As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place where there was a den, and I laid me down in that place to sleep; and as I slept, I dreamed a dream. I dreamed, and behold I saw a Woman, standing in a certain place, with her face from her own house, a Letter in her hand, and a great Burden upon her back. I looked, and saw her open the Letter, and read therein; and as she read, she wept and trembled; and not being able longer to contain, she brake out with a lamentable cry, saying What shall I do?
It’s nothing flashy, that’s important. Clean–not just clean in the way that the absence of dirt makes something clean, but fresh and swept down to the root–and open, but nothing you’d look twice at. Maybe something in international waters so nobody can bother you on the walk up. The boat up.
Someone nice at the door, maybe Maya Angelou. Someone who puts you at ease.
Maybe you’d prefer Theresa of Avila, or Noel Coward, or Rosie Perez, or Robert Townsend. But for now let’s stick with Maya Angelou.
“Hi, how are you, I’m Maya Angelou,” she’ll say. “Melon slice?” And she’ll offer you a plate with some melon slices on it. And you’ll say yes or no, depending on how you’re feeling that day.
Good melon too, not the flavorless crunchy stuff you get at the supermarket. It’s soft, and, fragrant, and you let it insinuate itself into your mouth more than you chew it. She opens the door for you, and you step inside. Soft lighting. Unscented candles. Everyone in loungewear, even you, the really soft-looking kind that rich women wear. The carpet is so thick you can feel your toes sink between the heavy, nubby threads.
You think you should probably say something to Maya Angelou, because she’s Maya Angelou, and it’s really nice of her to take time out of her day to talk to you before you get your abortion. “Do you really wear a hat every time you write?”
“I really do,” she says. “Would you like to sign in?”
Of course it’s B.D. Wong sitting at the reception desk, feet up and reading an old edition of Time Out. “Hello,” he says to you. “Hello, hello, hello. We’ve been expecting you all morning.” You sign in and tell him how much you loved him in M. Butterfly.
“You saw that?” he says.
“I loved that,” you say.
“We’re keeping her,” he tells Maya Angelou. “We’re keeping you,” he tells you. His smile looks like it might leap off his face.
You walk a little further into the room, and there’s someone sitting at a piano, playing quiet music. It’s nondescript, but oddly familiar. You keep almost-catching the thread of a familiar tune in it. He turns around, and Billy Joel smiles reassuringly at you. “You’re making the right choice,” he says.
“Bill,” Maya says.
“Not that you need me to tell you that,” he says, grinning sheepishly. (It doesn’t have to be Billy Joel for you, of course. You can change that, if you want to). He steeples his fingers together, then pushes them out over his head. “‘Careless Talk’ or ‘This Night’?” he asks.
And you say “Careless Talk.” It’s that kind of day.
Eventually, Maya touches you carefully on the arm, and looks up at the door, and you excuse yourself to go get your abortion. Bill looks after you with a raised eyebrow. “Would you like me to come with you?”
Maya matches him eyebrow for eyebrow.
“I’m just asking,” he says gently, then starts playing “Don’t Ask Me Why” before you shut the door behind you.
It might be very brief and very simple, your abortion; it might be very late and very complex and at the tail end of a thick clot of emotions. That part I can’t dream differently for you, I’m afraid. It will take as long as it will take.
One of the orderlies looks incredibly familiar to you, although you can’t figure out who he reminds you of under his surgical mask. That can’t be Jeff Goldblum, you think to yourself. He winks at you.
So you get your abortion. After it’s over, whenever over is, Maybe-Jeff-Goldblum takes you into the recovery room, where you catch up on your reading. “Afterwards,” Possibly Jeff says, pointing to the windows, “You can take a walk around the gardens, if you’d like to, or you can go through the non-denominational prayer labyrinth. If you’d like to.”
You nod.
There’s a smaller room further down the hallway that he points out to you, with all the little things you like, the things you use when you want to feel beautiful, if you’d care to go in. Or maybe beautiful isn’t the adjective you’d prefer just now. Dashing, maybe. Or healthy. Or handsome. Or safe, or strong, or something. But all the little things you need are in there. So you go in there, and you use the things you need.
Robyn is there, of course, only she’s impossibly tiny, the size of Tinkerbell’s little sister. She’s perched up on the top of the mirror, and her entire body lights up when she sees you. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she cries, clapping her hands together in front of her face. “I’m so glad that you’re here with me.”
You smile at her, and her entire face takes on a focused solemnity. “If you feel like you would like to cry,” she says to you, “you’re just awfully welcome to.”
You thank her.
“Of course you don’t have to,” she says, “because you might not want to at all. But if you would like to, because sometimes it’s difficult, whether something begins or doesn’t begin or is going to begin a little bit later, and if you would like to cry in this room you are welcome to do it.”
You thank her again.
There’s a place here where you can go and play racquetball, if you’d like to play racquetball. There’s tennis at three and a hike at sunset, but you have to bring your own bug spray.
You get a light massage; nothing self-indulgent, just something to refresh yourself. You sit in the sauna a while. You take some melon to go, when you get up to leave.
“Take some more melon,” Billy Joel urges you before you leave. “Take some home with you.”
Maya Angelou shushes him. “She doesn’t have to take the melon.”
“You don’t have to leave yet,” Billy says. “It’s only sunset. You can stay the night, if you wanted to.”
You know.
“Take some more melon, then. It’s just going to go bad here. No one’s going to eat it here. Waste of a good melon.”
“Bill,” Maya says. “The woman can only eat so much melon.”
“I know,” he says. “I just want to be sure she knows she can have more melon, if she wants some.”
She smiles. “I know,” she says.
She knows.
So Maya Angelou waves goodbye to you, and so does the man who exists in a continuous state of Jeff Goldblum possibility. And B.D. Wong waves Time Out at you, and tiny Robyn waves too. Billy Joel leaps up and hugs you in an embrace that lifts you off your feet. Later, you find that he’s snuck an extra sandwich and another three slices of melon in your purse.
And then the sun starts to go down, and you walk down to the dock, and you realize that no one has spoken louder than a whisper to you the entire day. And there’s a boat waiting for you.
Maybe you think swan boats are entirely too precious (I do too). Let’s say just an ordinary boat, then. But it could be a swan boat, if you wanted it to be. If you change your mind about needing one. How often in your life do you get the chance to ride a giant swan boat? Anyhow, you step onto it.
And if it’s empty, it’s perfectly empty, and wonderfully still, and you lean your head against the mast a little, and you close your eyes, and you breathe in the sunset as the boat takes you home.
And if it isn’t empty, you recognize the form already standing in the boat long before you reach the edge of the water. And it’s a face you’ve been longing to see for a very long time, and that face breaks into that old and long-loved grin in the way it always used to, and you don’t say anything at first, when the two of you come face to face. And you go home too.
Anyhow, that’s what I think abortions should be like.
Tags: abortion, all the melon you can eat, billy joel, dreams, international waters, Maya Angelou, things that should happen
In my dream every person in this encounter is Jeff Goldblum, except for Billy Joel, who is Bruce Springsteen.
But why am I crying now, is my question.
Because that’s exactly the right thing to do. Cry with me, anachronistique.
Yeah. Holy moly.
I know right? That last paragraph (second last paragraph, I guess?) just destroyed me. Beautiful.
This is so funny and so sad. Too much.
Did not cry all over desk too much; just the right amount.
This is lovely Mallory
Oh great, there seems to be a localized rainstorm on my FACE. Beautifully done.
Scattered showers on mine. My facestorm is brought on by “I wish I wish I wish” feelings.
Well, “Rosie Perez escorts you through your abortion” was just added to my The Way The World Should Be list, along with “pizza has nutritional value of kale” and “everyone has the skill and grace of Alvin Ailey dancers, if they want.”
I want NPH singing in there too.
I’d ask for “The Stranger,” but only so I could whistle along as I wait. Also, “a continuous state of Jeff Goldblum possibility” seems like a nice state to be in. Can I move there?
“Vienna” for me unless it made me cry too much.
As much as I love it, I’d have to beg off, since I’d be a puddle by the time Billy got around to “if you’re so smart, tell me why are you still so afraid?”
Oh. Oh wow. Is it ok if I cry right here at my desk, tiny Robyn? Because this is so beautiful and lovely and kind, it makes my cry a little. Not a bad cry; just the cry when you well up with a gentle sort of love.
Lovely, indeed.
Melis, you are killing it today.
Rob yn is there, of course.
I do not know how you do this.
This made me laugh and cry at the same time. I want a tiny Robyn to carry around in my purse at all times.
Robyn as post abortion beauty counselor is perfect. I’d ask her to braid my hair and sing “Hang With Me” while I most certainly cried.
Giggling and crying at the same time. So good, Melis.
My Billy Joel request would be Vienna. Just saying.
Also he would share time with Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings, who would sing Black Star and Look At Miss Ohio.
I would like to walk through the non-denominational prayer labyrinth.
This right here is what finally got me off my ass and over to the Planned Parenthood website, where I set up a monthly recurring donation. They might not have Robyn and Jeff Goldblum, but by god, they’re enough.
Well, and now THIS made me cry. Good heavens.
I’d blame pregnancy hormones for the tears, but I’m pretty sure this is just plain wonderful.
“Of course you don’t have to,” she says, “because you might not want to at all. But if you would like to, because sometimes it’s difficult, whether something begins or doesn’t begin or is going to begin a little bit later, and if you would like to cry in this room you are welcome to do it.”
I mean.
Right? That was the end for me. Why does the Toast love to make me cry like a baby?
This is so perfect. I read some of this on twitter last Saturday while working at my job at an abortion clinic. I read it aloud to my boss and she laughed too. The whole thing is so much better. It made me laugh and cry. Thank you for this. I wish reality could be this perfectly kind and gentle.
I’m crying so hard right now. I’ve never had an abortion, or needed one, but this is such a lovely dream in a world where the very act of being a woman (maybe just being a person) feels like a constant state of punishment and commands and berating and angry frowns. I want this with my whole body.
Yes, this exactly.
This is what it looks like to trust a woman with her own body.
My Robyn would be Aunt Beast.
So beautiful.
This is so beautiful and so exactly how things ought to be.
i love all parts of this, but especially how generous billy joel is, like a grandma trying to overfeed you. <3
i want to know how it feels to be the kind of human/writer people can lean into like this, but also i do not want to invade melis’ privacy
I didn’t come here to add anything new or interesting to the comments. Only to say: B.D. Wong!
Allergies. It must be allergies ’cause I’m definitely not crying at my desk. Nope.
Perfect.
This is beautiful and funny and sad, which everyone already said.
But I have to say – Tennis and hiking? I am all for the massages and saunas, but tennis? Show me the woman who plays tennis the same day she has an abortion. Even a really lovely one.
This is totally gorgeous, and the bit about Billy Joel sneaking a sandwich and melon slices into your purse made me tear up a bit.
My absolute favorite part of this is over-attentive Billy Joel.
I work at a clinic that, while it doesn’t have Maya Angelou and B.D. Wong, is full of the most loving, compassionate people I have ever met. This is truly a pretty accurate representation of the environment they try to create for the women they serve. And that’s why I love working there, and why I love this piece. Thank you.
Thank YOU for working there!
Mallory, you are amazing. <3
Also add: Alice Walker, abortion doula poet. Some clinics give patients a plant, or stationary/notebook so they can jot thoughts. This too.
I made it through the whole thing without crying until the end. I can think of nothing better than seeing that person and their old, old grin. My weeps, Mallory.
I love this. Special Agent Dana Scully would be there with me.
PERFECT.
I have no idea why I’m crying so hard right now but this was beautiful.
I love that this clinic has not only gardens, but ALSO a non-denominational prayer labyrinth. The Jeff Goldblum I’m picturing when he suggests to walk in it, is the artisanal knot maker from Portlandia 🙂
I love the knot maker. I find his enthusiasm for knots really soothing.
I’d like Catherine Tate and Jake Shears and Cheryl Strayed, I think.
Thank you.
This piece is reason #98790764967 for why I am so glad to have found this community.
Also: Had to create an account to comment (VerityStandingStill over at the ‘Pin). After verification: “Congratulations, SSVerity, you have confirmed your account! Click to get back to What Abortions Should Be Like and get commenting!” How cheerful(!).
I am struggling to make a constructive comment because I have seen this piece tweeted a bunch & all the previous comments are about how great it is. I agree that it’s well-written and the intent is humor and empathy, but I hope I’m not the only person with this reaction to it being about abortion specifically: I bristled at this. And I think it’s because I had an abortion many years ago and I am very wary of anything I perceive as artificially adding emotional and psychological weight to what is a medical decision. And yes, many medical decisions (including to have babies) are fraught with emotion, but still. This bothered me. Not sure if I would be reacting at all if it were “What healthcare should be like.”
It’s a medical procedure, but it’s so highly politicized that one is expected to agonize, or feel *something*, or need extra emotional support. How I felt: “Oh shit, what the fuck, why me/I’m an idiot who has royally fucked up. How can I not have a baby and ruin every aspect of my entire life right now.” I was fortunate to have decided early and have access to an induced miscarriage, which I am sure is a wholly different experience from having surgical or late-term abortion.
TL;DR: I feel feelings about this, but I didn’t really feel feelings about having an abortion.
Oh, absolutely. I think for many, many women, this is a decision that’s simple and straightforward and doesn’t involve any emotions. What almost all women do have to face, either politically or personally, are tons of other people questioning their motives, their competence, their abilities, their emotional and mental capacities. Sometimes they’re friends, sometimes family; sometimes they’re complete strangers. I think the point of this is what it would look like if from beginning to end, the entire process was entirely supportive; if no one asked you if you were “sure” or tried to make you feel guilty or maternal or conflicted. But yes, absolutely, loads of women have abortions and don’t feel tender or fragile about it in the least.
Oh yeah I like that & was not thinking of it that way I guess.
When I had mine, I wasn’t conflicted at all about what I was doing. I had no regrets, I never changed my mind, and the only thing I felt afterwards was relief. But the reason I cried just now, in the middle of work – which is an open floor plan without even cubicle walls to give me a little dignity – is because it would have been so beautiful to feel that kind of support and care. My boyfriend at the time wasn’t able to be there and I didn’t really want him there, I brought a friend who wasn’t able to come in there with me. While the clinic I went to tried its best to make me comfortable in superficial kinds of ways (the real life equivalent of melon slices, essentially) what I really want is that kind of open-ended, unconditional and unquestioning love and support. As confident as I felt about what I did, I still have never told my parents, and only a very few trusted close friends know (though who knows how many people have read between the lines of my vehement pro-choice rants over the years). I don’t think that the piece “adds emotional and psychological weight to..a medical decision” – rather, I think she is acknowledging that the world adds this weight to the decision itself, regardless of your own personal feelings about it. I am absolutely, 100% confident that I made the right decision, but I am not confident or brave enough to let that decision be public. The fantasy here isn’t that every woman has an abortion without second thoughts, it’s that women everywhere would be free to have whatever thoughts they had, would be able to work out their own feelings whatever they might be, and that their specific and individual medical decisions would be reflected and received with understanding and support.
Yes well-said. I only told my older sister, who lived far away, and two male friends who helped me by loaning me money & coming with me, and by being with me at home while it happened. I would never have told my parents and I did not tell any female friends because I thought they would judge me more for having gotten pregnant than my male friends. The friend who loaned me money made it clear he disagreed, but he supported me anyway. The friend who came to my apartment was the best – he brought ginger ale, pocky, and movies. So having maybe 4-5 people know and anonymously commenting years after the fact. That is the social isolation and the pressure you are talking about.
And yes sometimes I wonder if my militant pro-choice views tell others something about me. My husband (who also knows) has accused me of being a single-issue person, but that comes from it having been *the* defining experience for me, having that access and being able to control my future.
Nicole Cliffe was my personal Robyn after my abortion. I think she’s been a lot of people’s Robyn. And I just want to say she’s perfect at it.
And PJ Harvey would be there, and she’d be singing When Under Ether: “Something’s inside me/unborn and unblessed/disappears in the ether/this world to the next/Human kindness.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lnUQwE0YhZo
My clinic tried its best. There were no melon slices, nor was there a tiny, over-attentive Billy Joel. However there was A League of Their Own and lollipops and tinkling music coming through the loudspeakers. Every lady I met was kind and supportive. The friend who accompanied me was essentially Robyn, and she took me back to her house to eat a lot of chocolate and wrap my body in heating pads. But it was all done in secret, it was all carefully arranged for minimal exposure, and most of the most important people in my life still don’t know. I wish my grandmother, my own Maya Angelou, knew. Having an abortion wasn’t traumatic, but hiding an abortion is. Carrying around a secret, afraid others will judge you even though you don’t judge yourself, feeling the complex rage and despair when pro-lifers talk about women who get abortions as though they’re abstract monsters instead of me right in front of you I’m not a monster I’m right here, that’s when I need Maya Angelou. I’d love to have B.D. Wong walk me past those protestors at the clinic down the street from me. I’d love to have Jeff Goldblum remind me that men still find me sexy even if they don’t, can’t understand my history. When I watch the news, I’d love to have the melon slices in front of me. What you’ve done, Mallory, is write the exact opposite of The Handmaid’s Tale. The world is full of dystopic nightmares this week. I need some dreams.
A couple years ago, my mother revealed to me that my grandmother had gotten an abortion back in the late 1930s/early 1940s. Grandma had come to the US from Scotland when she was 12 years old, then forced to leave high school before graduation to get a job to support her family. At some point, she found a man, a writer, and fell deeply in love. They married in 1934.
I don’t know if they were every happy in marriage, to be honest. He soon got into drugs and beat her on a regular basis. Just as she made the difficult decision to divorce him, she found out that she was pregnant. At the time, one did not get divorced if you were expecting a child, especially not if one didn’t have a US citizenship yet and had never finished high school. So she got an abortion. And that was it.
My mom couldn’t give me any more details, so I never had a clear idea in my head about what she went through during the procedure. Years later, I was reading a Joan Didion book set in the 1960s and the main character had a horrible experience arranging and undergoing her abortion. Then it hit me– that could have been my grandmother. After all, if the procedure was that difficult in the 60s, would it not have been just as bad or worse a few decades earlier? I was in tears for hours following that scene.
Now, after reading this, I’m crying again. I wish Grandma could have had an experience like this. I hope others who are in similar situations can at least find the peace that this post invokes. Thank you, thank you for writing this. It was cathartic.
oh my goodness what a wonderful place
Reading this was like receiving a virtual hug. Beautiful piece.
As much as I love it, I'd have to beg off, since I'd be a puddle by the time Billy got around to "if you're so smart, tell me why are you still so afraid?"
I’m crying, there was so much love and support in this.
Beautiful piece, and what a nice dream to dream. I especially love overly-attentive Billy Joel trying to send her home with food like my Jewish grandmother, and Maya Angelou keeping him in line.
Beautiful piece, and what a nice dream to dream. I especially love overly-attentive Billy Joel trying to send her home with food like my Jewish grandmother, and Maya Angelou keeping him in line.
This reminds me of the best dream I ever had, where Alan Cumming and I took a long walk around and through a crumbling amphitheater and he told me how great I was for what seemed like an endless eternity of contentment and pleased surprise. There’s really nothing like the feeling of being overwhelmingly loved and accepted by people you respect and care about- I think this piece is the concentrated antidote to the secrecy and uncertainty even the most confident abortion-haver might reasonably feel about sharing her experience with the people important to her.
So I know this is old, and I loved it when it came out. But I still love this. So much.
No mention of Billy Joel, but it’s a start
http://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/a-fluffy-r…