My Abortion #3: 1970. Marriott Hotel, Philadelphia

Roar will publish a first-person story about abortion, “My Abortion: A Daily Story,” every day for at least 365 days.

I walk down the corridor of the hotel to the door whose number I memorized after the man warned me not to write it down.

The man opens the door. He doesn’t smile. I don’t look him in the eye. The burly sidekick who collected our cash isn’t with him.

All the blinds are drawn. The folding metal table is next to the bed. I never expected the smell, like I’m the one inside the womb. Not a safe place to be.

“How many of these do you do a day?” I stupidly say. The man’s small eyes become slits. “You’re the only one,’ he says.

I slide off my jeans, and panties and the sanitary belt and pad he told me to wear. In just my flannel shirt I climb up on the table.

“Come to the end and spread your legs.”

When the pain starts, I clench my eyes shut. I have to throw up from every pore in my body. The sweat oozing out of me is a sickly green. I start to gag and the man shoves a hotel trash basket at me.

And then he stops. I let the can drop to the floor and lie back, panting. It’s over. I have my life back.

“Do you want to see it?” he asks.

“No.” I say, ”No”.

The man walks away. I hear the toilet flush. I try not to imagine it, swirling around the hotel toilet like a dead goldfish.

One Reply to “My Abortion #3: 1970. Marriott Hotel, Philadelphia”

  1. How difficult that must have been. So sad. Not everyone can make that choice, but they have the right to it, and that right should never be taken away. Women should be taken care of in a safe and humane way, when they have to make this difficult life choice.

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