abortion: a love story

a personal history

The condom broke in November 2007.

They were happy couple then, neither young nor old, just shy of the murky middle part of life, together for three years when it happened. Both had interesting jobs they liked — hers was steady and secure, his was more glamorous and required travel. Between them they had a house in the city, a cottage on a lake, a car and half a dog (he shared custody with his ex). At some point they were planning to marry.

She’d been visiting him in London. The following morning they caught the train to Paris, where they struggled to communicate with impatient white-coated chemists, miming and laughing, more embarrassed by their terrible Canadian school French than anything else. By the time they tracked down a pill it was afternoon after the morning after the morning after the night before. He shrugged, she chased it with wine.

If it happens, it happens, they both agreed, not remotely thinking it would happen.

Not understanding it had happened, in fact was happening and would continue to happen unless drastic measures were taken. For five days they wandered around Paris eating oysters, looking at paintings, shopping for clothes they did not need, entirely oblivious to the story developing inside her.