Prompted by Emma Green’s note on the Supreme Court case Whole Women’s Health v. Hellerstedt, for which a group of lawyers filed a document openly describing their abortions, readers share their own stories in an ongoing series edited by Chris Bodenner. We are posting a wide range of perspectives—from pro-choice and pro-life readers, women and men alike—so if you have an experience not represented thus far, please send us a note: email@example.com.
This reader witnessed up close and personal a pregnancy filled with major drug abuse and instability:
I met Megan when she was 25. She was a seven-year heroin addict, who’d been sober at most three months at a time, and a meth user. What I saw as her extreme fragility at the time I later learned was borderline personality disorder. I set about trying to get her clean.
Three stormy weeks later, she self-tested pregnant. It was 6:30am. I had considered what I’d do, but I went to my kitchen to ponder a final time. She displayed the maturity of a 12 year old. As befits a BPD sufferer, she alternated between tenderness and love and self-pity and jealousy. Her parents were Beverly Hills, evening-time alcoholics. I knew the future biological father to be an inward, violent, socially maladjusted 21 year old from a family of gallons-per-day alcoholics centered around a cult film director patriarch. Megan alternatively called the conception a product of date rape and rough sex.
I knew all this. Of all people, objectively speaking, Megan is among the last you’d want to see as a parent. But given her fragility, saying I wouldn’t support her decision brought with it every risk that she’d miscarry in a Texaco bathroom with a meth pipe in her hand. It was a moral decision, on the spot, in a kitchen at sunrise. I walked back to the bed and said I’d stay with her and co-parent. From that point on, my job was to keep the baby alive.
It wasn’t easy. She rehabbed and relapsed in month two, rehabbed again. At four months, she ran out to pick up drugs, leaving her Facebook messages open. Seeing what she was doing, I locked her out, and when she broke in through a window, I sat her on my couch and set aside the façade. I told her she should abort. She shook her head. Over the months, others tried to convince her, but she refused to abandon what amounted to a dreamy vision of motherhood.
During her pregnancy, I had to be with her at nearly all times. She’d chase me down the street if I left to get groceries. After rehabbing again in month seven, she went on to carry to term on a subutex prescription. The baby endured 50 days of Neonatal Abstinence Syndrome, and to all appearances became just another lovely baby boy.
I could end the story there, as a success, but Megan relapsed twice more. Finally, in the face of financial ruin, anxiety attacks, the loss of friends, and the estrangement of my family, I gave up. The baby was seven months old at the time. Megan’s parents have been granted guardianship, but being 59 and 80 years old, they’re exploring adoption. As a non-relation who, in the parents’ view, failed to either convince Megan to abort or to make our relationship work, I won’t be allowed to adopt the baby boy I gave everything to see born, and for whom I cared for seven months.
That’s how this 67-year-old reader begins her story:
I had the first abortion in 1968 when it was illegal, dangerous, and considered shameful and taboo. I was 19 and we were still in college and not ready to be parents. We didn’t have a clue where to turn, but luckily my boyfriend learned about a man, Bill Baird, an early abortion advocate (and my hero) who might be able to help.
It was like a covert criminal mission—from the first meeting with Bill in a rundown strip-mall to get the name of a “doctor,” to driving to an underpass in Queens to borrow $300 (a fortune for two college students), followed by driving from our middle-class life on Long Island to Newark into a neighborhood that looked like the last place we’d find ourselves.
We both walked into the rundown house and were met by a black man who said he was the doctor. He told me to go to the kitchen and get undressed and told my boyfriend to wait for me in the car. Naked and terrified, lying on the kitchen table, he gave me anesthesia. The next thing I remembered was waking up on the table.
I waited for him to return to tell me what to do. I waited like that for an hour until my boyfriend came into the house in a panic after waiting in the car for four hours in scorching July heat. Neither of us knew that after the procedure the “doctor” had left the house by the backdoor. We drove home in silence.
The next day I was hemorrhaging in my bedroom, trying not to let my parents know. I had a fever and severe abdominal pain and it was days before I left my bedroom.
That is the story of my first illegal abortion. While it was a horrible, terrifying, and dangerous experience, I never regretted it. Having a child at my age and maturity would have been a disaster. And now I know that carry a gene that gave me a 50 percent chance of having a special needs child, so I especially know I couldn’t have handled it.
My second abortion was in 1969 by a brave doctor in Washington, D.C, who was performing illegal abortions. I furtively went to his office for a “GYN appointment.” The procedure was sterile, professional, and a world apart from my first.
My third abortion was also in D.C., in 1970. It was still three years before Roe vs Wade, but based on the changing laws within the District, I walked into the same doctor’s office to have that abortion in a safe place. I knew I could now make this critical choice without the fear and shame I felt with the first abortion only two years earlier.
I think the biggest lesson of my three stories is the dramatic evolution of what I went through in two short years as the laws changed.
Yes, I’m not proud that I had to experience this three times. The first happened the second time I had sex, the second while taking birth control pills, and the third by a person who lied to me about being infertile—all during a time when getting pregnant was considered a disgrace and totally unacceptable.
I believe each person should have the right to determine what is best for themselves—as I did—even though a bit of the pro-life belief enters my thoughts as I think about the three souls I might have brought into this world.
A reader in the email below, Lily, might be aghast by the scene above from Girls, where Mimi-Rose casually tells Adam she just aborted his would-be child. Then again, the two have only been dating for seven weeks, so that might mitigate Lily’s concerns here:
If a couple has been in some sort of committed partnership—dating a while, cohabitating, married—I think that the man’s opinions and wants should be taken into consideration when it comes to abortion. Allowed to absolutely trump the woman’s? No. But if you help to create what could potentially become a human being, then you should be part of he decision to end it.
Here are other aspects of the idea that abortion should be the pregnant woman’s—and only the pregnant woman’s—choice:
(1) If the fathers of the fetuses are excluded from participating in an abortion decision that carries the implication that they are irrelevant. And if they are irrelevant then they are excused from any responsibility for the consequences of their actions. That’s not good for society as a whole.
(2) Men and women can’t have complete equality when it comes to pregnancy because women carry children. But if women can make the choice to either be a parent or not (i.e., carry the pregnancy or not), then how is it fair that men don’t have a similar choice? How is it fair to force a man to provide financial child support if the woman he impregnated chooses to keep and rear a child?
All the forgoing said: If anyone—male or female—isn’t yet ready to or doesn’t ever want to be a parent, they should take personal responsibility for buying and using effective birth control. I’m at the point where I think it would be better for society to provide birth control gratis for any adult who wants it. I think that’s the lesser evil than bringing a child into the world who isn’t wanted.
Lily’s comments made me think of this recent email from Tony:
Several years ago, I met a woman just a few months after I returned to London following a stint in America, my home country, for work. I fell for Jenny (a pseudonym) from the start—her cherubic smile and silky hair warmed my heart. Above all, we shared a love for life and a determination to leave the world a better place than we found it. I felt as though Jenny understood me in a way that few others did.
We spoke on the phone each night after work and spent the weekends together, exploring London and enjoying each other’s company. Like most sexually active couples, we did talk about what might happen if she fell pregnant and we both said we would want to keep the baby. Little did I know how timely that conversation would prove to be.
One day, Jenny rang me to say she had a dizzy spell and felt nauseous. When she added that she had nausea for a couple of days, I broke into a sweat and my pulse raced. I suggested that she take a pregnancy test. She was on the pill, but I knew there were no guarantees.
Jenny rang me as soon as she had a chance to take the test. “I think I'm pregnant,” she said. Those words hit me like a sledgehammer. Her next words left me trembling: “I’ve decided to have an abortion.”
I offered to come over so that we could talk things through. “There's nothing more to say,” she said icily. I tried to reply but she cut me off. “I don't want this baby and it’s my choice to make. Do you understand me?”
It was hard enough to make sense of her being pregnant, let alone the fact that I had no say in the future of a child that I helped create. As scared as I was, I believed this was a child—my child—and I wanted to do all I could for it.
As long as Jenny and I could talk, I believed, there was hope. We continued to talk and there were moments when I felt I might be persuading her to reconsider, such as when she asked how we might make things work to raise a baby. I assured her that I would be there for her and that we could find a way to give our child a meaningful life.
I became hopeful, until she said: “I would keep the baby if I were swept off my feet in love, but I’m not. The feeling is either there or it isn’t, and it’s not. I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t help but question myself, wondering what I could have done or said that could have made her feel differently. But I knew there was nothing I could do to stop her from going through with an abortion; it was her legal right.
Becoming a parent is supposed to be one of the most exciting—and of course scary—moments in the journey of life, and losing a child is said to be one of the worst. Now, I found myself tasting both sensations at once. I felt alone in a sea of pain, desperate to keep afloat.
Despite my best efforts, Jenny went through with the abortion. The pregnancy was over and, weeks later, so was our relationship.
Wounds do heal over time—even deep ones—but scars remain. Ten years later, I find myself incredibly blessed with a beautiful, bright and loving wife, a 3.5 year-old son and a 1.5 year-old daughter. At times, I can’t help but look into my children’s happy, vibrant eyes and wonder what their older brother or sister might have been like.
Sadly, my story is not unique; other men have experienced the same anguish. Men and women both have a role to play in creating life and raising children, but today’s laws, and the debates around them, don’t reflect that. Women alone decide whether to end a pregnancy, even though both parents bear responsibility when women decide to continue a pregnancy. Perhaps one way forward might be to resolve this inconsistency and address abortion, like parenthood, as a family issue. Men should have a chance to be heard.
Update: Here’s a followup from Tony (who, by the way, wrote a memoir about abortion, A Father’s Choice):
Regarding Lily’s second question on whether or not men should have the choice to be a parent, I think this is perhaps the biggest question of all if we accept that an abortion is an issue of reproductive rights. In my mind, there is a logical inconsistency in that women alone have the right to end a pregnancy, but responsibility is shared between both parents when women choose to continue a pregnancy. This creates a problem should a woman want a child that a man does not.
The Observer recently reported that, in Sweden, the youth league of the Liberal party recently proposed to change legislation that enabled men to decline parental responsibilities during the same period of time that a woman has the right to have an abortion (by which she declines parental responsibilities). I can’t say I fully agree with this legislation, but that’s because I believe that both parents should have recognised roles from the outset. Perhaps if society recognised the roles of both parents from the outset (and that includes giving men some kind of say in abortion), more men—and women—would take greater care when choosing sexual partners (as there is always risk of pregnancy) and be more involved in their children’s lives.
I recognise that an argument against my point is that women take significant risks when they fall pregnant, along with major changes in their bodies. The issue for me, though, comes back to the issue of choice. If abortion rights are simply a matter of “my body, my choice,” then women alone are making the choice to bring a new life into a world, and it would logically follow that they would accept the consequences of that choice (i.e., a baby).
Disagree with that logic? Send us a note and we’ll post. Here’s a note from a reader who prefers to use the pseudonym IANAL (“an old Usenet initialism for ‘I am not a lawyer,’” she writes). IANAL quotes our first reader, Lily:
(2) Men and women can’t have complete equality when it comes to pregnancy because women carry children. But if women can make the choice to either be a parent or not (i.e., carry the pregnancy or not), then how is it fair that men don’t have a similar choice? How is it fair to force a man to provide financial child support if the woman he impregnated chooses to keep and rear a child?
The analogy that fits my assessment of abortion best is one to contract law: It is possible for parties to a contract to have different rights at different times. If we assume the contract is made when the parties agree to have sex, then the man’s right to choose exists until the possibility of conception. He has the right to choose to control his own reproductive system: He can use a condom, he can get a vasectomy, or whatever other form of contraception is within his control and affects only his own body.
Most of his rights end there and his responsibilities adhere: He has become responsible for financial support of any child born as a result of the agreement to have sex, if the woman chooses to birth a child and raise it herself. He does retain one right—the right of first refusal if the woman chooses to birth a child and then give it up for adoption.
A woman’s choices are different and have a different duration. She can choose from pre-conception contraception, but also from post-conception options, which include the morning-after contraception, abortion, and giving up her rights through adoption.
The reason this seems fair to me is that women and men have different risks from sex and pregnancy, so therefore they may have different rights and responsibilities. Your question points out the pregnancy part but women can suffer lifelong health problems arising out of pregnancy, not just the 9 months plus labor implied by “women carry children.”
Tony replies to IANAL:
The reader citing contract law seems to be using circular logic: In essence, he or she argues that women have the option of abortion because abortion is a legally available option. Just because something is legally available doesn’t mean that it’s right, just as the fact that something isn’t legal doesn’t mean that it is necessarily wrong. Abortion itself was illegal in many U.S. states until Roe v Wade, and clearly those who support abortion rights would argue that the illegality of abortion was wrong. Laws do change over time, as Roe v Wade demonstrates, which makes the question of whether men should have a legally equivalent option (abstaining from parental responsibilities) a valid one to ask and test.
One could argue that a social contract applies—an implicit agreement between two people in the event of something happening, like an unplanned pregnancy. However, that too becomes shaky if both parties make one choice in theory (to keep a baby) that becomes another choice in practice (to have an abortion).
The point about the use of contraception is also shaky, because the same argument applies to women as well. Unfortunately, no form of contraception is 100% effective, which is a point that many pro-choice supporters make to justify the availability of abortion.
As long as abortion is framed as an issue of reproductive rights, or a matter of a woman’s choice over her own body, then it’s hard to see how a man can be expected to bear the consequences of that choice. With choice comes responsibility. Of course there are risks that come with pregnancy, but women choosing to continue a pregnancy accept those risks and accept the outcome: a baby.
To be clear, I personally believe that fathers need a greater role—and more responsibilities—in their children’s lives. I have no greater joy than seeing my two young children grow up and I want to be the best father I can be for them. The point of my argument is to show that abortion is more than an issue of reproductive rights, or “my body, my choice.” Abortion affects men as well as women, but much of the discussion around this issue doesn’t reflect that. Perhaps if it did—or, perhaps if more was done to help men recognise that they too can be affected by abortion, then more men would see their responsibilities from the outset and do their best to be good fathers.
IANAL replies to Tony:
I’m going to make the bodily autonomy argument, and additionally suggest that Tony doesn’t understand the contract analogy (which is an analogy, not a proposal to use contract law to adjudicate the rights of the parties).
Men and women are different and therefore have different opportunities (choices, rights), different consequences (and duties, responsibilities), and different risks. Merely saying that women have choice about abortion or pregnancy and therefore have to accept the consequences of carrying a child to term restates my analogy; it doesn’t contradict it. Because women literally risk lifetime health problems and death in pregnancy and childbirth (yes, it’s rare; doesn't mitigate that risk for the individual), they have an additional right: the right to choose or refuse those risks.
Tony writes: “As long as abortion is framed as an issue of reproductive rights, or a matter of a woman’s choice over her own body, then it’s hard to see how a man can be expected to bear the consequences of that choice.”
It’s not hard for me: the support obligation is owed to the child, which is a Schroedinger’s child until the woman makes her decision. Any argument for changing the timing of rights elapsing (such as any proposal to give men a legally-enforceable opt-out for support or measure of control over the decision whether to abort) might be possible, but the complexities of it daunt me. Are men supposed to register with a government agency every time they have sex, naming the woman involved, so that they can be notified if she becomes pregnant and they might have rights to exercise? That’s a level of government oversight I doubt would be acceptable to most Americans.
And if Tony thinks there is little acknowledgement that men are affected by abortion, he is not paying attention. It’s everywhere, from MRAs to the doctors (all men, as far as I can tell by a quick search) who have been killed because they perform abortions.
One more round, from Tony:
I find IANAL’s argument problematic for several reasons.
First, she misunderstands what I meant by a “social contract.” I did not mean applying contract law to every relationship, but rather that people in a relationship have a set of expectations that govern their relationship and how they interact with each other. A social contract, as I wrote, is an implicit understanding.
Second, IANAL argues that women have been given a legal right to abortion given the higher risks a woman faces, but that also means that women who continue their pregnancy accept those risks as well as the result of that pregnancy: A baby. As IANAL points out, men’s legal limit of choice today ends at the point of conception. However, as abortion itself demonstrates, limits imposed by law can change. If the window of decision can be moved in law from the point of conception to another defined point in pregnancy for women, then laws can also change the window of decision for men. Just because something is unlawful does not mean that it is not right, which is why laws change over time.
Also, IANAL makes an interesting point likening pregnancy to “Schroedinger's baby,” which itself refers the idea of “Schroedinger's cat,” a thought experiment for quantum mechanics by Erwin Schroedinger, an Austrian physicist, to assess whether an entity (in this case, a cat in a sealed steel box with radioactive material, poison, and a Geiger counter) can be both alive and dead at once until the box is opened. (National Geographic provides an overview here.) I understand IANAL’s argument to be that the unborn baby is both dead and alive—in multiple states—until the woman decides whether or not to continue her pregnancy.
Schrodinger argued that the cat couldn’t be both alive and dead; it was one or the other, regardless of whether we outside the box knew which one it was. Our inability to observe something does not mean something is not in a given state (e.g., dead or alive in this case). Moreover, the ready availability of ultrasound and other technologies provide crystal clear observations that make Schroedinger’s cat (or Schroedinger’s baby) irrelevant. The unborn child is clearly alive, even at the earliest stages of pregnancy (foetal heartbeats can be detected as soon as the sixth week). The PBS programme “Nine Months That Made You” goes into some depth on just how alive an unborn child really is.
I agree with IANAL’s point that it would be hard to put in place policies that give men greater say, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t find a way (after all, we managed to put a man on the moon!). I don’t yet have an answer on how to do this—what it might look like—where a man wants a baby that a woman does not. I hope that my story, however, can stimulate the discussion that helps us as a society find ways of doing that. I think the answer might depend on gestation of the unborn baby. For babies past the point of viability, for example, I see no reason why such babies can’t be delivered (born alive rather than aborted) at the point a woman wants an abortion, and then raised by the father.
That said, the issue of paternal liability for a child is actually easier. In these cases, the mother wanting to claim paternal support has already identified the father and has enough information to make her claim. In these cases, the laws can be remedied, as proposed in Sweden, to enable fathers to decline this responsibility within defined periods of pregnancy (more or less mirroring the time women can choose to have an abortion) I know there are far bigger questions around this in terms of responsibility for the baby, but my point is that the argument for abortion around autonomy itself takes us beyond those questions to another stage altogether.
Finally, IANAL’s point on the acknowledged effects of abortion on men is also unclear. I can assure you from firsthand experience that the effects of abortion on men aren’t widely recognised. In fact, many abortion rights supporters go so far as to say that men should have no place to comment within the discussion at all (unless those men agree with those supporters), going back to the basic idea of “my body, my choice.” Such an approach disregards the life-changing trauma of losing a child in such a deliberate way can have and, ironically, distances men from the responsibilities that IANAL is trying to attach them to (one of the unintended consequences of framing abortion as a women’s issue—rather than a family issue—is that it creates an environment that distances men from the role of parent and carer). IANAL and others wanting to better understand how abortion can affect men may find the book I wrote about my own experience, A Father’s Choice, a helpful read.
If you’re interested in more male perspectives from our long and ongoing abortion series in Notes, go here, here, and here.
She was an adult, but she was also my child. I went to the clinic with her. I went because I was afraid she would die. I went secretly hoping she would change her mind and I would take her home rejoicing.
The ladies inside the clinic were gentle and kind. I was grateful for that. They took her back alone. They had her swallow a pill and we left.
She collapsed crying before we got to the car. She kept wailing, “What have I done?” I was frantic. I wanted to go back in the clinic for an antidote, but my daughter said they told her it was done the moment she took the pill. It was horrible to watch her and not be able to help.
I babied her for a few days. She said she didn’t deserve it. She was my baby, I told her. She reminded me that “it” had been my grandchild. I know. I know.
This is never just the woman’s problem. I would never take this decision away from a woman, and I think only she can make it. But she shouldn’t have to go alone.
We’ve already heard from several women who were coerced or pressured into having an abortion by the men who impregnated them. This next reader’s story centers on a man who tried to get her to adopt her baby—for profit:
Please don’t use my name. Even 30 years later, it would be dangerous for some of the people in my life to know what I did.
I was a junior in college who had been dating a young man who had already graduated. He was an engineer and a military pilot, already making a good life for himself.
New Year’s found him released from base and back on home turf. We attended a party and happily kissed at midnight before retiring back to my apartment. At my last GYN appointment, the doctor had declared me unsuitable for the pill. IUDs were all but gone from the market, and everyone I had known who used the sponge seemed to have been left chewing nails staring at the calendar. So we used condoms.
Everything was fine until suddenly my boyfriend declared the sex didn’t feel good enough, pulled the condom off, plunged in, and immediately shot off. I just knew within minutes I was pregnant.
He kept telling me there was no way I was pregnant, even after I passed out at work several days later. The pregnancy was confirmed in the ER days before my period was even missed. Boyfriend’s first words were “My parents can never know.” Not exactly supportive.
Infertility is the norm in my family, and there were concerns about birth defects from my boyfriend’s side, so I decided I needed to speak to a geneticist before making a decision. A friend recommended her OB. I made the appointment.
The doctor was charming, talkative and friendly, asking many questions about my boyfriend. I told him I was unprepared to be a mother but would go through with the pregnancy if it was likely to be the only chance for a child.
Something changed suddenly: The doctor had his office manager call a lawyer, and he called unknown people and left messages that he “had someone for you to meet.” Asking what was going on, he told me it was illegal for me to sell the baby, but he would coach me on how to extract the most money from the adoptive parents. He kept circling back to the fact that my baby could only have blue eyes—and blue eyes were worth more. (Years later I can only assume he was thinking of his finder’s fee.)
Standing to walk out, I was physically corralled into another room. When I stepped out into the hallway attempting again to leave, I was moved again. Now bawling my eyes out, the doctor and his manager bounced me around from room to room like a pinball telling me I was too upset to leave, that I couldn’t be seen in public, that I might pass out again from crying so hard, that it was all for the best if I stayed.
One or the other stayed with me until I was locked in a back office for some 20 minutes and only let out when I started knocking on the door relentlessly. Finally they let me go. I had been there over two hours.
The doctor came to my work for lunch nearly every day for the next two weeks asking if I wanted to talk. (His office would be closed down a year later amid rumors of stolen money.)
The boyfriend mailed a check for the abortion. There were so many protesters at the clinic, but there were also volunteers who made a tunnel from the parking lot to the door who kept me safe.
The procedure was fine. Walking in the door of my apartment afterward, someone quipped that I looked like the most relieved woman in the world. I was.
Days before my 39th birthday, I gave birth to a daughter. I conceived very easily, even so late in life. She’s awesome—I won’t even try to humblebrag—but it scares me as she ages that she will have less control over her life then I did.
Motherhood is a blast—when you have the ability, support, money and desire to do it well. But it should never, ever be forced on anyone.
Here are two very different pro-life stories from readers. The first:
My birth mother was 18 when she gave birth to me and gave me up for adoption. She could have had an abortion—there were plenty of options for her in the area where she was from—but she chose life. Now I am married and have three children and another on the way. My family would not be here today if it wasn’t for her selfless, brave decision to nurture and protect me at my most vulnerable.
Our second reader, in contrast, went through a long series of traumas after choosing to carry out an unintended pregnancy:
Thank you for giving me a way to tell my story (the first time I’ve ever written it all out). I live in Texas and have closely followed the closures of women’s clinics. I’ve been following your abortion series, and although I’ve never had one, I feel there’s another aspect to the abortion issue that is rarely discussed.
Pro-life advocates often speak of women simply continuing unwanted pregnancies, as if it’s a simple matter of carrying to term, giving birth, and moving on. It’s the whole “accept the consequences of your actions” attitude: The woman did the crime (got pregnant), so she should do the time (carry to term and give birth). Anything less is “irresponsible”—or worse.
I’ve changed some details of my story, to stay as private as possible. I’m not ashamed of my reality, or my history, but the idea that any of my children might ever realize what my last unintended pregnancy set in motion ... that would break my heart.
I married too young. I married too quickly. I married someone who wanted “traditional” marriage, where I would be a full-time wife/mother. Having grown up in an abusive household, I clung to the idea of having that “Father Knows Best” kind of family. I was convinced if I worked hard enough and did things perfectly enough, I could stop the cycle of abuse in its tracks.
Several years and several children into my marriage, we started seeing a therapist. I remember sitting in that first session and the therapist asking what each of our highest priorities were regarding therapy. His highest priority was fixing the marriage—that I be a better wife and mother—because there was this laundry list of things I wasn’t doing right, and he worked hard when all I had to do was clean house and raise kids. Everything that was wrong in the marriage was my fault.
She looked at me and asked what my highest priority was. I didn’t even hesitate: A tubal ligation. And I was dead serious. I remember saying that another pregnancy would cause mental, physical, emotional and psychological harm. And I needed help, because I was at my limit and about to shatter.
Our therapist backed me up, pointing out the things she saw in our brief time together that she felt put me in a “high risk” category regarding clinical depression/PPD/PPMD, etc.
My husband, however, refused to agree to a tubal ligation. When I continued to press for sterilization over several therapy sessions and he realized I wasn’t going to change my mind, he changed tactics: I’d done all the work and taken all the risk of going through multiple pregnancies and births, so it was his turn to sacrifice! He’d get a vasectomy!
We continued discussing it and I offered to book an appointment for him. (He refused.) I asked every night if he’d remembered to call the doctor. (He hadn’t.) I bought a box of condoms and explained that we could not risk having sex without protection. (He grumbled.) I continued to explain that an unexpected/unwanted pregnancy would have devastating consequences. (It continued to go in one ear and out the other.)
We continued therapy. I kept bringing up the vasectomy; he kept giving it lip service. I finally said no vasectomy, no sex. He kept saying there was time. We had condoms in the house; everything was taken care of. No rush; he’d take care of it; stop nagging.
Eventually, we had sex—except he didn’t use a condom like he said he would. I remember saying something about it, as soon as he was done ... I can still hear him: “Wait, you were serious about that?"
Of course, I got pregnant. When I saw the test results, I fell apart.
At the time I was very pro-life, but I remember thinking about the children I already had, and what another baby would mean, and doing math in my head trying to figure out how far along I might be ... but as soon as I realized there was already a heartbeat, I knew I was doomed.
I think I called our therapist, before I even told him. I remember being instantly afraid for my life. I wasn’t sure I could do this, again. It was a death sentence, but I didn’t have the luxury of death, because I was a mother.
We continued marriage counseling the entire pregnancy. I added individual therapy, to make peace with the pregnancy. My doctor knew the situation and was an amazing support. I prayed for a miscarriage.
I went through the motions, taking care of myself, eating properly, going to all my prenatal checkups, going to weekly therapy (marriage and individual). I started having debilitating anxiety attacks halfway through the pregnancy (that I still struggle with, ten years later).
I continued pressing him for the vasectomy. He started talking about how it wasn’t really even necessary, since I was pregnant.
That last labor was the longest out of all my births. I remember the doctor and nurses quietly discussing if I was going to be capable of giving birth. It got to the point that they had to tell me that I needed to either start pushing, or they needed to prep for a C-section. (I pushed.)
I dealt with PPD [postpartum depression] after the birth. Everyone around us watched me like a hawk, afraid of what I might do—to myself or the baby.
A month after the birth, I asked for a divorce.
A month after that, I moved out with the children and got my first (part-time) job in ten years. I had no job skills and hadn’t worked outside the home since getting out of college.
A year later, recognizing that I was falling apart and failing my children, I asked him if he would be willing to raise them. I was living below the poverty level, with young children, unable to find full-time work, unable to afford child care, unwilling to “take advantage” of the government programs that I probably qualified for, struggling with increasingly severe anxiety attacks, and falling into a deeper and deeper depression. My children deserved a chance, and they weren’t going to get that with me.
It’s been ten years since all of that happened. The trauma of that last, unintended pregnancy has impacted every aspect of our (my and my children’s) lives.
That last unintended pregnancy has left me with physical health issues. That last unintended pregnancy has left me with anxiety/depression issues that I still struggle with today (especially when I spend time with my children). That last unintended pregnancy has had a devastating impact on my relationships with my children and their worldview. As they’ve gotten older, they’ve starting asking some difficult questions about the divorce and why they don’t live with me and why we don’t spend more time together … which I’m answering to the best of my ability, in age-appropriate ways.
I know that even without that last unintended pregnancy I would have divorced their father. But the trauma of that event put things in motion that turned their world upside down. My children went from having their mom with them practically 24/7 to weekend visits a few times a month, at best. The older ones remember being raised by me; the younger ones have never known what it’s like to have me around for more than 72 hours at a time.
My children who were already HERE lost their mother because I did the “responsible thing” and carried an unintended pregnancy to term—which I begged my husband to help me avoid in the first place.
It’s easy for people to rant and judge and lecture about “living with the consequences of your actions.” But I’m not sure if the people who do all that ranting and judging and lecturing really ever consider how their version of “living with the consequences” works in the real, messy, complicated world.
From a 19-year-old college student who says she “never told anyone” about her abortion—or the horrible situation that led to it:
Thank you for the opportunity to share my story, but please do not use my name. My demographics are Asian American female coming from a low-income family. I grew up mostly in a suburb in Ohio. My parents are the typical strict, high-expectation parents. They are also strong Baptist Christians, so that always comes with fun implications.
I never had the guts to tell anyone about my abortion because I thought I was not a special case. I was just a 19-year-old student who worked a lot and who made a mistake and decided to have an abortion. But it wasn’t like that. It was hard, and it was even harder for me to admit that I deserve peace within myself and the blessings of others. I didn’t have a life-long partner to share my troubles and thoughts with, and I went through this horrible venture all by myself.
I got pregnant with my ex-boyfriend after he raped me when I tried to end the relationship.
I tried to end the relationship because he was a loving person who cared so much for me—to the point where I felt like I was suffocating. After the breakup and rape, I often beat myself up with the fact that I initiated the breakup that made the pregnancy happen in the first place.
I didn’t know I was pregnant until I missed my period twice. The first time I attributed it to the fact that I was dealing with a lot of stress due to the breakup and college exams. When I missed my period again, I took a pregnancy test, which I tested positive for, and I came to the realization that my ex-boyfriend would father my first child.
I didn’t know what to do. I know I expressed my feelings to my friends about how I wanted to amend things with the breakup. I glided over the fact that he raped me. I can’t believe I did that.
For some time, I contemplated whether to tell him and use that as an excuse to reconnect with him. But he’s 18. No matter how “mature” I may think of him, I don’t think he would have reacted the way I would have wanted/imagined him to.
So I drove myself to Planned Parenthood after class and I checked myself in. I paid for all my appointments, tests, and the pill. I walked out and went to work.
I think about my ex-boyfriend constantly and what it would have been like if I stuck with my pregnancy. Would we have gotten back together? Would our child have thrived in this environment? Would I have been comfortable with the fact that this fetus would have entered the world under horrific circumstances where I did not consent to sex?
I had no answers. I had no one I was comfortable enough to talk to about this. My peers were fake-ID holders who were just looking for a quick fun time to get fucked up over the weekend and get high in their parents’ garage at 3 AM.
I didn’t let myself be scared because I’m in summer school and still working. I’m stressed under the pressure to do well in school and make enough money to pay for my education. I think, to an extent, it was appropriate for my parents to expect this because they didn’t know I was pregnant and had an abortion. They mercilessly pushed me to my limits and I cracked. I cried. I cried for three weeks—in my room, at the library, in the bathroom. All I thought to myself was that I was alone.
I am pro-choice, but I never thought I would have to make a choice. I never thought I would be in this situation. I can definitely attest to the fact that it’s different when you get there.
I knew it was the right choice to have an abortion. I knew I was not ready. I knew my parents wouldn’t help me. I knew I did not want this.
But something held me back. Something made me think of my ex-boyfriend. I now attribute those feelings to the fact that I am human; my body naturally wishes to reproduce and I didn’t allow that, so I feel some amalgam of guilt and sorrow.
The only thing I am sorry for is that I never told my ex-boyfriend. He has a right to know, but I’m not ready to call a recent high school graduate and tell him I aborted his first child.
I don’t know where I am headed. I wish that I could be sharing my story years afterwards and guarantee a successful life and validate my choice like the other women in this thread, but I can’t. I am a biology pre-med major and my parents taught me that education is the only way to succeed in this generation. Half of the time, I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.
I know I made a mistake, but I refuse to be burdened with a child as a form of punishment and then not correctly raise him or her. That isn’t fair to me or my family or my child.
I’m scared shitless everyday. I’m only 19. But this journey forced me to grow the hell up and make myself okay with being scared. I may be scared, but I’m also brave for being able to merely live everyday. And I am okay with that.
This reader’s story is matter-of-fact and even jocular at one point:
I aborted a baby at 14 weeks after I found out the fetus had Trisomy 21 (Down Syndrome). My husband and I had disagreed about what we would do in this hypothetical situation when we discussed it before we married. Back then, he said he would keep the baby, while I said I would terminate. But when faced with the reality of the situation, we both felt certain in our decision to get an abortion.
Because I was in my second trimester, I had trouble scheduling the abortion at the hospital. They limited second-trimester terminations to two days a month. Waiting an extra two weeks was unacceptable to me—I didn’t want the baby to keep growing—so I scheduled the procedure at a local abortion clinic for the following day. My OB-GYN and a physician friend advised against this, since the abortion would be painful at my stage and I wouldn’t get the same anesthesia at the clinic, but I scheduled it anyway.
On the drive to the clinic, my husband and I joked about what we would say to any protesters standing outside the abortion clinic. I would earnestly tell them that I was feeling uncertain about the abortion, and that if they said just the right thing, I would turn around. And then I would continue on my way into the clinic.
There were no protesters.
My husband waited in a private waiting room during the procedure. The nurse, and then the doctor, separately warned that the procedure would be quite painful. It was, but it was over in ten minutes. I’ve never described those minutes to anyone.
Fourteen months later we had a healthy baby. I think about the abortion sometimes with glancing sadness, and then continue with my full and blessed life.
For more personal accounts of readers confronting the choice of aborting a fetus with Down Syndrome or other typically non-fatal disabilities, see this note and this note, from the discussion thread “When Does Abortion Become Eugenics?”
This is perhaps the most bleak and vivid account of an abortion we’ve received so far. The reader’s procedure resulted in immense pain, emotional trauma, her eventual divorce, and even animosity toward the ethnicity of the doctor who performed the abortion:
I was 20, in college and engaged to my future ex-husband. He would always insist on sex, even if I wasn’t feeling up to it. I honestly think he didn’t realize that was an issue and that’s “just what you do” in a relationship. I was drinking quite heavily, as it was summer. I was on birth control pills. I saw the gyno for a routine and told her that my period had been rather light. She made a smart-ass remark about that’s what happens why you take the pill.
So I took a test. Initially it looked neg, but 10 minutes later it showed a faint positive line. I did not believe it. A few weeks later after chugging chocolate milk like it was going out of style, I took another one.
I’ve always been very pro-choice. So to me the decision seemed a no-brainer. I’d graduate college in May and no hospital was going to hire a pregnant nurse. I would be kicked off my rents insurance as soon as I graduated and would not have been able to get my own before the baby would have been born.
The fiancé agreed, though his reasoning seemed odd to me. He claimed his mother would never accept a kid born out of wedlock … even though he himself was born out of wedlock to a teenager mother. He first tried to tell me just to take black cohosh [a plant supplement used for menstrual irregularities and to induce labor]. I, and not for the first or last time, called him a fucking idiot.
I had a credit card, so I knew I'd be able to pay for the abortion. He never offered. I just had to try to find a clinic. We only had an ancient computer at my house and due to the conservative area I lived in, I was not comfortable looking up the info on my school’s computer. (This was in 2001—one week before *that* week in September.)
The “abortion pill” had just become available, but not in my state. I found a clinic that was 50 miles away and the fiancé said he would drive me. They told me I had to have a counseling phone call. I remember it was on a shitty landline with subpar connection as I fought my siblings off the phone every time it rang that day.
The we drove up. Protesters everywhere. Saying all sorts of vile shit. The only upside was that it made it easier to find the clinic.
What I didn’t realize, was that despite the fact that people getting D&Cs in a hospital were sedated or given an anesthetic, that would not be my fate. I was never offered anything to relax. They told me to take 800 mg of ibuprofen. I did.
I told them, as a head’s up, that I often had trouble with speculums and found them painful. He was very rough as he did an internal. He told them he needed an eight-week kit. He was even more rough with the speculum. I start crying. He said, “Do you want me to stop. You need to stop crying; it’s shaking your abdomen.” I nodded no, I didn’t want him to stop. The nurse next to me held my hand.
He injected the lidocaine into my cervix so I wouldn’t feel it as they dilated it. But I felt every, single, scrape. I could hear everything. The scrapping, the vacuuming.
Then I was hit with horrible cramping. The nurses helped to a wheelchair afterwards and they make me eat a cookie and drink punch. There were several of us talking and comforting each other in the recovery area. That was a huge comfort.
I hadn’t eaten that morning because of nerves, so the fiancé and I stopped at an Arby’s drive thru. I promptly vomited a half hour later and have never ate their regular fries since.
I didn’t realize until the next day, but in an effort to prevent crying, I had clenched my muscles so hard that I pulled several leg muscles, and muscles in my sides, my buttocks, and arm.
A few weeks later I was watching South Park with some friends and it was the stem-cells episode. There was a vacuum cleaner sound. I started sobbing and went into hysterics.
I would routinely become moody around the same time each year. I couldn’t stand to be near a doctor of the ethnicity that performed my abortion for years. I later found out that other clinics offered Valium and Xanax prior to a procedure and felt cheated.
Later, the husband’s sisters would both have children out of wedlock. His mother loved and accepted them. I felt like I had been slapped in the face. When I mentioned that her son had said she’d never accept a baby born out of wedlock she said, “Why the hell would he think that? I swear, the ideas that boy gets in his head sometimes.”
When I tried to talk to him about this, he told me that to him the abortion had never really happened. Slap two. That cemented my decision to divorce him.
I still don’t have children. My siblings have children, and I’m an amazing aunt. I’m glad I’m able to be there for them.
I do not regret the abortion, but I very much regret not finding out more about the procedure and the different options clinics offered before having one. If I could do it again, I would have opted to get some form of analgesic/relaxant besides fucking lidocaine (which honestly didn’t work). Having an abortion without anesthetic was the single most physically painful experience of my life—and I do not say that lightly.
I’m still very pro-choice, even more so now. I feel that if you and your partner want to bring life into this world, then you should. If you don’t, then you don't. Because your choices are not my burden and not my business.
It’s been 17 years and I’ve have still never told my mother. I hate the choice I had to make. I hate myself some days.
I was always one who felt abortion was only justified in rape, incest, or health risk. I came to feel that way in high school as a family member and another woman I attended school with used abortion as birth control. Each of them had at least four before graduation, as other females were struggling to attend school while having an infant at home.
The first time I became pregnant I was lucky and out of high school. Even though I knew it would be a struggle, since I wasn’t financially stable, I intended to have the child. The pregnancy was extremely difficult, from being toxemic, diabetic, and having eclampsia. I gained well over a 100 pounds.
Six weeks before my due date, one of my ultrasounds showed I had lost almost 45 percent of my amniotic fluid. Combined with all the other health issues, the doctor deemed it necessary to induce. Twenty-four plus hours of labor followed. When my child was in the birth canal, all contractions stopped and both our heartbeats were lost. The baby was ripped from me.
We both survived, and even though she was tiny, she was a fighter and I was in love.
Even though the baby’s father wanted me to abort, I could not. I took our daughter and moved back home with my parents. From day one I was treated as a high-risk pregnancy. During this pregnancy I was only diabetic and in the last trimester became pre-eclampsic. We went into the delivery room with no fear; I was healthier this time, so it should be a lot easier.
Labor was less then 12 hours but I was pushing for over two hours. As my son was born, my blood pressure spiked and I began to hemorrhage. They once again lost my heartbeat for a couple minutes.
My mom begged me to never have another child.
A year-and-a-half later, I once again found I was pregnant. Birth control just was not effective for me. I was six weeks along and my blood pressure was already through the roof. My doctor sat me down and said she couldn’t guarantee any survival if I continued the pregnancy. I had to decide if I wanted to risk leaving my two children motherless and even a third child. If I did choose to have the child, I would need to go to a different hospital for care, since I was too high risk.
At that moment I told her no way, no how; abortion was not for me.
Well I went home that night scared but determined—until my almost 3-year-old-daughter and 1-and-1/2-year-old son climbed into my lap for bedtime stories and my daughter said she loved me and I needed to stay. Where that came from I don’t know, as I had told no one at that time about my doctor visit. I silently cried and hugged my babies and told them momma was going nowhere.
The next morning I called the Obgyn and told her I had changed my mind. My appointment was scheduled, and even though I knew it was the best choice, my heart broke.
On the day of the appointment I went alone and barely spoke to anyone there; I was embarrassed and ashamed. The pills were given and the procedure done and over in what seemed to be merely minutes.
That night, I hurt not just physically but emotionally. The physical pain and bleeding began to scare me and I called the doctor to see if it was normal. That’s when the doctor broke it to me that I was pregnant with twins and that the bleeding would be heavier. My heart broke even more.
I know in my heart I made the best choice for the two babies I was already holding in my arms, but I fight depression and anger and other emotions to this day. Today of all days is the hardest, since 17 years ago to the day would have been my due date. I cry and I see the faces of what my babies might have looked like when I see my surviving children.
Yes abortion is legal, and yes it is a choice every woman should have the right to make. But it can come with a price. And those who have no regrets for the choice they made, they don’t have the true capacity of love, in my opinion. Maybe what they did saved a child from being raised in a home without knowing the unconditional love of a mother.
Today is a day I hate myself. Please do not use my name.
In a victory for the pro-choice movement, the Supreme Court just minutes ago decided on Whole Woman’s Health v. Hellerstedt. In a 5-3 ruling, the Justices struck down abortion restrictions in Texas that had caused more than half of the state’s abortion clinics to close.
We still have many unaired personal stories from readers recounting the choices they made during an unplanned pregnancy—or a planned one that went terriblywrong. This next reader, Elizabeth Bercaw, is one of the rare ones in our series to insist that her real name be used. She begins by recalling another abortion ruling by the Supreme Court, almost 30 years ago, that upheld a Missouri law imposing restrictions on the use of state funds, facilities, and employees when it came to abortion—a win for the pro-life movement. Here’s Elizabeth:
In 1989, when the Supreme Court ruled in the Webster decision, I harkened the call to become active in the pro-choice movement. I helped co-found a pro-choice group on the campus of the University of Southern Mississippi, then later helped in pro-choice groups on the campuses of Clemson University and Emory University. Throughout those years, I volunteered with Planned Parenthood and NARAL in defending clinics against attacks by anti-choice groups. I was firmly committed to making sure every woman had the right to a safe, legal abortion.
In 1998, the pro-choice issue became personal for me, as I found myself pregnant for the first time at the age of 34.
I had only known the father for a month, and we were both full-time students. At that time, it was inconceivable for either of us that we were in any position to bring a baby into the world. We were not mentally, emotionally, or financially prepared for it. We discussed it and both agreed the best option was abortion. My boyfriend accompanied me to the clinic.
A year later, I became pregnant again from the same boyfriend. By then, I was finishing my degree at Georgia State University. I was 35, and I thought long and hard. Maybe I would not have another chance at motherhood.
I chose to have the baby. Now I am the proud mother of an incredible 16-year-old daughter.
I feel that I made the right decision in both circumstances. Both choices were my choices and I stand proud for both of them. By making these choices, I have been able to devote myself to raising my daughter, who has become the most amazing young woman (if a mother can brag).
I will never forget the words of a woman I met during the early years of my activism. When she got pregnant, her boyfriend wanted to force her to have an abortion. She said, “If it is possible for someone to force you to carry out a pregnancy against your will, then it is also possible for someone to force you to have an abortion against your will.”
Choice means the ability to choose for yourself, without shame. By signing my real name, I hope other women (and men) will have the power to tell their stories.
If you have your own experience to share, anonymously or otherwise, and especially if your story touches on something we haven’t yet covered in our series yet, please send us a note: firstname.lastname@example.org.
Approximately 9,090 women in the United States had abortions after their 21st week of pregnancy in 2012. That’s 1.3 percent of all abortions, and roughly 0.14 percent of all pregnancies, based on the 2010 U.S. pregnancy rate.
Yet states keep creating legislation on this issue, proposing abortion bans at 24 or 22 weeks. Many—like South Carolina, where one such bill was signed into law last week—provide exceptions for medical emergencies or fetal anomalies. In fact, many of the women who seek abortions at this stage in their pregnancies do so for health reasons, so these bans affect only a subset of those 9,090 women.
Among the dozens of unaired notes we still have in our inbox from women responding to our abortion series, I just found one from a reader who appears to be among that 9,090 subset:
My husband and I made the heartbreaking decision to end our planned and wanted pregnancy at 22 weeks due to severe, but not fatal, birth defects. In making the decision we had to ask ourselves a whole host of questions. What would her life be like? What were the chances of her living a relatively normal life despite her disabilities? Would we be stable financially, since one of us would need to quit our job to care for her? Would our families help us? Could we do it without their help? Would we be able to be active and involved parents to future children or would her care take priority?
Ultimately we decided that the most loving thing we could do for her was to let her go. She was our first child. Our only girl. Ten years later I still mourn her loss. I mourn what she was and what she could have been. But as I watch my son grow up and experience life in a way she never would, I’m thankful we were able to choose and I know we made the right decision.
I’ve always considered myself pro-choice, but I was never really sure what my decision would be if I ever found myself with an unplanned pregnancy. When I got pregnant at 22 unexpectedly, I was surprised by the fact that an abortion didn’t cross my mind. Though partway through a high risk pregnancy and dealing with hyperemesis [severe nausea and vomiting], I considered it for a minute, but I went ahead with the pregnancy and gave birth to a girl.
Her father and I had remained together through the whole process, but when my daughter was three months old, our relationship had become strained and I found I was pregnant again. (He admitted that he removed a condom once without telling me.) I was beyond frightened. I couldn’t imagine going through another difficult pregnancy while trying to care for my newborn by myself.
But making the decision to abort was not an easy one. I was heavily pressured to have it done by the father, even though I expressed I wasn’t sure. [CB: Here are other stories from readers coerced into an abortion.]
Still, I ended up calling the closest clinic (over 100 miles away) and making an appointment. Everything I had heard about abortion clinics was you would have a sonogram to confirm the pregnancy, then you would meet with a counselor to make sure this is the choice you want to make. I thought to myself, “Awesome, I will have someone to help talk me out of this.”
When my appointment came, I had a sonogram and was taken into the doctors office. He asked why I was there and signed the paperwork. No counseling. I was taken back to a small room with about ten other women, all in medical gowns, while a movie played to distract us. I waited in that room for over an hour before it was my turn. I was shaking and kept thinking “I can walk out the door.”
I’m not sure how long it took, as I was put under, but I woke in recovery and all I wanted to do was get up, get dressed, and walk out and forget everything.
It’s been five years since my abortion. I still regret it to this day. But I do my best to make peace with my decision and I’ve been to counseling. I’m now happily married (to a different man), but I know that abortion is no longer a choice for me, but I still remain pro-choice. A woman has to do what is right for her and no one else.
One more story for now:
Hello and please keep me anonymous. I haven’t spoken about this is 35 years.
I was doing an internship after graduate school when I met a young engineer through a personal ad. We dated briefly and I found out I was pregnant after having sex just once. His response was that he wasn’t going to marry me, but he would give me $5,000 to keep the baby.
But at that time I had no job in sight, no money, and no family or other support system. He was very opposed to the abortion, since he was Catholic, but he did end up paying for it. Afterwards he never spoke to me again, except to tell me that HE was torn up inside. In the meantime, I had to return for a D and C because I had heavy bleeding.
He disappeared from my life, went on to become a successful professor of engineering, married and had two sons. I went on with my life, made an acceptable career, had two marriages, but never got pregnant again.
Update from a returning reader:
Thank you for publishing my family’s story. I wanted to let your new readers know that I am among the women who have had abortions after 20 weeks. Because brains mostly develop in the third trimester, so does the hydrocephalus that took our sons.
No, despite many kinds of testing, we do not have a known gene mutation to test for by CVS at ten weeks. Both sons had slightly large (between two and three standard deviations up from average, well within the three SD medical range) ventricles at 20 weeks. That’s “normal,” and I wouldn’t have considered terminating either pregnancy. But we checked again three weeks later and the ventricles had grown rapidly, the existing beautiful brain being obliterated by fluid.
These bans (or, at our hospital, just the fear of public opinion), with no tie to our medical situation mean that we have to carefully plan out the ultrasounds: 17 weeks, 20 weeks, 23 weeks. We know our baby’s brain can be in the normal range at 20 weeks, but filling with fluid at 23 weeks. To get the operating room by the 24 week deadline, we have to book the abortion before we see the 23 week ultrasound, and hope that we don’t use it.
People who don’t have to negotiate these pregnancies, filled with risk and fear for our babies, cannot imagine the different ways the restrictions punish parents. Who could think of the different cruel difficulties, besides the people they happen to?
Eventually we might all have to deal with COVID-19—but a shorter, gentler version, thanks to vaccines.
Boghuma Kabisen Titanji was just 8 years old when the hyper-contagious virus swept through her classroom. Days later, she started to feel feverish, and developed a sparse, rosy rash. Three years after being fully dosed with the measles vaccine, one of the most durably effective immunizations in our roster, Titanji fell ill with the very pathogen her shots were designed to prevent.
Her parents rushed her to a pediatrician, worried that her first inoculations had failed to take. But the doctor allayed their fears: “It happens. She’ll be fine.” And she was. Her fever and rash cleared up in just a couple of days; she never sickened anyone else in her family. It was, says Titanji, now an infectious-disease physician and a researcher at Emory University, a textbook case of “modified” measles, a rare post-vaccination illness so mild and unthreatening that it doesn’t even deserve the full measles name.
Dear Evan Hansen was lauded on Broadway, but the film adaptation only emphasizes its flaws.
When Dear Evan Hansen premiered on Broadway in 2016, it drew near-universal praise from New York’s theater critics. Ben Platt, playing an anxious teenager who becomes an internet celebrity after misrepresenting his role in a local tragedy, was showered with plaudits, and the show ended up winning six Tony Awards—the most of the season—including Best Musical and a leading-actor trophy for Platt. A film version was thus hardly a surprise. But when the director Stephen Chbosky’s extremely faithful adaptation premiered as the opening-night movie of this year’s Toronto International Film Festival—the movie will be released in theaters this Friday—the reviews that followed were … broadly bad.
What changed? It wasn’t the story or the songs. Dear Evan Hansen the film is written by Steven Levenson, who wrote the narrative of the Broadway show, and largely retains the score, by Benj Pasek and Justin Paul (a few of the least compelling numbers have been cut; others have been added). And while the cast around Platt is mostly filled out by movie stars rather than Broadway veterans, the performances from actors such as Amy Adams, Julianne Moore, Kaitlyn Dever, and Amandla Stenberg are uniformly solid. Did something get lost in translation, or is this an emperor’s-new-clothes moment revealing that Dear Evan Hansen never was any good in the first place?
The TV legend possessed an extraordinary understanding of how kids make sense of language.
For the millions of adults who grew up watching him on public television, Fred Rogers represents the most important human values: respect, compassion, kindness, integrity, humility. On Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, the show that he created 50 years ago and starred in, he was the epitome of simple, natural ease.
But as I write in my forthcoming book, The Good Neighbor: The Life and Work of Fred Rogers, Rogers’s placidity belied the intense care he took in shaping each episode of his program. He insisted that every word, whether spoken by a person or a puppet, be scrutinized closely, because he knew that children—the preschool-age boys and girls who made up the core of his audience—tend to hear things literally.
The pandemic keeps changing, but these principles can guide your thinking through the seasons to come.
Updated at 9:28 a.m. on September 21, 2021.
For nearly two years now, Americans have lived with SARS-CoV-2. We know it better than we once did. We know that it can set off both acute and chronic illness, that it spreads best indoors, that masks help block it, that our vaccines are powerful against it. We know that we can live with it—that we’re going to have to live with it—but that it can and will exact a heavy toll.
Still, this virus has the capacity to surprise us, especially if we’re not paying attention. It is changing all the time, a tweak to the genetic code here and there; sometimes, those tweaks add up to new danger. In a matter of weeks, the Delta variant upended the relative peace of America’s early summer and ushered in a new set of calculations about risk, masking, and testing. The pandemic’s endgame shifted.
Behind shipping delays and soaring prices are workers still at mortal risk of COVID-19.
At this point, the maddeningly unpredictable Delta variant has changed the expected course of the coronavirus pandemic so much that it can be hard to know exactly what you’re waiting for, or if you should continue waiting at all. Is something like before-times normalcy still coming, or will Americans have to negotiate a permanently changed reality? Will we recognize that new normal when it gets here, or will it be clear only in hindsight? And how long will it be before you can buy a new couch and have it delivered in a timely manner?
Somehow, that third question is currently just as existential as the first two. Everyday life in the United States is acutely dependent on the perpetual motion of the supply chain, in which food and medicine and furniture and clothing all compete for many of the same logistical resources. As everyone has been forced to learn in the past year and a half, when the works get gummed up—when a finite supply of packaging can’t keep up with demand, when there aren’t enough longshoremen or truck drivers or postal workers, when a container ship gets wedged sideways in one of the world’s busiest shipping lanes—the effects ripple outward for weeks or months, emptying shelves and raising prices in ways that can seem random. All of a sudden, you can’t buy kettlebells or canned seltzer.
The pandemic disrupted soft work—the gossip, eavesdropping, and casual relationship-building that aren’t a formal part of your job.
As the Age of Delta scrambles back-to-office timelines, I find myself wonderingwhat offices are good for in the first place.
I am pro-office. I miss a good eavesdropping, the promise of midday gossip, the “quick random question” that blooms into a half-hour conversation, and, theoretically, the magical combustion of creativity forged by these connections.
These things aren’t what I’m directly paid to do when I’m in the office, and they’re not what I’m annually evaluated for doing. Instead, they’re what I think of as “soft work.” “Hard work,” for me, is reading, researching, calling people, transcribing conversations, and writing articles. For others, it might include managing employees, working in Excel or PowerPoint, or reading and writing a zillion emails. (This kind of hard work, I should note, doesn’t have to be physically difficult.) If the past year and a half has taught us anything, it’s that white-collar workers can do hard work from home just about as well as they can do it in the office—and maybe even better, precisely because their colleagues aren’t interrupting them.
After winning her award, Michaela Coel delivered the rare message meant for those outside the glitzy room in which she stood.
When the camera turned to Michaela Coel after she won an Emmy for limited-series writing, she looked overwhelmed. The creator, star, writer, and co-director of I May Destroy You kept her head down, her shoulders slouched. Next to her, Coel’s former co-star Cynthia Erivo whispered something into her ear—a pep talk, maybe. But for a few seconds, Coel remained still, as if the weight of her first, historic Emmy win might keep her from going onstage.
Luckily, it didn’t. Coel gave one of the night’s shortest speeches, and perhaps its most revealing. In her remarks, Coel did something unusual: She thought about her audience, tried to reach beyond the other entertainers seated in the room with her. “Write the tale that scares you, that makes you feel uncertain, that isn’t comfortable,” she said. “I dare you … Visibility these days seems to somehow equate to success. Do not be afraid to disappear—from it, from us—for a while, and see what comes to you in the silence.” She spoke directly to the potential storytellers hoping to one day be onstage. And she didn’t just advise them; in a night of pomp and circumstance, she reminded them of the value of quieter triumphs.
HBO’s remake of a famous relationship drama seems to forget why viewers like to watch stories of romantic turmoil.
Apologies to Morticia and Gomez Addams, but a kiss to the upper arm wasn’t sexy until Jessica Chastain and Oscar Isaac did it on the red carpet at the Venice Film Festival. A slow-motion clip of the moment, amplified by Isaac’s singular smolder, went viral earlier this month. More than 11 million Twitter users basked in the pair’s, let’s face it, pure hotness—and then presumably had to fan themselves afterward.
HBO’s Scenes From a Marriage, the show the actors were in Venice to promote, is nowhere near this romantic—or engrossing. The drama is a remake of Ingmar Bergman’s 1973 Swedish miniseries about a relationship’s decade-long dissolution, a crisis so intense that it made Marriage Story look like Love Actually. But the new version, which takes place in present-day America, with the roles gender-flipped, has none of that force, largely because of one creative miscalculation: At the top of every chapter, the show goes out of its way toremind viewers that what they’re watching isn’t real.
The German chancellor’s departure feels like a historic moment. But little will change once she’s gone.
During the darkest days of Donald Trump’s presidency, Angela Merkel looked like the last adult on the world stage. With the United States led by an extremist, the United Kingdom in chaos, India barreling toward autocracy, and Russia and China ever more repressive, the German chancellor was widely hailed as the “leader of the free world.”
Now that Merkel is about to step down from the post she has held for the past 16 years—when she took over, her international peers were George W. Bush, Tony Blair, Jacques Chirac, and Silvio Berlusconi—her heroic image is making international observers anxious about what might come next. Will Germany Trumpify after she retires? And will the country’s role as a defender of democracy on the international stage become a thing of the past?
The pandemic has exposed a fundamental weakness in the system.
America has too many managers.
In a 2016 Harvard Business Review analysis, two writers calculated the annual cost of excess corporate bureaucracy as about $3 trillion, with an average of one manager per every 4.7 workers. Their story mentioned several case studies—a successful GE plant with 300 technicians and a single supervisor, a Swedish bank with 12,000 workers and three levels of hierarchy—that showed that reducing the number of managers usually led to more productivity and profit. And yet, at the time of the story, 17.6 percent of the U.S. workforce (and 30 percent of the workforce’s compensation) was made up of managers and administrators—an alarming statistic that shows how bloated America’s management ranks had become.