and, in some ways, I honestly believe they had it easier; certainly when it came to making decisions about having children. The narrative of life sold to my mother and her peers was simple: get married, buy your first home, reproduce. It was a straight path with zero diversions. The narrative sold to mine? Get an education, see the world, hustle up the career ladder, have a child. But here’s the thing… the more we grab onto the opportunities we’re encouraged to take, the harder it becomes to sacrifice them all. (No surprise, then, that the highest rate of UK abortions is in women aged between 20 and 24 years old.*) As a young girl I thought I wanted a huge family I’d pour my all into. Instead, when confronted with the possibility of it, I discovered I’d rather keep ticking off my personal goals. I discovered, quite by surprise, that I wanted to be my top priority.

I was two to three weeks gone when I made my “discovery”, meaning the fertilised egg was smaller than the size of a poppy seed. The nurses at the clinic explained that they had to perform an ultrasound to clearly identify the pregnancy before they could schedule me in for the two-stage medical termination. But as I was still in the very early stages, nothing showed up on screen. They then clarified that, unfortunately, this meant I’d have to wait a fortnight, then return for another scan before the doctor could issue me the pills I so desperately wanted to take. I hadn’t known there was a chance I could be turned away from receiving treatment and placed in limbo.

“I wasn’t ready to sacrifice everything”

I hadn’t known I’d need the special jelly smeared on my lower abdomen so a grainy monitor could reveal my insides. I’d thought that was only something women who were excited about the prospect of becoming a mother had done.

And so I spent the next 14 days in a haze, pretending to be normal. I felt nauseous and exhausted, while my body started to inflate – a constant, unignorable reminder of what was happening inside me. I told no one but three of my closest friends. One, who’d had an abortion herself, was supportive; another was unsure what to say; while the third awkwardly hugged me and, when I confessed I felt stupid, responded with, “Is it because it’s a bit embarrassing to admit you messed up?”

You messed up. The three words set to run laps in my brain continuously for the next few months. Because a mess was what I’d found myself in.

The thought of confessing my “mistake” to my mum and dad made my palms clammy, despite them both being liberal and compassionate parents. And yet, had I decided to keep the child, the thought of telling them they were about to become

grandparents would have produced a similar effect.

Because even though, in the eyes of the world, I was an adult – with a job and bills and a partner – in 2018, 25 years old still felt too young to have a child. I knew with every fibre of my being that I wasn’t ready to sacrifice everything I had slogged away at. When I was growing up, I thought being a mother was par for the course. I now see that isn’t the whole picture – at least not for everyone. I hadn’t really considered that you could feel wholly fulfilled (and I mean that) from something other than a child. From your career, say. Or your relationship. Or even from deep, lasting friendships. It’s not something the world shouts as loudly about. When the two weeks were up, I couldn’t wait to get back to the clinic. Ben came along to hold my hand, reminding me that if I wanted to change my mind at any point, I could. Whatever I wanted was what he wanted, he said – my body, my choice. When the nurse asked if there was any chance I was being pressured into making this decision, or if I was in a relationship where my safety felt compromised, I laughed. I was one of the lucky ones, unlike some of the other women sitting by themselves in the waiting room, picking at their nails and staring blankly at their phones.

I was issued the first tablet, mifepristone, which blocks the hormone needed for the pregnancy to grow, and headed into the office as normal, experiencing almost no symptoms. The next day, I would have to take a second pill (misoprostol – which expels the pregnancy from the body) in the supervision of the same central-London clinic.† Ben and I walked up to the building in silence, past the protesting vultures who attempted to grab my arm in false concern – “Would you like someone to talk to, love? We can help you” – feeling my throat sting at the sight of their placards calling me a murderer.

I signed the forms, nodded when the doctor said I may “experience some discomfort” and let the pills dissolve inside my cheeks as instructed. When we left, I was, all things considered, relatively OK. For about 15 minutes.

Soon, waves of nausea, burning and cramping began to batter me, thick and fast. I urgently needed the toilet and to be alone. Forced to jump out of a taxi in order to vomit in the street, I then targeted the bathroom of a nearby art gallery. I curled up on the cubicle floor, teeth chattering, listening as mothers taught their babbling toddlers how to wash their hands just a few metres away. The water in the toilet was red from where my body had begun to peel away from itself. Ben called the nurse who said this was all relatively normal, advised taking co-codamol and warned that things could get worse before they got better. I couldn’t fathom how anything could possibly feel any worse.

Almost five hours later, I was able to stand. At home, I crawled into bed, where I remained for another day, intermittently sleeping, crying and bleeding. I’d ticked the “no” box on the forms asking if I’d like counselling after the abortion. No help; I had messed up, I would deal with it in my own way – by not really dealing with it. Months later, I unravelled in a heap. A few months after that, I put myself back together again.

Despite my experience, I’ve never regretted the decision. I frequently pass babies in prams in the street and feel relief that I’m not the one pushing them. It wasn’t my time and there is no sense of loss. What was far harder to shake, however, was the shame, the stigma and the need to keep silent.

If you have been affected by any of the issues discussed in this feature, would like support or some more information on abortion, please visit Marie Stopes UK at Mariestopes.org. uk or call 0345 300 8090. All contact and treatment information is confidential and will not be passed on.