By Nicole Chiu

Tucked away in between Wetherspoons and Pandora’s “Sauna” is a white Georgian building that most women in Fallowfield know exists, but that they only whisper about in times of extreme desperation. The Abortion Clinic. 

It was late August in my second year of university, and the boy who walked me there was still refusing to call me his girlfriend. I had been taking the contraceptive pill but, as we all know,  it is only effective if used correctly. 

After getting my first whiff of freedom at university, I had explored a whole new playground of clubs and raves. My sleeping pattern was erratic, and I’d normalised a tactical sick¹ on all my nights out. Birth control was never at the forefront of my mind. This coalescence of bad habits made my trip to the clinic almost an inevitability.

The tell-tale signs started: sore, tender boobs, sickness, headaches and two missed menstrual bleeds. I rang my best friend at university, who lived near me in my hometown and we met up in an ice cream parlour. Clear Blue® in hand and a bottle of water later, we waited for the results. It was all just a formality at this point; I just knew that this time I’d fucked it.  

A week later, I was back at my university house and on the phone to make an appointment. I sat in the toilet with another piece of plastic in my hand, counting the seconds, practicing my “worried face”. To unveil the result to my boyfriend. I planned to cry if he blamed me, if he got angry, if he smashed something. 

At the clinic, clusters of eyes were locked to the ground. Partners, friends, parents, all scattering their gaze, trying not to acknowledge where they were or what was about to happen. I remember scanning every person’s face in that waiting room, trying to give all of them a comforting smile, a little validation that this was all for the best. But vacant expressions were all I got back, as if I were sitting in some sort of dissociative twilight zone.

Lying on the bed for the preliminary exam, the computer screen turned away from me, the nurse treated it like a routine haircut, with a “How’re your holidays?”. Gel was smeared over me, the pit of my stomach inspected, searching for that little blip. I was surprised it was still there. I’d been on my own crusade to flush it out with old wives’ remedies, halting at the most extreme - throwing myself down the stairs - but only just. The nurse then packed me on my way, putting my scan into an envelope and warning me not to look at it. I was also given an STI swab.

I scurried to the toilet. While quickly scraping my insides with the swab, spiralling factions of thoughts about whether or not to look plagued me. Languidly, I prised open the envelope and pulled out the black and white photo of the growth inside of me. I studied it intently, trawling through every detail of its features: could I see me or him? I was searching for something that would pull at me, an emotional cord that I couldn’t sever.

The actual day was uneventful. I woke up, walked the 12 minutes from my house to the clinic and  promptly afterwards, was picked up by a friend. It was done. Anxiety lifted off my shoulders, releasing me of the burden I’d been carrying for weeks. 

What no one warned me of, however, was the pain. I’d been advised to take some IbuprofenⓇ and rest. I don’t know how I was expected to rest. I sat on the toilet the whole evening, my stomach twisting and screaming as blood flowed into the toilet.  

That’s when the seeds of doubt crept in, an abstract thought that the pain was some type of punishment for what I’d done. I had attended the same Catholic school my Mam had gone to before me; although abstinence was the party line, we were once asked if anyone agreed with abortion and three people raised their hands. A religious haze had filled my head at that moment, however I quickly realised that wasn’t how I truly felt. I was in no way capable of raising a child in the second year of my degree - nor did I want to. That’s what I focus on now. I don’t need to justify it by my circumstances or the relationship I was in; I simply did not want a child. 

I’d always considered myself an accident, as my parents were young when they had me. My Mam had once drunkenly confessed that, long before she’d fallen pregnant with me, she’d had an abortion, musing that maybe I was the same baby stubbornly returning for a second go. She cried, a wave of relief washing over her as she cast that stone of shame off herself. For context, my Mam’s childhood dream had been to become a nun; one of her childhood best friends had ended up in a Magdalene Laundry*, never to be seen again. The guilt of her own abortion tears her up to this day. 

Statistically, there were 209,519 abortions in the UK in 2019 and according to a 2015 report, 1 in 3 women have had an abortion, with 95% not regretting it. So, it is completely normal to not be harrowed by the experience, to sleep soundly at night. When I spoke to the people around me, I was met with sympathetic eyes and smiles, which jarred me. I didn’t speak because I was sad, I spoke because it’s important. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of women walking around, acting like this is our dirty little secret – know that it’s your decision and you’re not the only one. 

Bio
Nicole Chiu, She/Her, 25

Born in Gateshead near Newcastle in one of the only ethnically diverse households in the area – statistics show less than 1% BME there, contrasting with the national average of 9.1%. She moved to Manchester in 2014 to study English Literature and American Studies at The University of Manchester and never left. Her interests are somewhat erratic from raves to crafts, but she tries to focus her writing around her experience with race, mental health and relationships (and hopefully everything in between).

¹US: puke

² https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magdalene_Laundries_in_Ireland