When I first realised I was pregnant, I laughed. It just didn’t seem real. I thought straight away about telling you but I didn’t want you to worry. You had enough stress. I was 21 and felt I could carry this burden by myself. You need never know. As you had told me several times, what you don’t know won’t hurt you.

A waiting room at an abortion clinic is as tense as it is silent. The room is full of people but the air is cold. Eye contact is minimal, and when it does occur it is stony and unsympathetic. I sat opposite a girl perhaps my age or slightly younger. I felt a pang of empathy watching her furiously tapping away at Candy Crush. I understood that any escape from this reality was inviting.

Her mother returned from the toilet and sat beside her, whispered a word of encouragement in her ear and put a hand on her leg. In that moment my compassion melted away like butter. I was so envious. My cheeks burned red and I could feel the tears behind my eyes. I thought of you, probably at home and oblivious. I wanted so much to be that girl. It didn’t matter who told me I would be OK because I knew it never would be OK without you. But I stayed stoic, for I thought the only way to get through it was to be detached and above it.

I told myself you had more pressing issues to worry about when, deep down, I knew that you would have been by my side in a heartbeat.

When I had my ultrasound I thought of you and how I’d pictured this moment so differently. I imagined how my first ultrasound should have been, perhaps with you holding my hand in a flurry of nervous excitement or on the other end of the phone awaiting an image with baited breath.

When the nurse accidentally showed me my scan photo, I thought of how exultant you must have felt when you saw your first scan of me.

The nurse hurriedly hid the photograph without so much as an apology, or a glance of acknowledgment of this colossal mistake. In that moment I felt so guilty. I was seven weeks conceived once too – why did I get the chance to be here? Why was I lucky enough to have you? Had I deserved you at all?

In the car, I broke down. I turned to my boyfriend streaming with tears and I told him how scared I was. I told him how much I wanted you and he told me I should call you. But I couldn’t worry you. I was independent and could do this alone. You didn’t need such insignificant worries, worries that were being dealt with.

A few weeks later, I had my termination. It is so different to how it seems on the television; it always looks so quick and easy. I changed into a blue paper gown and disposable slippers and all my belongings were stuffed into a hard plastic trolley case, like I was going on holiday. The backs of my legs were exposed and slapped harshly against the plastic chairs; my cold, clammy skin stuck unforgivingly to its surface. The tables were littered with safe-sex leaflets and glossy gossip magazines. I thought how patronising and quite frankly, unpunctual, these leaflets were, and that you might have made that same observation.

I was sitting opposite a woman around your age, but this time she wore the blue paper gown and had the hand luggage too. She reminded me of you. But there was no comfort in the comparison, for I would never have wanted you to feel the way I was feeling or to go through the turmoil that rattled through my head to my heart to my stomach. We sat in silence without so much as a knowing glance, though a part of me longed for her to cuddle me like a mother and tell me I would be OK, just like you would have.

Finally, when I was called to the anaesthetist, I truly felt regret, and a fear I had never even imagined before the very second I was laid out vulnerable on the surgical table. I was thinking of you, and how I wished I had told you. And I knew in my heart at that moment that you would have wished I’d told you too.

I imagined, irrationally, that I might die and how much I would miss you and Dad, and that you would miss me terribly too. I imagined how heartbroken you would be that I hadn’t thought to tell you. I felt anguish over how you would assume that I hadn’t trusted you enough and how you might wonder where you had gone wrong and punish yourself. I agonised that I would have no chance to explain and to tell you that you are the most wonderful mum in the world.

When I woke up I thought of you and just how lucky I am to have you.

https://dantewest./2016/07/16/a-letter-to-my-mother-who-doesnt-know-about-my-abortion/

Don't be ashamed for having an abortion.

It is your body and your right to decide.

It is an agonising decision that hurts, but never be ashamed of yourself for this.

You are strong. You are important. You deserve to be proud of yourself and your life.