One evening when I was 21, I had two of my oldest friends, Isabel and Irene, over for dinner in my Bushwick apartment. I made barley risotto out of a new cookbook. We talked about classes, boys, parents, New York City, other friends, and roommates. Suddenly, I felt nauseous. The risotto called for green onions, and I really didn’t want to eat them. This was odd, because I loved green onions—I loved this recipe—but I was going to puke now if I had to eat them.

I was supposed to get my period the week after dinner. It didn’t come. My boobs were hurting, and my body felt different than how I usually felt right before my period. So I picked up a pregnancy test and met Isabel and Irene at their apartment.

I peed on both test sticks. Waiting, we drank tea and listened to Cut Copy on one of their white Macbooks.

Six weeks earlier, I was naked on a West Village windowsill. I was in my lover’s luxury apartment, looking down on the parked cars and closed boutiques. He came from a wealthy family; this was one of many homes. He was younger than me. We had gone to college together.

I was two years out of college (I went to Simon’s Rock, an early-entry college in Great Barrington, Massachusetts), and had been paying my own bills for many years. I had my first job (dishwasher) at 14, and kept a regular job ever since. My parents divorced when I was five, and neither of them ever had enough money. I had applied for college by myself because my parents couldn’t help me: my mother’s most recent boyfriend was a 25-year-old heroin addict, and my father’s wife was bipolar and suffering from postpartum depression. I received scholarships, federal aid, and worked multiple jobs while I was in school to pay down as much as possible on the remaining costs of my education. Still, every month my student loan bills cost me the amount of all of my other bills—rent, internet, phone, Metrocard, groceries—combined.

My lover and I had a routine. Late at night, I’d walk to his family’s apartment where we would listen to music, drink beer, chain-smoke, and have sex. In the morning I would wake up and go to my full-time job while he slept in. When the sun would start rising, I’d drink another beer and fall asleep next to him. Then the next night, we’d do it all again.

Being near him felt physically cozy, but emotionally lonely. We were so different. Feeling uncomfortable was familiar, though.

We’d just had sex on the natural fiber rug in his family’s all-white living room. “Are you on birth control?” he had asked. I wasn’t. I wasn’t even vaccinated. My mother was very skeptical about western medicine, and I still shared her beliefs. I wanted an IUD, but I couldn’t afford one yet. We had used a condom.

“No. Why?” I blew a drag of my cigarette out of the window. I couldn’t process what he was saying: the condom had broken. I felt my vertebrae bleeding from the rug I had been pressed and moved against. The whole thing felt like a dream.

A decade later, sober and no longer stuck, I now understand that I was escaping. Escaping from the chaos of my family, the reality of socioeconomics in America, and perhaps most of all, the relentless chatter of Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Being in my head was a loud, oppressive Hell. (I would often hear music, too, a creative gift I resented, because I was always working and unable to pursue it. I’ve since released two albums, and my song “On The Rug” tells this story.)

Isabel and Irene waited outside their bathroom while I went in to look at the test results.

Positive. Both of them.

I felt so stupid. I had a job and could support myself, but a kid? Nope. A kid would make this hard stuff even harder. How much were abortions? How did you get one? Do you just call and say, “Hey, I’m okay how are you? Awesome. I need an abortion. Is there a time this week you can squeeze me in?”

(The answer is yes.)

I thought about my mother who, at my age, was single and living in New York with a three-year-old (my brother). I started to understand why she married my dad when she was pregnant with me, and why she had anxiety. I started to understand why they divorced.

I started to understand why her struggle was so complex and painful, and the ways it had touched me.

I realized that this decision was mine, and that it mattered to me and all of the important people in my life, including the children I might eventually have.

I got an appointment at a Planned Parenthood downtown. I peed more, was tested for STDs, had an ultrasound and my pregnancy was confirmed. I was asked how I wanted to “proceed” many times during this process. I never reconsidered my decision.

I was still early on in my pregnancy, so I had a few options. I could do the at-home pill—which I’d heard through a friend was basically throwing up and pooping for 24 hours—or I could do the “surgical” procedure where they scrape your cervix and disrupt the uterine utopia necessary for a healthy pregnancy. I could do this with or without pain meds. I’d experienced severe menstrual cramps for years and was scared of uterine pain, so I opted for the surgical procedure with pain meds.

In the days before my abortion, I lived my life normally. When my boss asked me, “How was your weekend?” I wanted to say, “It was good but weird. I’m pregnant and I’m having an abortion this coming Sunday.” But I didn’t because you don’t say that.

The day came. My best friend went with me. I was in the same office I was in when they did my initial evaluation. There were at least 10 other women there, all for the same procedure. I looked around. We were diverse. Some of us were very young, some were older and may have had children already. We were all wearing white smocks with nothing underneath.

When I was called into the room, I laid on a reclined medical chair and scooted my naked crotch forward as the doctors, both men, introduced themselves. One told me about the drug he was administering intravenously. He said, “You may feel very drowsy, you may fall asleep, you probably won’t feel a thing…” and I completely passed out.

I dreamt of cervixes and sesame seeds and $500 abortions that insurance could have paid for if I’d had it. I dreamt of my job and a show I had coming up with my band. I dreamt of my best friend waiting for me. We were going to Yonah Schimmel’s for knishes afterward.

When I woke up, I was in a row of sleepy women in reclined medical chairs, all of our legs exposed, all of us no longer pregnant.

We smiled at each other. There was a palpable sense of relief in the room.

My abortion came and went like a bad hair day. But unlike a bad hair day, it was a good day. I broke a cycle. I chose to go beyond never enough money and many mouths to feed.

I chose my dreams.

I even like green onions again!

About the Author

Elana Carroll is a producer, songwriter, performer, and educator. She has released two albums, toured the US many times over, written music for television, scored short films, and hosted workshops on songwriting, music production, live playback, and performance. She lives in Los Angeles with her son, a pitbull dachshund mix named Snoopy.

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