“C’mon in lady!”

The receptionist at the Toronto Morgentaler Clinic had a manner that could make anyone forget what they were there for. She was loud but not in an obnoxious way, instead she had the kind of demeanor that would make you kind of shake your head in disbelief and chuckle under your breath in amusement. The kind of person I hadn’t encountered for more than a year in Sudan. Sasha was back in Toronto since our send off with the Antonov pilots more than a month before and was in the lobby chatting with Carrie as I read through the waivers outlining the risk of possible death and other undesirable but not fatal outcome due to human error. 

The first meeting was with the Filipina Accounts Manager to pay my $500 bill. Although abortion is legal and paid for in Canada, I had been out of the country for a year now so did not qualify for provincial health coverage. Although she was very sympathetic to my situation, remarking on how appaling it is that I would have to pay for this out of pocket (with interest on a loan I had asked for from my stepdad no less), I handed over the cash as my stomach rumbled from the required fasting in the now -30 degree weather in a walk from Carrie’s sitters downtown apartment.

The next meeting was with the counsellor. Her office was plastered with clever pro-choice propaganda, valentines day cards made out of condoms, stickers reading things like “Catholics for Choice” and comics, I really could have spent the whole day just reading the walls in there but our meeting was about 10 minutes discussing post-procedure birth control options after she had determined my resolve. She did not try to dissuade me from the procedure but instead focused on dissuading me from a return to Sudan, claiming it was a ‘powder keg about to explode once the Americans get there,’ I didn’t disagree with that assessment. My only real retort was that my life was there, to which she responded with “trust me, when you have boyfriends all over the world, you’ll leave stuff all over the world.” 

The next step was changing into the paper sheet with arm holes they referred to as a ‘gown’ and walking over to an inner waiting room stocked with blankets, magazines, abstract paintings and other women about to go through the same experience as I. Most of the other women in there were really girls, some under 20 for sure, 2 were around my age and 2 others were older. But rather than seizing an opportunity to discuss our current shared situation I scanned through a MacLean’s magazine until I was called in by the nurse for my ultrasound. There were two things I learned from that ultrasound; one, I have a rare bloodtype (RH negative) that rejects babies as foreign occupiers and the second was that I was currently 7 weeks pregnant. The nurse praised me for how well I was doing and sent me back to the blanket room. Shortly after, a woman in her 40s came in the room, violently shaking albeit with a polite smile on her face, as she and the counsellor on her arm explained to us in the room that her anxiety was getting the better of her and was in the midst of a panic attack. I desperately wanted to say something to reassure this women and put her mind at ease but I just couldn’t find the right words and I didn’t want to sway her decision in any way. Despite all of us being in the same situation physically (to varying degrees), each one of us had our own individual mental and emotional baggage that we were sitting with. I knew I was 100% sure at completely at peace, I didn’t want my own bias to influence their own very personal choices.

When my name was called, I walked the length of the hall in my sock feet, paper rustling noisily around me while the nurse chatted in that very Canadian small talk way beside me. I hopped on the examining table with my legs in stirrups which brought everything from my knees down to a position higher than my head. There were three other women in the room (the nurse who brought me, the anesthetist putting in my IV and Dr. Nina who was latexing up and explaining the procedure to me) and more chatting on the other side of the curtain. They were all so friendly and asked me genuinely interested questions about Sudan as Dr. Nina used a small hose to vacuum out the offending tissue from my uterus. Whatever was in the IV was making me dizzy and my voice was really hoarse but after about 3 minutes it was over and I was ready to stop talking and close my eyes. The nurse helped me up slowly and as I tried to rub the grogginess out of my eyes, she carefully led me to the recovery room where after 2 glasses of Ginger Ale I sat grinning with relief, which I think may have been off putting to a couple of the other girls in the room. After about 45 minutes of that I changed out of the torn paper gown and gauze underwear I had been given and went out to see my friends in the waiting room who were pleased to see the look of satisfaction on my face and met me with an important question, “what do you feel like eating?” No more morning sickness meant giant smoked meat sandwiches.

It wasn’t all roses! I went to visit KD in Ottawa over the weekend while she was on a short break from living in Nicaragua as a CIDA intern, which she encouraged me to apply to. It was great to be in her presence at her parents house while I recovered and debrief about living abroad. We also met up with Madut and she watched as we debated Sudanese politics, the past present and the future. Although now almost a week after the procedure, the enormous amount of bleeding both the nurse and the aftercare guide had described had descended but the emotional backlash never did as I laid on the cold tile floor of their all white bathroom munching on Vinta crackers and sipping ginger ale.