Little hope

My mum didn’t speak to me for a full three days after the argument. I could tell she was absolutely furious, and she was hanging at the very precipice of her temper. I knew the slightest thing would set her off, so I was careful to keep out of her way. I shouldn’t have shouted at her – I could have kept the moral high-ground while remaining calm – but I was so angry at her apparent lack of the ability to feel emotion, and I just lashed out. She was no better, though, and she probably felt as angry at herself as she was at me. It was so out-of-character for her to shout, in fact I could never remember her doing so; she would always quietly threaten me as a young child rather than just scream at me. It was effective – I always had a great deal of respect for her, but I could think for myself now. I was almost an adult, and I had thought through my decision. I didn’t need her to tell me right from wrong, and especially not what she thought was morally right. It was my life, not hers, and I knew what was best for me.

Being around her felt like holding a ticking bomb, and I had no escape from it. After three days of steadily getting more worried the bomb would explode, she finally spoke to me.

“I have booked another appointment at the doctor, so we can have a civilised chat about your abortion. Be ready at 4 o’clock.” She turned on her heel and was gone as quick as she had appeared before me.

I wasn’t worried. I’d read about the legality of abortion and I knew I was not obliged to have one, as long as I was in fit mental state. I secretly hoped my mum would freak out and start yelling at the doctor, because then they would be more likely to trust my judgement over hers.

The car journey was silent, but incredibly tense. We both knew this would be where an important decision was made, and neither of us were willing to admit defeat.

The doctor took us into the room separately. My mum went first. She remained with the doctor for about a quarter of an hour. I strained to listen through the door but heard no raised voices, and she emerged looking perfectly composed. Damn.

I told her exactly what I told my mother, that I wanted to keep the baby because I felt it was the morally right thing to do.

“But, do you want a child? You’re being absolutely selfless in the decision you’ve made, but think about yourself for a minute. Imagine after giving birth to the child. Are you happy with that choice?” She inspects me thoroughly, though with a warm look in her eye.

“It’s not something I would have chosen at this age, but I think I can do it. I will be 18 by the time the child is born, and I believe in myself. I will be a good mother.” I answered firmly and looked directly at her.

“Ok.” Not a trace of emotion gave her away as she called my mum back into the room. I had no idea what she was going to say.

“Your daughter shows incredible strength of character, and has maturity well beyond her years. She has explained to me, as she has to you, her reasons for wanting to keep this child, and they seem perfectly just. She does not want a trophy or plaything as many girls her age, and admits it’s not something she would wish for just now, but I have full believe she has the ability to care for a child very well.” The doctor smiles at me. I dared not look at my mum.

“This does not however mean it will be plain sailing from here. Your daughter is still growing, so, closer to the birth, we will assess whether or not a caesarean section is required.” Then, speaking to me, she continued, “You will receive the best pre and post natal care possible. We will ensure you know everything you need to and you are fully prepared. It’s extremely daunting, especially in your circumstances, but try not to worry, dear. It will turn out ok.”

I was so relieved that she agreed with me. My mother would not be happy, and I knew she would continue to argue with me until the last possible moment, but it was no longer my word against hers, and a doctor is far more qualified than her to give her medical opinion.
I had never really, up till then, thought about the birth. It scared me, really terrified me. I was afraid of everything really, of the pain, of the possibility of complications, and of injections. Needles were one of my biggest weaknesses; I hated them. I wasn’t naive, though, and I knew the next 8 months were going to be extremely difficult, both physically and mentally, but I felt ready for it.