I was 15. Or 17. Or 19. Or 22.

I was in school and/or working or bumming around.

I was in a steady relationship or hooking up with random guys or a victim of sexual assault.

At some point of my life, I was all of these things. Does it matter, really, when I had the abortion? This is my experience, and this is what matters:

I found out I was pregnant and knew immediately that I wasn't yet ready to become  a mom. I didn't have to think very long or hard about it; I knew that, given who I was at the time, I simply did not want to give birth to a child.

I Googled  "abortion clinic New York City" and found a professional facility. I also found tips on looking for reputable abortion centers, which I committed to memory.

Next came the phone call. "I'm pregnant," I said to the kind yet mature female voice on the line (this kind of voice was a sure sign, according to the tip sheet, that I had found a sound clinic). "I need not to be."

The woman asked the date of my last period, then told me I wasn't far along enough to have an abortion; I had to wait another three weeks. We set a date, and she told me where to go, how much it would cost, and what time to show up. Then she asked if I had any questions and also asked me to describe my appearance. I told her that I didn't have any questions, then I explained my build, my coloring, and my height. She counseled me not to wear any bulky clothing or things in my hair; this struck me as odd since it was a muggy August in New York City. At that moment, as I swam in my thoughts, I thought of the movie If These Walls Could Talk, and especially the last scene, which was a shooting scene. I thought of picketings and bombings and shootings that happen at abortion clinics; the tip sheet had warned me about these happenings, and I wondered how I would react if they happened on the day of my abortion.

 The following three weeks were full of nausea and fatigue. I felt bloated and my libido sky-rocketed. Also, my hormones were all over the place; not only did my mood swings indicate this change, but the barrage of sexual attention pointed at me reached new heights.

I thought a lot about my decision, about the morality behind taking the potential life of a human being and about the selfish decision I'd made. I wanted so much out of life, and I didn't want the complications of pregnancy or motherhood to deter any of my aspirations from becoming realities. I wasn't yet ready to give anything up, not for anyone or anything, especially if it could be avoided.

But, then again, I knew that I didn't want to be a mom; but what exactly did that mean? Even then, I'd learned enough about epistemology to realize that knowing was a subjective and abstract verb and not a literal and definite one. I thought about becoming a mom, and the more I thought about it, the more I knew that it just wasn't for me. Not at that time, possibly never.

I'd set up the appointment and I'd keep it. 

It was a rainy day in August when I went to get my abortion. The clinic was in an intimidating-looking high-rise in midtown Manhattan, and amidst the doorman and elevator staff, I kept on expecting to see protesters and picket signs. Thankfully, the latter two were absent from my entire experience. In their places were instead many respectful and caring health professionals: the technician who took ultrasound photos of my fetus; the therapist (social worker? Psychologist? Psychiatrist?) that interviewed me and made sure that I did indeed want to get an abortion and wasn't being forced;  the anesthetist and doctor and nurses who made the process quick and painless.

In terms of anesthesia, there were two options: partial anesthesia, in which I would be cognizant of everything happening but unable to feel below my waist, and the knocked-out kind of anesthesia, which greatly appealed to me. I wanted to close my eyes, open them, and magically not be pregnant anymore. Pretty much, that's what happened. 

Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the finality of signing legal documents stating that I intended to abort my baby, or the anesthesia, but as I closed my eyes, I felt resolute in my decision. This was it. There was no backing out now.

The moment I opened my eyes,  a wave of serenity washed over me. I felt giddy, euphoric, completely at ease. I knew I was no longer pregnant, and I was certain in that moment of tranquility that I had made the right decision.

I was led to a waiting room, where I was to meet with nurses before being allowed to go home. I sat there, smiling like a Cheshire cat, triumphant in all of my perverse glory.  I remember wondering if I was indeed happy, or if I was just feeling the effects of the drugs. Then I saw her: another girl who'd had an abortion. Crying. Weeping. So obviously and completely upset at herself for having killed her baby. When she was led out of the room, I asked the nurse if she, too, had been out cold when getting her abortion. The nurse had silently nodded, a grave smear of worry rearranging her kind features. 

I went home that day and proceeded with my life as per my usual custom. I thought about my abortion, about my dead baby, about the life I took, and I didn't feel the least bit upset. I wondered if that fact meant that I was a sociopath in the making. Surely, it meant that I wasn't supposed to be a mom. What kind of mother didn't care about killing her child?

But then, sometime later, I decided to become a mom.  It all happened so suddenly, and there was no simple explanation as to why I was ready this time around. Like love or hate, the maternal instinct invaded my every cell, and I knew without a doubt that I wanted to be a mom. I had a very easy pregnancy and labor and delivery, and as my son, my boyfriend, and I learned how to be a family, I found my dreams permeated by thoughts of my aborted would-be child. Could I have mustered the maternal energies to be a good mom to that person? Did I do the right thing? Is there ever really a "right" or a "wrong" anyway?

There are times when I find myself staring at my son and being in complete awe of him. I wonder what life would be like if he'd had an older sibling. I wonder what I would be like, how different things would be. Undeniably, there is a sense of loss when I think of the baby I could have had, but it is short-lived and superficial. It is a loss that echoes in the memory of my bones but is also couched in too many hypothetical situations to be granted much importance. 

One thing is for certain: I made my decisions, and though I'll always wonder "What if?," I'll never doubt my happiness. In the end, that's what it's all ever about anyway. 

Maria Elizabeth Rubio