Today would have been Henry Morgentaler’s 98th birthday. Despite years of death threats, arrests, and physical attacks on both him and his clinic, Morgentaler offered essential abortion services to Canadian patients from the late 1960s until his retirement in 2006.
Today was also supposed to be my due date.
On Thursday 10 September 2020 (my current and former colleagues reading this will likely understand how fucked this is), I found out that the pregnancy I was carrying had stopped developing 2–3 weeks prior.
I wish I could say what happened next was a blur, but the details, feelings, and scenes are seemingly indelibly burned into my memory. The growing sense of doom as the ultrasound technician asked “when my last appointment was” and “if I had a follow up scheduled with my doctor that day,” followed by her silently scanning the screen. The amorphous orange area on the ultrasound machine, that even I knew didn’t look right. The feeling of my paper mask on my face, soaked through from crying. Having to call my husband and tell him “it’s gone,” and then feeling guilty for saying it too dramatically.
When I was finally able to speak to my doctor, I was given three options: I could go home and wait to start bleeding. I could try the abortion pill, but as I was nearly 13 weeks pregnant, there was a real possibility that the bleeding could get out of control, and I would have to go to the emergency room during a pandemic. Or, I could get scheduled for a D&C, and with COVID holding up numerous medical services, The Morgentaler Clinic was likely the fastest way to accomplish this. Desperate to gain the slightest bit of control in the situation, I chose the Morgentaler Clinic pretty much immediately.
The following Monday, I arrived at the Clinic. Due to some testing ordered by my doctor, my initial next-day appointment had been pushed back, but I could have gotten an appointment even earlier if needed. I don’t know how busy the Morgentaler Clinic is usually, or how COVID has had an effect on their procedures and capacity, but that day I saw four other patients in the waiting room. Social distancing measures and solemnity kept everyone silent, but I personally felt some comfort that I was not the only person there; especially considering COVID measures meant I wasn’t able to bring anyone to the clinic with me.
The Morgentaler Clinic provided me with some of the most compassionate care I’ve ever received. Every person I encountered was deeply caring and considerate, and I know I am extremely lucky to have accessed this service so easily.
But this access is not universally, nationally, or even provincially guaranteed. Though barriers to access have lowered slightly with Canada allowing access to the abortion pill in 2017, abortions are still difficult to access for people in need for a variety of reasons (you can learn more at the Abortion Rights Cooalition of Canada site).
Although I was at the Clinic because I had already miscarried, I fundamentally underwent the exact same procedure as every other patient in the waiting room that day, and any other pregnant person who chooses a surgical abortion. From the intake to the aftercare, I and every other patient in the waiting room that day went through the same process. This is healthcare. A D&C is a medical procedure, regardless of who decides to undergo one. To moralize abortion, and condemn those who need it is abhorrent.
When I reflect on my experience, I know I could have written about it in a number of ways: how technology has integrated into our lives, and the effect that has on grief and mourning; how difficult miscarriages are, and how a pandemic exacerbates an already isolating experience; how losing this pregnancy brought back extreme body dysmorphia I hadn’t experienced to this extent since my teenage years. Ultimately, I think more people expressing their experience with miscarriage is helpful, and I hope my experience, and the way it intersects with reproductive health and advocacy can help someone else when they need it.
