Twist Of Fate

Fifty Eight

CHLOE

Two Years Earlier

The worst bit wasn't the second blue line appearing on the pregnancy test. It wasn't the fear of the now uncertain future. It wasn't the permanent queasiness in the pit of my stomach from the moment I woke up in the morning to the moment I fell asleep at night, or my sudden, new aversion to drinking any kind of liquid from the rim of a cup and instead needing a straw. It wasn't the revulsion at the idea of having part of him growing inside me, or the realisation that I would now be tied to him for the rest of my life, through our child. The worst bit wasn't working up the courage to make my way round to his flat one evening, a couple of days after the positive test result, to give him the news that I was pregnant with his baby, or waiting outside in the dirty, fluorescent-lit hallway while he came to the door, the stench of stale urine hanging in the air. 

The worst bit wasn't his obvious impatience at being called away from whatever he had been doing inside the flat (probably smoking something, judging by the smell of his clothes). It wasn't finding the words to explain my situation, or the look of disdain on his face, or the following look of horror when my news sank in. It wasn't his unsurprising disinterest in me or his future child, his shrug of indifference or his advice to do "whatever, I don't really give a shit."

It wasn't even, as you could be forgiven for thinking, his unexpected appearance in the Flute and Fiddle the following evening, demanding to speak to me in private, exuding an air of intimidation and thinly veiled fury, or his dangerous tone telling me I needed to get rid of the 'problem' because he wasn't about to be trapped into paying for some brat he didn't even want and being stuck with some frigid little weirdo forever. Nor was it his discreet grip on my wrist, tightening as he warned me not to make life difficult for him, and that if I didn't do as I was told he would make sure I wouldn't need an abortion, because there were ways he could take care of that himself and make it look like an unfortunate accident. No, none of those things were the worst part. 

The worst part is right now. It is sitting in a consulting room at the abortion clinic, a small tablet and a plastic cup of water in front of me, my hands shaking and my insides trembling. It is the empty chair beside me, it is the empty flat that awaits me, it is the look of sympathy on the nurse's face as she waits for me to take the pill that will start the process of forcing my body to reject the tiny life latched on to the lining of my womb, it is the overwhelming misery and fear at not wanting this to happen, but having no one to fight with me in my corner and no strength to face the alternative alone. It is the knowledge that the only person that could have helped me through this, the only person I want here right now, is a couple of hundred miles away, six feet below the ground, unable to be at my side when I need her the most.

The cramping and bleeding isn't as physically painful as I was expecting, but the emotional pain is indescribable. I am terrified of passing a recognisable shape, even though the nurse assured me I was so early in the pregnancy that I wouldn't see anything that looked remotely like a baby leaving my body. Even so, each time I visit the toilet, tears streaming down my face, I can't bring myself to look, just in case I catch a glimpse of the tiny life I have just brutally and barbarically ended. 

Although the bleeding lasts no more than a couple of days, I suffer with abdominal cramps for several weeks afterwards. I can't help thinking this is my body's way of punishing me for being so weak, and being too afraid to stand up for my own child. I wholeheartedly believe I deserve this pain, and in some strange way I almost relish it, as though suffering will cleanse me of my guilt. What I am not expecting is to collapse at the end of my shift at the Flute some weeks later and be taken to hospital by ambulance, examined by the nurses and told I have contracted an infection after my abortion that should have been treated immediately. Tests and further examinations follow, and a quietly spoken doctor with tight afro curls pats my hand gently as she tells me I have internal scarring as a result of my undiagnosed infection that means it is highly unlikely I will be able to conceive a child naturally in the future. She tells me the antibiotics will clear the infection, and not to worry because I will be just fine in no time. She offers to put me in touch with a counselling service, and leaves me with some leaflets to read about infertility and aftercare.