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In the back of my underwear drawer, tucked next to my emergency cash and a fancy bar of dark chocolate, is a pack of abortion pills. All three of these items are secrets from my family. I hide the chocolate so I don’t have to share it. The cash is something my mom taught me when I was growing up- always have access to money your husband doesn’t know about, just in case. Money is freedom, and so are the abortion pills.
I am 40 years old, in a loving marriage. I’m the parent of one child. There was a moment in time when I thought I might want to try for another child, but that moment passed years ago. I often feel like I need to justify why I don’t want more children, but the truth is, I don’t need a “good” reason. I’d tell any close friend that she doesn’t need a reason to not want to get pregnant, to not want a child. And if it’s true for them, it’s true for me too. (It’s also true for you.)
I know in my bones that I am done having children. The baby and toddler years were hard for me, which in turn was hard on my marriage. My child is elementary-aged now, and I finally feel myself calming, returning. My postpartum anxiety and burnout-fueled depression have finally eased, and life no longer feels like such a slog. I have hobbies again, goals again. I look forward to parenting a tween, then a teen, and launching a new adult into the world. I love my child, but I wonder what my life will be like when parenting isn’t the focus anymore. I wonder what I’ll accomplish, where I’ll go, who I’ll become.
My husband, however, isn’t ready for a vasectomy. He comes from a big family, and I think it’s been hard for him to accept that he won’t be having a big family of his own. Sometimes I feel selfish by taking this decision off the table, but not enough to change my mind. The vasectomy conversation is one we’ve shelved a few times, though I do think he’ll come around soon. In the meantime I’m on birth control pills, yet every month I hold my breath, anxiously awaiting the reassuring cramps and bleeding that confirm I’m not pregnant.
Like half the women in this country, I live in a state run by people, mostly white men, who couldn’t wait to ban abortion the moment we lost Roe. It’s not fair that if I become pregnant, I can’t go to my regular doctor and ask for abortion pills. It’s not fair that the closest abortion clinic is 500 miles away, and it’s sure to be surrounded by hostile anti-abortion extremists. It’s not fair that those extremists have more say in what happens to my body in my state than I do.
The bright side to all this is that getting the pills was surprisingly easy, maybe even easier than it was before Roe was overturned. I waited to order them until I was alone in my home. Using a secure browser, I visited the website AidAccess.org, which connected me with a physician in a state with “shield laws.” (Thank God for shield laws. They protect doctors from prosecution for sending these safe and legal pills across state lines.) All communication with the doctor took place over email, and I received a discreet invoice via Venmo. The pills arrived in the mail in an unmarked package a week later. The medication plus the doctor’s fee cost $150, which is a lot for something I might not actually need, but it’s certainly cheaper than raising another child. The pills don’t expire for two years. I paid $150 for two years of peace of mind.
I opened the package in the bathroom with the door locked and immediately hid the pills. At first I felt shame in knowing that I’d done something I have to keep secret, but as time has passed I know I did the right thing. Even if the right thing isn’t technically the legal thing.
Because the law in my state is vague. I know that abortion clinics have closed and abortions are not allowed to be performed, or attempted, in my state. What I don’t know for sure is if by ordering these pills, by having them in my possession, I have already broken the law. I assume I have, but I remind myself that not all laws are just. I do know for sure that if I take the pills, no one can know. I hope I never have to use them and put myself at legal risk, but I’m so grateful they exist. I just wish it didn’t have to be this way.
