The morning after my 29th birthday, I took a 12 hour ride that I’ve taken at least once per year for 90% of my life. But this time something was different. I ate before we got on the road, because I know my mother hates to stop. But somehow I felt empty and nauseous, even sleeping didn’t really help. I thought I was hungry, but eating didn’t solve my problem. I’ve never been car sick.

In the months before this extended car ride, I had been evicted, moved home with my family and had been splitting time doing odd jobs in the city I lost my apartment in, or DoorDashing in the area surrounding my mom’s home. All while simultaneously fighting the storage facility because my items were damaged due to flooding at least three times in less than a month of being stored there. So when I missed my period, I thought it was stress.

A couple of days after that car ride I was still feeling sick when my boyfriend came to visit. I had kept him in the loop on my ill feelings, so we decided to grab a pregnancy test. 29, unemployed, unwed and living with my mom again for the first time since I was 17. I was afraid to even take the test in her home, but I knew doing it there would be safer than the bathroom at Target.

I held the test in my urine stream for twice as long as the five seconds recommended. Placed it on some Chipotle napkins on the floor and waited for the results to appear.

“P R E G N A N T” Appeared in the little box and I was in disbelief. I immediately knew I didn’t want it, and as someone who for years wanted a village of kids to sprout from my womb, I struggled to process the decision that lay ahead for me.

I took a picture and sent the results to my partner who was in the next room on the phone. He knocked on the bathroom door wanting to check on me. I let him in. I think he was surprised I wasn’t crying—I was unbelievably calm even for myself.

I desperately wanted the test to be wrong, so I made an appointment with my gynecologist and rode back with my boyfriend to my former city of residence. Don’t get me wrong, I love my partner, but none of this fit the vision I had for my life. I wanted for sure to be married, but at minimum, I wanted to have an income; and after 8 months of therapy and a few years of being both underemployed or unemployed, I was struggling to take care of myself, mentally and financially. I thought it would be selfish and unwise of me to bring a child into this uncertainty.

At the doctor’s office, they took another urine sample (I thought it would be confirmed by blood test). After providing the sample, we waited to be called back to discuss things with my gynecologist. The nurse shows me the exam room, routinely tells me to undress from the waist down, then adds “ Congratulations, You’re Pregnant!” In a state of “wow, this is really happening!” I began to cry. He had never accompanied me to the doctor before and was unsure what to do. My gynecologist came in, took a vaginal swab sample to make sure I didn’t have an infection then kindly asked him to wait in the hall. “What’s wrong baby?” she asked. I told her I wasn’t ready. She told me even as a doctor who was married, neither was she. “Do you love him? Do you want to spend more time with him?” she probed. I confirmed that he wasn’t an issue. “Is it finances?” I nodded through my sobs.

She continued on about how the state will take care of me and the baby, and that since my heart shaped uterus makes it a high-risk pregnancy, this is actually the best time to be pregnant, because if I was working, I could lose the child due to strenuous activity or lose my job if I ended up on bedrest for my health. She told me she had no moral qualms with me choosing termination, and she would have her staff provide me with the information for a safe termination facility, but she didn’t think it was as bad as I had imagined and if the timing was wrong, I’d miscarry.

What an odd thing for a physician to say.

She referred me to a high-risk obstetrician, because her office doesn’t provide obstetric services. And I told her I’d soon be transferring healthcare to my home state. She wanted me to visit with doctor’s she knew and trusted before making a final decision. Which according to her, I only had a week to make.

From the parking garage, I call the high-risk facility she referred me to, only to learn that they don’t accept my insurance. Immediately I thought of her saying “The state will take care of You” and felt like if they don’t cover the high-risk care I need, is this really “taking care of me?”

To be Continued…