Exercising my Right

Some people may be extremely put off by this blog post. I'm going to talk about some uncomfortable subjects, and I may lose friends over this, but you don't break stigma by being silent.

Hang on tight, folks. It's going to get real, and maybe a bit loud in here.

Deep breaths.

Ever since the Tally in the Valley 12hr night race, I've had a hell of a time of things - I've been exhausted all the time, my boobs (which got very sore toward the end of the race) have never quite stopped hurting, and I've been dealing with some nausea almost all day, every day that I couldn't seem to kick.

Still, running 70km and missing a night's sleep can really do a number on your body, your hormones, and your endocrine system. I haven't had a regular hormone cycle in years, really, which is why I wasn't too concerned when I was late getting my period.

Ok, quite a bit late. The last one was just before (and during) the Niagara Ultra 50k, but even that 6.5hr slog through the heat and solar radiation was probably enough to put things off for awhile.

I was having some night sweats, so started to think I might be perimenopausal - I turned 39 in mid-July while we were motorcycle touring and climbing mountains, so it's not outside the realm of possibility. I asked my mum last week when I saw her if she started menopause early, and she said she couldn't remember what age, but it was definitely considered early. Fair enough.

I also thought that might account for the fact that my waistbands seemed to be getting snugger (despite my weight being stable since we got home from motorcycle touring, during which I lost almost 4lbs), too, and some of the terrible bloating and digestive trouble I was having.

Having taken 2 full weeks of running after Tally in the Valley, I began again when we returned from our canoe tour. Just a quick 20-odd minute trot on a flat trail, but it totally kicked my ass! I put it down to the warm, sunny day and the fatigue that was still dogging me, but running has continued to be incredibly difficult. I feared that there was either something really wrong with me - maybe I'd done more damage to myself than I thought racing 12hrs while undertrained? - or maybe I was starting a slippery slope of age-related decline, as I'd first noticed myself getting worn out and sore easily right around my 39th birthday. This perimenopause was frightening; what if things would only get worse from here? How would I ever continue to compete in ultras? I tried another 11km run this past Saturday on a beautiful bit of trail nearby, and it was brutal - the humidity remaining in the trees and along the river had me gasping and stopping to catch my breath every few minutes, and afterward I was so exhausted I could barely manage dinner (take-out Thai food) and a shower before collapsing into bed. How was I ever going to be ready to pace someone for 40km at Haliburton in 2 weeks if my hormones had decided I was over the hill?

Not half as confident or speedy as I manage to look here.

Just to eliminate one other possibility, though, I decided I'd pick up a couple of things from the pharmacy section at the grocery store when we went this past Sunday. Around 9pm that evening when I needed to pee (which seems to happen all the time now!), I pulled a bit of plastic out of its foil and had my life changed.

Well, shit..

This totally explained everything: the sore, swollen boobs; the nausea and digestive issues; the constant hunger, exhaustion and sleep disturbances; even the muscle soreness and rather extreme emotional responses (I seem to get all choked up at nothing at all these days), and definitely needing to pee all the time. It even explained why my piriformis and adductors seemed to be taking such a beating on runs lately; the ligaments in my pelvis were starting to stretch in anticipation of what was to come, and my supporting muscles were forced to work extra hard to keep everything stable.

It seemed that some carelessness during our Canada Day camping trip at Long Point had resulted in some rather lasting repercussions, despite the tiny odds of me being able to conceive at my age. It was the only time since my last period that we'd had unprotected sex - we almost always use condoms since I went off oral contraceptives in February of 2010.

I bought a 2-pack, and despite my hopes, both said the same thing.
Sometimes "YES" is not the answer you want to hear.

Panic. This can't be happening. Literally my worst nightmare - I'd always been very careful not to end up in this situation, but here I am. Tanker and I had discussed all the way back when we were dating that neither of us wanted kids, and we've structured our 15 years of married life around our independence from the needs and demands of children. I don't particularly like kids (though some of our friends have some pretty great ones), have never seen any attraction to babies, and already had first-hand experience with the effects of sleep deprivation due to an unhappy creature - our old tomcat Karma howls in the night, recently as often as every hour or 90mins, and noone will call it neglect or abuse if I just yell "SHUT UP SPUD" at him and roll over to go back to sleep. An actual infant? Oh, hell no.

Upon realising that this was really happening, Tanker asked what I wanted to do, and I told him there was no doubt in my mind that I would end this. If he felt differently we could discuss, but in the end I am a firm believer in a woman's right to choose and would stand by my decision. I was already suffering terribly from the effects of pregnancy, and couldn't wait for them to end - to face another few months of my body and mind being out of my control, and then to deal with the child itself? No way. If nothing else, if we actually went through with it, I'd be 57 by the time the kid turned 18 (the earliest we could possibly expect to get our independence back), and Tanker would be 63. That would be a hard ask for anyone, let alone two people who never wanted to reproduce.

Even if we had wanted a child, my cluelessness about my situation had led to the fetus having to face horrible challenges during its short gestation: I'd had lower back x-rays about 10 days after conception, I'd had a cider or two on at least 4 separate occasions (notably my birthday at 17 days, an our anniversary at 5.5 weeks) during the 7 weeks since Canada Day, a rum & cola the day before we left to go canoe touring, and I certainly hadn't been limiting my intake of fish (I love seafood) or caffeine.

Well, not to mention running 70km at Tally in the Valley and doing some training runs in seriously hot weather both before and afterward.

So, while it's incredible that the little invader managed to survive at all, it's unlikely that it would grow to be a fully functional person. I did a project for my Grade 8 science fair about fetal alcohol syndrome, and the sad realities of the horrible effects of drinking during pregnancy have always stuck with me.

Regardless of viability and potential outcomes, though, I wanted out of this situation. I do feel horrible for those women who struggle with their fertility, and want nothing more than to see the results I did on a pregnancy test. I wish there was some way I could offer my own apparent ability to conceive to them, but it doesn't work that way, and I have no interest in being a mother. I began making calls first thing Monday morning, hoping to get a same-day appointment at a clinic in either Mississauga or Brampton for a termination.

Taken the morning of the procedure - I never really did show at all.

That's not to say I had no qualms whatsoever: it's one thing not to want a child, but another entirely to make the decision to end a human-in-progress. I never wanted to be in this position, and it gave me some moral disquiet. Reading about the longitudinal outcomes of unwanted pregnancies helped: there is higher risk of illness and mortality in both the mother and child; the children have a greater chance of being unemployed, and those that do have jobs seldom have fulfilling careers; not to mention increased incidence of substance abuse. All this even without accounting for my horrible treatment (albeit unknowingly) of the fetus - it really seemed to be the humane option, especially when coupled with my own lack of maternal aspirations.

I ended up getting an appointment for Thursday morning at Grand River Hospital at Freeport. I arranged the day off work with my boss, on whom I dumped my entire story on Monday morning when he saw me arrive at the office early, feeling totally frustrated and helpless (as I'd been told by the Mississauga Women's Clinic I'd have to wait until Friday for their first available opening). He told me to take whatever time I needed and to be very cautious about my recovery. He's a kind man, and I'll always be grateful to him for his gentle and non-judgemental treatment of me while I was undergoing a lot of stress.

Working this week wasn't easy. The nausea was the worst on Tuesday - I spent 2/3 of the day trying not to barf, developed a headache, and would get dizzy just sitting at my desk due to low blood pressure. I couldn't concentrate at all, so was certainly not a very productive employee.

Wednesday was an improvement: once I realized I was pregnant and what that implied for my nutrition, I started taking the iron + vitamin C supplements (which I usually only use when I'm menstruating, so hadn't taken for many weeks) on Monday evening, and added a calcium-magnesium-zinc supplement in the mornings while upping my vitamin D. I was making a whole lot of red blood cells, but I wasn't getting the benefit of them, and I didn't want my little invader causing a stress fracture while it hogged all my calcium to build it's entire skeleton. The supplements helped with my energy levels a lot, but the pregnancy hormones were definitely messing with my head as I had the worst attention span and short-term memory of my entire life on Wednesday. I had to spend the whole day double-checking myself to make sure I didn't flake and forget something else. Damn parasite not only hijacked my body but my brain, too!

Pregnancy brain aside, I ended up informing a few close friends and family on Wednesday throughout the day - prior to that I'd only discussed it with Tanker, a health professional who is also a friend and ultrarunner (not to mention a truly remarkable woman for many reasons), and another awesome runner friend who works odd shifts and agreed to pick me up after my procedure (you're not permitted to drive as they use IV sedation, though you are awake the whole time). In spite of some trepidation about how my news would be received, I was overwhelmed by the support and love I received from everyone I told - I am surrounded by wonderful people who truly want what's best for me, and I am incredibly grateful for their acceptance and warmth. I think talking it through in different ways with different people also helped me make some peace with my situation. I arrived at the conclusion that it was basically like running an ultra: there would be some pain and doubt and low points, but ultimately I believe in what I'm doing and that I have the strength to see it through.

I also went for my easiest run in weeks, spending a meditative moment just listening to the water flow down Cooksville Creek.

Thursday morning I sent Tanker off to work as I wanted to have the house to myself after I was released so I could just sit quietly in our lazyboy with a cat on my lap and a silly movie on the TV. I walked up to the hospital with a bag full of odds and ends (they tell you to bring slippers and your health card, plus I wanted a few other things), feeling quite calm in the sunshine and wind as I strode toward freedom. The worst part was not being able to eat or drink anything when I got up, as I had to abstain for 6hrs prior to the appointment due to the IV sedation.

Sometimes you just find you have the perfect shirt to wear.

Arriving at Freeport, I went through the somewhat convoluted entry procedure to the gynaecological specialities unit - I'm sure they're designed with privacy in mind, though the hospital does have a 150m safe zone that means the pro-life protesters from a nearby church can only picket across the street (I didn't see any on my way up). You ring a number from a phone inside the door, are informed where to go, then must ring again on another phone on a different floor to be buzzed through the locked doors to the unit. I also gave the name of the friend who would be picking me up in case she needed to come in, as they wouldn't admit her if I hadn't specified her name and given permission. Very discreet indeed.

I was greeted by an administrator and asked to get my health card ready as I was directed to a waiting room, then sat with a lovely older lady volunteer who took my weight, asked me some basic health questions, and gave me my medical bracelet after confirming the information matched that on my health card. Back to the waiting room, I filled out paperwork with my medical history and read over some informational sheets about the procedure itself, the drugs I would be given, and the hospital's commitment to keeping patient information private. It also answered a question that I'd had about the possibility of donating the tissue for research purposes - the hospital's policy is that all fetal remains are destroyed, with none being retained for scientific or any other purpose. A nurse fetched me to take some blood and install an IV nub so they'd be able to administer drugs later on, then back to the waiting room for a few minutes more. I was then taken to an interview room by another lovely young nurse who reviewed my medical history with me and described the full process in more detail, asking me whether or not I'd like the IV sedative as well as the pain medication - recommending that I take it, as I'd have to keep my hips completely still while I was in the operating room. I agreed, as I didn't see any reason to make things any more difficult or stressful than they had to be.

I was given a brief tour of the gynaecological specialties ward, then led to a change room where I donned a hospital gown and thin bathrobe while dropping off my bag with my clothes and belongings. I was allowed to keep my phone with me, which was nice as I was then shown to another waiting room where I'd spend most of the next 2+hours being subjected to HGTV, back-to-back episodes of "Sex and the City", and then "Say Yes to the Dress Canada".

This was the dress I said yes to.

I had a brief reprieve to go for an ultrasound, which due to the short gestation time had to be done transvaginally (internally). Basically, they take a big plastic dildo attached to a cord, wrap it in plastic and lube the hell out of it, then insert it into your vagina to get a look at the fetus. This allows them to estimate the true time from conception, ensures that the pregnancy is not etopic (a potentially dangerous condition in which the embryo begins to develop outside of the uterus), and permit identification of other abnormalities that might cause complications.

Whether or not it was just my masochistic side coming out, I asked to see the ultrasound image - the nurse seemed a bit doubtful, asking if I was sure it wouldn't stick in my head and give me regrets later, but I assured her it wouldn't. I even took a photo with my phone so I could show Tanker if he wished, and later messaged it to him.

Head at the right with yolk sac beside - it's facing downward with arms & legs to the left.

I was right, too - even with my pituitary pumping out huge doses of oxytocin to make my brain develop a bond with the fetus, I felt no attachment even seeing it on the monitor. It was just a "well, yep that looks like a cross between a grey alien and a tadpole, which seems to be what a human-in-progress looks like early on". I was given an ibuprofen and two antibiotic tablets with (mercifully!) a small glass of water to wash them down, and did so largely without emotion.

I did get one surprise, though: the measurement "crown to rump" (as shown by the dotted line on the image) was 2.69cm - just over an inch - which put my gestation at 9 weeks, 4 days (shown at bottom left of the ultrasound).

Hmm. Wait, I still had my period when Tanker and I enjoyed each other's company the day after the Niagara Ultra, and I seem to recall that there may have been a lack of protection then, too. I wrote it off as being so unlikely - between the stage of my cycle and the tiny chance of conceiving at all at my age - that I didn't bother to seek out levonogestrel (the "morning after pill") from a pharmacy.

It would only occur to me later that this meant conception took place on a significant date for me: June 17th. One day after my mum's birthday, but (rather more importantly) 6 years to the day after my father's passing. Coincidentally, it also meant that Tanker became a father - for however brief a period - on Father's Day.

A bit poetic, that.

As I sat in the gowned waiting area again, subjected to more terrible television, I considered that this explained why some of my symptoms seemed a bit more advanced than I'd expect at 7 weeks. As the minutes stretched into hours, I got concerned about time - it was heading for 2pm, and I still hadn't been called for my procedure yet. My friend was coming to pick me up at 3pm (as I'd been told the whole appointment would be 4hrs), and I knew there was a post-op recovery period to let the sedative wear off. I thought it was go time a few minutes before 2, but actually it was just a nurse informing me that my O-negative blood type meant I would have to have an extra injection before I was released. It seems that Rh factor can cause problems with a future pregnancy (not that there will be one in my case!) due to antibodies that my body would manufacture if the fetus's blood was Rh-positive and mixed with my own during the removal.

Still more entertaining than what was on TV.

Finally, at 2:11pm, I was brought by a nurse into the operating room to get things done. Gown up, onto the table with knees up, three injections into my IV nub (tiny doses of fentanyl, propofol and midazolam for pain and sedation - nothing like the knockout I got when I broke my wrist), a quick pelvic exam to determine as much as possible about my uterus's position and condition, then the procedure itself after a thorough explanation from the doctor, an opportunity to ask any questions I might have, and one last waiver and acceptance form to sign. Right up until the procedure begins, you have the opportunity and right to change your mind without judgement or reprisal.

Not going to lie, here: while it's over quite quickly and the wash of narcotics in your system makes it as painless as possible, that few minutes count as some of the most truly uncomfortable of my life. The first stage is to insert a series of rods of increasing size to dilate the cervix so the doctor can access the uterus and its contents. There is a definite sensation of something that does NOT want to be stretched being forced to do so, deep inside your body where you're un-used to having any sensation at all. Once the cervix is sufficiently open, a tube in inserted to aspirate (vacuum) the tissues from the uterus itself. The whole process only takes 5 minutes or less, but it's 5 minutes that noone would ever care to repeat. The nurses were very kind and coached me through deep breaths to ease the discomfort, and the doctor was reassuringly calm and confident in his actions. I have no doubt that I had the best possible experience, but man - that was AWFUL. When it was complete, they gave me a maternity maxi pad and helped me slip on a pair of disposable boy shorts-style underwear to keep it in place, then walked me slowly and carefully out of the room.

Off to the recovery room, I was finally offered food and drink - I sipped gingerale and informed the supervising nurse (who was the same friendly young lady that had done my bloodwork and given me the information about Rh factor) that my food allergies prevented me from eating the crackers on offer, but that I'd providently brought a snack with me. She was sweet enough to go fetch my bag from the changeroom, so I could sit with my feet up in a big, comfy chair and finally have my first food in almost 15 hours.

It pays to plan ahead when you have food allergies.

I certainly wasn't feeling at my best - I'd had to stand up very carefully off the operating table, as it felt like tunnel vision was only a heartbeat away - but I wasn't really in any pain, and the sedative wore off very quickly. After a few minutes of noshing my snack and letting my head clear, the supervising nurse took me to the bathroom to check my pad to ensure I wasn't bleeding excessively, then she left me to get changed. I slipped into a sleep shirt that Tanker had got me to keep me wrapped in snug softness after my procedure, then it was back to the recovery room and its big comfy chair.

A bare few minutes later, I had my blood pressure checked, my IV nub removed, and was told I was free to go. I thanked the nurses and doctors as I left for their kindness and sympathy - they work very hard to make a stressful experience as relaxed as such an emotionally charged situation can be. It was still a few minutes before 3, and my friend providently pulled into the parking lot just as I walked down the steps from the entrance through which I'd passed 4 hours prior. A few minutes and some lovely hugs later, I was safely delivered to the comfort of my own home where I could quietly spend the rest of the day trying to rehydrate myself from the comfort of our lazyboy chair.

With my own personal therapy cat to help me recover.

I spent the rest of the day just watching DVDs and eating some simple, nourishing food. Tanker brought home dinner for both of us, and when I was going completely stir crazy just as darkness was falling, accompanied me for a gentle stroll around the block so I could get some fresh air. I have had almost no pain or cramping and very little bleeding, though I can feel (particularly when my abdominal muscles contract, like coughing, laughing, or balancing) that something is "wrong" deep inside me and I need to go very gently for now.

I have been able to return to work this morning, though that might not be the case for someone whose job is more strenuous than sitting at a desk.

Sometimes accounting has its advantages.

I am incredibly lucky and grateful to live in place/time where I can freely access resources that allowed me to make the right choice for myself and my family. Unlike so many other places, I was not subjected to a mandatory waiting period or shaming counseling session (which is common in the United States), nor did I have to consider the cost. I am fortunate that I live and work in metropolitan areas that allow me convenient access to clinics who perform abortion services, as this is not always the case in rural areas (though Ontario hopes that full funding of "medical abortions" performed by ingesting a combination of drugs will increase access to those in remote areas). It is abhorrent to me that even in developed countries women are denied their reproductive rights due to repressive beliefs and politics, let alone those in developing countries whose lives may be at risk no matter whether they end up being forced to keep their unwanted child or find means of terminating.

An unwanted pregnancy is an incredibly stressful experience, even when resources are available without restriction, judgement or shame. It was difficult enough for me to wait through the 3 days from the time I started making calls until the day of my appointment. My heart bleeds when I think of other women - especially those who may not have the same stable home situation and support network that I do, or that face opposition to their choices due to moral or religious beliefs of their friends and family - having to jump through hoops or risk their health in order to obtain abortion services. The last thing anyone in this position needs is to add more distress on top of their own emotional turmoil and the ravaging effects of pregnancy hormones! Even talking to happy mothers of well-planned and loved children will tell you they have nothing good to say about pregnancy, and that the first trimester is a truly horrible time.

That's the whole reason for this post. Statistics say that 1 in 4 women in the US will have an abortion before the age of 45, and about 1 woman in 3 in England and Wales. That's thousands of women per year - up to 100,000 in Canada alone - going through this exact process, yet almost noone talks about it. I refuse to treat this as a dirty little secret - something to be whispered about only to my closest friends and family. I want other women to know that they have the power to do what they deem is best without feeling shame. One little slip-up as a responsible adult (or at least what passes for one, anyway) got me into this situation; it can happen to anyone. If you choose to keep the child, I wish you all the best for a healthy pregnancy and a wonderful child raising experience. If, however, you have no place in your life for a tiny creature that will completely rule your body for months and be entirely dependent on your constant care for years, please don't be afraid to reach out and access the resources that are out there to assist you in putting a humane, medically sound end to your worries.

Surgical abortion has one of the lowest incidences of complication of any surgical procedure performed in Canada, and is statistically less risky than actually giving birth. It is medically safe, only requires 2-3 medical appointments at most (I will have to go for a follow-up pelvic examination within 2-3 weeks to ensure my cervix has closed properly and I do not have any other complications), and is available to women in Ontario at little to no cost (there may be a small charge for uninsured services at a private clinic; there is no charge if done at a hospital if you are covered by the Ontario Health Insurance Plan).

If you are considering terminating a pregnancy, know that you are not alone. I, and thousands of other women have been in your shoes. In my personal case I can assure you that I feel only relief and peace knowing that I am free of the worry of further pregnancy or bearing a child for which I have no desire. If you are in Waterloo Region, the SHORE (Sexual Health Options Resources Education) Centre can direct you to services locally. Nationally, you can contact Action Canada for Sexual Health and Rights, whose toll-free confidential line is available 24hrs per day at 1-888-642-2725; the National Abortion Federation; or the Abortion Rights Coalition of Canada, who also provide a list of clinics that provide abortion services throughout Canada (download PDF here). If you are in the United States, Planned Parenthood is a nationwide organization that can refer you to care providers and provide information about options. Worldwide, safe2choose.org will assist you with information and counseling.

To everyone else on the planet, I implore you - at a time when women's right to choose is being threatened by right-wing politicians, stand up in opposition to policies and movements that would reduce access to safe, medically sound options for termination. Write to your MPP or congressperson, stating your unequivocal support for pro-choice initiatives and requesting their help in resisting the closing of clinics and reduction of services. Abortion rights are HUMAN RIGHTS, and affect everyone surrounding an unwanted pregnancy. If 1 in 4 women will go through an abortion in their reproductive lifetime, I'm willing to bet you care about at least one woman whose life will be impacted by their ability to reach medical assistance in terminating gestation.

On a more personal level, if you do know of someone who is currently facing the decision to have an abortion, offer your unconditional support and love to them. I will forever be grateful for my incredible friends and family who have wrapped me in love and acceptance as I have faced one of the most difficult periods of my life. Every single person whom I told about my situation and ultimate decision has shown me through words and actions that they only want what is best for me and my life, and I can never thank them enough for their help through this week. If you're in this position and not finding the support you deserve (and I mean that - YOU DESERVE LOVE AND SUPPORT IN THIS), please consider contacting me through the links near the top right. I can be a sympathetic ear, a shoulder to cry on, a drill sergeant to get you moving - whatever you need, I will fight for you and show you nothing but acceptance and love.

To the tiny human who shared my body for 67 days, I want you to know you did not live in vain - you have taught me so much in our short time together. I've learned about the challenges that pregnant women face, and their strength in carrying to term and raising their children. Hats off to you moms - I could only barely hack it for 9 weeks, and I couldn't imagine 9 months! I also learned about my own weakness, and my own strength, and the power of my convictions. I will never again be the same person I was before you came into my life, and I thank you for the growth and change we experienced together. Thanks to the peculiar mechanism of microchimerism, a tiny part of you will truly stay with me forever.

Gone but never forgotten.

I am sorry you did not come to people who wanted you; if there is reincarnation, I hope your next chance brings you to someone who is desperate to meet you and will give you the life full of love, nurturing and opportunity that you deserve. If not, I treasure the idea that my father is cradling your tiny spirit ever so gently in his hands. He would have loved to be your granddaddy.

So now I heal, and try to bring my world back to something resembling normal.

PLEASE NOTE: this blog is my own private work, and I reserve the right to delete any and all comments I deem negative, inappropriate, or just plain mean. Threats will be reported. You don't have to agree with my decisions or actions, but I refuse to tolerate any crap here. As your mother most likely imparted to you, "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all".