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7/30/19CLICKHEREforNews&Views
ANIMALS + HEALTH,SCIENCE,ANDTECHNOLOGY + SEX&GENDER
WhenItWasTime
OnAbortion,aDyingCat,andtheCertaintyofChoice
B Y S U S A N H O D A R A
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Theweekbeforeweputourcattosleep,allIcouldthinkaboutwastheabortionI’dhadmorethantwentyyearsbefore.Itwasn’tsomethingI’dthoughtaboutmuch:notlostinmemoryorrepressed,butdeemedsimplynotthatimportant,likeabusridetakenorasandwicheatenlongago.
Portia,ourcatofnineyears,wasdiagnosedwithterminalcancerinlateNovember,afterhavinglostalmostathirdofherbodyweight.Ithadspreadthroughoutherliverandabdomen,ourvetexplained,andcouldnotbetreated.Weweretotakeherhomeandbringherback“whenitwastime.”
“Howwillweknow?”Iasked.
“You’llknow,”hesaid.
SoIspenttheweekwatching,waitingtoknow.Andevenattheveryend,Ican’tsayIwassure.
•••
Withtheabortion,therewasneveradoubt.Iwastwenty-three,anIUDfailurestatistic,andtherewasonlyonesolution.Thedoctorwhotestedmegavemealistofclinicsalongwithmypositiveresults.
Iwasshaken,yes,andupset,butneverambivalent.Icalledpromptlyandscheduledhalfadayfortheprocedure,anxioustohavethewholemishapcleanlybehindme.Iinformedmyboyfriend,Ben,whohadleftsixweeksearliertostartmedicalschoolintheDominicanRepublic.HereturnedtoNewYorktoaccompanyme.
TheclinicwasontheEastSideofManhattan,nearCentralPark.WetookthesubwaydowntownfromtheUpperWestSide,whereIlived,andgotoffat59 Street.WewalkedovertoFifthAvenueontheparksideofthestreet.
Inside,Igavemynameandsatinawaitingareaarrangedinanattempttobecomfortable:magazinesonacoffeetable,metalchairswithturquoisevinylontheseats.TheairwashushedasIfilledoutforms.Therewereothersintheroom—couples,mostly,afew
th
womenalone.Anyconversationsaroundmetookplaceinwhisperedclips,andIdidn’tpayattentiontothem.Iwasthereforonereason—togetsomethingoverwith.
Beforetheactualabortion,therewassomerequisitecounseling,whichBenandIattendedtogether.Fortheprocedure,Iwentbymyself.Iwasgivenagreenhospitalgownandtoldtoundressbehindawhitecottoncurtaindrawnhaphazardlyinfrontofme.Iwrappedthegownaroundmynakedbodyandtieditwithatwistedcottonbelt.Thesleevesseemedhuge,andIfeltexposedandcold.Icrossedmyarmsovermychest,myhandsreachingtowardmyshoulders,asIemergedandstoodinfrontofthecurtain.
SomeoneindicatedagurneywhereIwastoliedownwhileananesthesiologistattendedtome.Justhiseyeswerevisible,hisnoseandmouthcoveredbyabluemask,therestofhisheadconcealedbyawhitepapercap.Ilookedathimonlyonce.Liketheothermedicalstaffstandingaroundme,hespokeinaquietvoice,businesslike,notunkindbutdevoidofemotion.Ihadneverbeeninahospitalbefore;IdidasIwastold,countingbackwardsfromonehundred.Irememberfeelingcalm,comfortable,overcomebyaforcefulwaveofsleepataroundninety-seven.
WhenIawoke,Iwascrying,anditwasthesoundofmysobsthatawakenedme.Theyweresadcries,criesofloss,trueweeping,thoughIfeltneithersadnessnorpain.AsIgainedconsciousness,rememberingwhereIwas,anurseapproached.
“Somepeoplecrywhentheywakeupfromanesthesia,”shetoldme,thenreassuredmethateverythinghadgonewellandIwouldbeabletogohomeassoonasIfeltreadytogetup.
Ilaystillonmyback,waitingastheshadowsofmycriesslippedbelowmyblinkingeyesandnormalcycreptback.Ilookedoveratthewomaninthebedbesidemeandofferedasmallsmile.
Weneverdiscussedtheabortion,BenandI.Iassumedhisopinionsmirroredmine,thoughIrealizenowhemayhavehadallsortsofdifferentfeelingsthatIhadn’tconsideredthen.Hesuggestedwetakeataxihome,butIdeclined,preferringinsteadtowalkbacktotheWestSideandcatchthetrain.IknowIwalkedslowly,beinggentlewithmybody,andIrememberIlookeddownatthestreetalot,asifnegotiatingwiththepavementtohelpmehome.Ididn’thurt,butIwasawareofthepartofmybodythatwasmywomb,andIspenttherestofthedayrestinginbed.Ineverdescribedwhathappenedtomethatmorninginanyotherwordsthan“Ihadanabortion,”andthenonlyoccasionally,whensomeoneelsewastalkingabouthers.
•••
ButIdidhaveanabortion,andthedifficultyIhadknowingwhenitwas“time”forPortiabecameunexpectedlylinkedtothatday.Friendssharedtheirpetstories,howtheiranimalscouldbarelywalk,andhowtheydiedintheirarmsastheywept.“Youjustknow,”theypromised.“It’sthemosthumanethingtodo.”
YetIdidn’tknow.Itwasn’tasthoughPortiameowedinagonyorcollapsedontherug.Sheseemedquitepeaceful.Truetohernature,shesleptmostofthetimeonmygraydeskchair,curledintoaballofblack.Ifyoutouchedher,shegaveoneofthoseprrrwatsoundsandraisedherhead.Ifyoupettedher,shepurredandwatchedyouwithherremarkablegreeneyesthatmademethinkofEgypt.
Whatwasdifferent?Shewasmoreaffectionate.Alwaysaloner,neveralapcat,nowPortiafollowedmeormyhusband,Paul,aroundthehouse.Shesatclosetoourtwodaughters,whomshe’dknownsincetheywerebabies.Shelookedupatus,herexpressionlikeaplea,thoughIwasn’tsureforwhat.
Ifiguredshewashungry;shecouldn’treallykeepanythingdown.Usuallywhenshelookedatmelikethat,I’dgivehersomefood—cannedtunaordeliturkeythatsherelished;nomorecatfoodforPortia.Sheateravenously,butonlysmallamountsatatime.Later,Imightfinditregurgitatedinasmallpoolnotfaraway.
Andshesmelled.Shecarriedaperpetualodorofurinethatwecouldbarelystand.Iwasn’tsureifitwasbecauseofherliver,orbecauseshe’dsimplystoppedcleaningherself.Iputtowelsontheplacesshelikedtosit.
EventuallyIsawthatshecouldnolongergetupontothedeskchairbyherself.Whichmayexplainwhyshewasonourbedwhenshethrewupawateryversionofthetunashe’deatenashortwhilebefore.Itsoakedthroughthetopcomforterintothedownquiltbelow,andIweptasItoreapartourbedanddraggedtheblanketsdowntothewashingmachine.
IstudiedPortiaduringthoseweeks.“It’soddtoknowshe’llbedyingsoon,”ItoldPaul.Iimaginedthatshehadasecretknowledgeoftheend,thatshewaslikeadashconnectinglifetodeath,thererightinfrontofmeonthekitchenfloor.Itookoffherfleacollar,surprisedathowlooseithadbecome.IsnippedoffabitofherfurandputitinaBaggie.Ithoughtofwhatshedidintermsof“lasts.”
Nevertheless,itwasunderstoodthatwewouldn’twaituntiltheveryend;thatwewouldbetheonestodecidewhenherlifewasover.
“Aslongasshe’scomfortable,”Paulsaid.“Aslongasshehassomequalityoflife.”
I’dwatchhercloselyforevidence,andIacknowledgemydecisionthatitwastimewasatleastpartlyoneoffrustration.I’dhadenoughofthewashing,thestench,thepuddlesI’dbeenwipingupformonths.
•••
ThefirstimagethatcomestomymindwhenIthinkofPortia’sdeathisofherlyingunconsciousonhersideonthecoldsilvertableinthevet’soffice.She’sstillalive,thoughyouwouldn’tknowit,tranquilizedandawaitingthelethalinjection.Hereyesareclosedandherlipstick-pinktonguehangssidewaysfromhermouth.We’reinthecatroom,wherewe’dcomebeforeforyearlyvaccinations,andsnowisfallingoutsidethewindow.Portia’spositionitselfisnotcat-like,heressencealreadylost.
ThesecondimageisofPortia’sfaceasIhadcuppeditinmyhandsminutesearlier:anattempttoreassure,tofindafinalgazeofunderstanding,tosaygoodbye.Thegesturewasquickandunsatisfying,andIrealizedI’dbeensayingthisgoodbyegradually,wellbeforethisgrayafternoon.
Mycryingintheabortionclinicisnotavisualmemory.Itisadisembodiedsound,waftinglikeaghost,floatingthrougharoomIcan’tpicture,settlinginsidemebutrootedtonothing.
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SusanHodaraSusanHodaraisajournalist,memoiristandeducator.HerarticleshaveappearedinTheNewYorkTimes,CommunicationArts,andmore.Hershortmemoirshavebeenpublishedinassortedanthologiesandliteraryjournals;onewasnominatedforaPushcartPrize.Sheisaco-authorof“StillHereThinkingofYou:ASecondChanceWithOurMothers”(BigTablePublishing,2013).Visitherwebsitehere:www.susanhodara.com.
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