It was January 12th and we had to be at the clinic by 9 AM. They take you into a few rooms before the procedure. They ask you a bunch of questions, advise you of all of your options and then they take a physical. I remember giving Brian a kiss goodbye before heading down it’s stark, uninviting, white-walled corridor.
I was sitting in this tiny room all by myself, naked, staring at my belly, saying goodbye to the baby I would never know, and the life that could have been. Brian and I could make it through these fickle twenties, buy a house out on Long Island and have a wonderful life. Just us and our baby. Yet and still, there it was, even now in my weakest moment, the truth that my gut kept trying to whisper to me… “He’s not the one. He’s not the one. He’s not the one.”
Don’t get me wrong, I was so very much in love with Brian. I just knew deep down it was never going to work out. We were too different. I was the emotional wreck and he, the stoic Stalin. Stalin; a term of endearment our roommate had given to him, several years later, but it’s fitting, you see – he wasn’t very emotional, but always quite practical and logical. Essentially, everything I am not. And that is how I would always describe our relationship.
We complimented each other in the best ways and clashed in the worst. He, an emigrated Russian Jewish boy, with the deepest, brightest bluest eyeballs and eyelashes so long he looked like a doll. He was beautiful. If Chris Pine and James Marsden had a baby, it would be Brian. Brian was loud, boisterous and funny. You either liked him or hated him, there is no in between. And when we met, I liked him. I really, really liked him. In fact, I invited a group of people to play spin the bottle one night. I had told Jordan and Samantha, that tonight was the night! After work, I was going to kiss him. I had too. He gave me all of the feels. And at some random Irish bar, deep in South Brooklyn, we played spin the bottle and I laid it on him. It was pretty much a wrap after that. We were inseparable.
We worked together and played together. We fell in love almost immediately. He introduced me to his parents not even three-weeks-later and after dating for about six-months, while he was hitting it doggy-style, he told me he loved me. His love was intoxicating, consuming. I needed him. His energy was as good as gold. He taught me to be responsible, to write out to-do lists. Set goals for yourself, fix your credit, go to school and graduate. Be a success. But then came the jealousy, and mistrust. I am catholic, he is Jewish. We fought as hard as we loved. But love we did. It took five-years for us to figure out it wasn’t working anymore. Neither of us have any interest in converting, and this here was the biggest issue in our relationship. Religion.
We were at Great Adventure with another couple, and I remember looking at him on this dreadfully hot summer day, out on New Jersey and just hating him. I don’t know why. He didn’t do anything in particular, and in fact he was trying to make the best of it – he kept singing “My girlfriend haaates me. Yes, she does, she haaates me.” Two days later we went to a wedding together, and the bride asked “When are you two love birds getting married?” and he and I just looked at each other, he replied “Not any time soon, Bella, but I love her so very much” and my heart broke. This wasn’t working. I didn’t have sex with him that night, and the next morning I didn’t want to be around him. And two days later, on a Tuesday, I ended it. Only to beg for his forgiveness two-days after that, and only 11-months-later, did we officially quit each other.
But at the clinic, on that dreadfully cold January morning, dealing with my struggles being a catholic girl committing this mortal sin by having this procedure done; the guilt that preceded my operation came in two-fold. It’s never an easy decision to make, but I had Brian and we could get through anything. I remember crying before they injected me with anesthesia and I woke up after, still crying. The procedure didn’t last very long – and as soon as I could, I retrieved my belongings and off we drove into the cold, winter air.
On April 12th, just three-months-later, Boomer was born. You see, the date is very special to me because I believe in reincarnation and in some ways, my doggie, is my baby. I never went to therapy after my abortion. Not for real anyway. I had gone for a session and cried the entire time. In that, I found my release. Brian was incapable of understanding. Emotion was not logic. He didn’t get it. He couldn’t understand how sitting on a stranger’s couch, crying incessantly for an hour made me feel better, but it did. It was the most beautiful release.
I cried for my baby, I cried for my body. I cried for my guilt. I prayed that God wouldn’t punish me, and that when I was ready to be a mom, I would.