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By Lindsey Stewart
In 1969, a year before the state of New York legalized abortion, and four years before the Supreme Court’s landmark decision of Roe v. Wade conferred the federal right to abortion, I became pregnant. I was a 16-year-old high school senior living in Grosse Pointe, an affluent suburb of Detroit. It was the time of “free love” and the “sexual revolution” — but without the availability and protection of birth control. Out of the 500 girls in my graduating class, 5 of us became pregnant. All of us, with the help of our parents, obtained illegal abortions.
My pregnancy was the result of a one-night stand involving a naive, inexperienced teenage girl and a young man in his early 20s who intentionally broke a promise to be careful. Upon hearing of my pregnancy, he left.
With a medical and legal system unwilling to help, I made numerous risky and unsuccessful attempts to end the pregnancy myself. I took various pills of unknown origin. I borrowed money from friends and went to many doctors, only to endure humiliating pelvic exams after which I would be told no, they couldn’t help. The terror and chaos were crushing. Finally, I turned to my parents.
My parents went to my mother’s obstetrician. The obstetrician knew our family and attended our Protestant church. After examining me to confirm the pregnancy, he spoke to our church’s minister who knew of another minister in Chicago who would help.
The “doctor” who was to do the procedure did not want my parents to come with me to Chicago. I made the 6-hour drive with a friend in the middle of the night to arrive in time for an early-morning appointment with the Chicago minister. When we arrived at the stately church, I met with the minister in his rectory. After talking with me, he said he was comfortable referring me to the “doctor.”
We were given the name and address of a nearby hotel. My friend and I went to the hotel, checked in, and I waited for a phone call. The phone finally rang. It was a man calling with instructions. He told me to go outside in front of the hotel and wait. He asked me what I looked like and what I would be wearing. I vividly remember wearing a navy blue sweater, a quilted, madras A-line skirt, navy knee socks, and penny loafers.
I went downstairs alone and was picked up by a man in a red sports car. He was friendly and told me not to worry. As we took a convoluted route to our destination, he explained that we had to take these precautions because what we were doing was illegal and dangerous. This of course made me increasingly nervous, but I did my best to hold myself together as we arrived at our destination.
We pulled up to a classic Chicago courtyard building. He led me down the hall to a small one-bedroom apartment that held a few pieces of furniture. A man was sitting at a table eating pistachios. The first order of business was payment. As arranged, I gave the man at the table $600 cash in small denominations. After counting the bills, he said we were good to go. I went into the bedroom to undress.
After undressing, I was put into stirrups on a gynecological exam table, and the procedure began. It was a D&C without anesthesia, and the only pain management I was given was a piece of wood to bite down on for the pain. A surgical knife-like instrument was repeatedly inserted into my cervix to scrape out the contents of the uterus. With every scrape, I screamed in pain and begged him to stop. Blood was flowing down the inside of my thighs and onto the table. As I lay on my back crying, the tears flowed down the sides of my face and pooled in my ears. In my 16-year-old mind, the nightmare went on forever. When it was finally over, I was provided a pad for the bleeding.
We drove back to Detroit. The bleeding eventually stopped. He had done a good job. I was lucky.
As horrific as the actual abortion was, the aftermath was equally as traumatic. I returned to the world a different person; shocked and utterly alone. My privacy had been violated. My innocence was lost. I had stepped out of line and had been severely punished. The world was no longer a safe place. The confusion and anger I felt were almost overwhelming. Even at that young age, I intuitively knew this entire experience was wrong. Yes, I had made a mistake, but this?
Slowly, with many years of therapy, I rebuilt my self-esteem. I began to reject the notion that I was a sexual deviant and a bad person. I acutely realized that the world could be a very rough place; self-protection and self-reliance were in order. I became more focused and determined. Perhaps most importantly, I learned to value those who were compassionate, and I did my best to live more compassionately myself. As painful as the experience was, it also taught me invaluable and important lessons.
It has been 54 years since my illegal abortion. This experience will be with me forever, but I have never regretted my choice. I went on to college and earned a master’s degree. I achieved substantial success in my career. I deferred marriage until I was ready, and my husband and I have been together for over 40 years. We have two wonderful grown children and an adorable grandchild. We travel the world. Together, we have done significant charity work. Giving back to others is important to us, and compassion is a value my husband and I intentionally instilled in our children.
The life I was able to create for myself has been so very good, but it would not have been possible without the compassion of others. I also acknowledge that my ability to choose to end my unintended pregnancy came from a level of privilege that most were not afforded then, and many are not afforded today in the aftermath of the Dobbs decision. Money and connections were essential, without which my life would have likely taken a very different path. I was one of the lucky ones, and I’ve done my best to live a life of gratitude.
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