My abortion did not occur at Planned Parenthood or a county clinic. It happened in the late 80’s at a well-established suburban hospital. An obstetrician who delivered living babies on the side performed the procedure. At least, that’s what he called it. The nurse was a neighbor on my street.
I had arrived. After birthing four kids in less than five years and safely seeing the twins to their second birthday, I declared myself ready to live again. The treadmill became my evening companion, helping me shed ten pounds over the long winter.
I was in Orlando at a conference with my hottie hubby. For two mornings, Paul had coffee waiting for me when I woke. My heart was full. The gesture spoke love to me. To this java loving, non-morning person, it really was a big deal. I felt cherished and cared for.
Sometimes I prefer having things black and white, like what time the babysitter will show up or how much the sheet cake from the local bakery will actually cost. Sometimes I prefer shades of grey, like am I actually a size ten (I know one designer who says so) or am I an awesome writer (I know at least my mom thinks so.) But grey can be a dangerous color.