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How To Talk To Girls - 5 Steps To Talk To Girls And Get Her To Like You
My husband held my hand as we entered. She was polite-ish, which I was willing to accept because my vagina weighed a ton. I was holding cement in my kegels. I was ushered to the maternity section… Just in time to hear a fellow inmate of gestational prison give natural birth. Up until this point- I too considered giving birth as nature intended… with great difficulty. And of course… the waiting area was a wooden bench, I assume to add to the construction site mounting in my anus. I would have been more comfortable on a black label kussie. I folded my legs. A little too late, most would say. I turned to the girl next to me. I always make awkward conversation with strange women when I feel uncomfortable. The other inmate chimed in. I was three days in labor. I used to have medical aid once. I know how the other side lives. I shut my bek even tighter than my thighs. Someone please give this kin an epidural. And then I smelt it… the blood I recalled from my last visit. Of course the universe waited until I was carrying a baby I actually wanted, to bring me back to the place where I killed my son. And I remembered something that I have never shared before… It was very sunny on the 13th of June, I woke up, with my best friend at the time by my side. I told my mother and father that I had to report at parliament early that day, and I left the house at 6am. When you have an abortion, you have to book the procedure, then you are given a date to come back, depending on whether or not you are having a chemical or surgical abortion. As I was only 8 weeks pregnant, I was eligible for a chemical abortion. This would mean I had to take a series of tablets, and I could pretend that I was having a miscarriage at home. But, like with most things in my autobiography, the day that I chose to terminate my pregnancy, the physician who administered the pill was on leave. So on that Thursday, I walked into the hospital… ready to be prepped for surgery. There is no comfortable hospital gown. There is no one on one preparation, to make you feel comfortable with the surgical crew. We were all instructed the day before to bring our own pajamas. She was the nicer of the two who had evaluated us the day before. The other nurse, an older, large lady had shouted at all of us since taking down our names. She was very obviously disgusted at the group. She was there only for her paycheck. She must have also blissfully pushed her participation in the abortion of fetuses to the recesses of her mind. If I was her, I would probably have grown bitter too. But I have already spoken about my abortion in detail. If you want to read about it, I have added the link here. However, what I remembered, that I now realise has haunted me for the last few years, is not the physical pain of having a vacuum placed inside of your womb; but what happens when you walk out of the hospital, no longer pregnant, but with no baby. When I got into my car, I remember being silent for quite some time. I felt a succinct nothingness that I am yet to feel again. After a few moments, I drove around to the house I lived in as a small child, in Dune Drive, Woodlands, and stared. In a Hollywood montage of memories I saw five year old me running across the road, blissfully unaware of the ugliness that the next twenty years would introduce me to. My friend called my mother, to lie about the events of the day. The story we concocted was as follows: Shana fainted while we were at parliament and was taken to Mowbray MOU. The baby died and was making her sick, poisoning her blood. She is awake now. I told that story for years. I wanted to own that memory. Eventually, I went home, and climbed into a bath, which after a few seconds consisted mostly of my own blood, and a few clotted remnants. I remember chuckling at the fact that they administer only two Panados after the very quick, never-ending procedure. I got dressed and walked to the shop for a cigarette and a tin of coke. I sat outside the door smoking and felt the tears finally start to run down my cheeks. My mother walked out of the house to look for me, and met me with a very disappointed gaze. She was angry at me for being weak. The sad reality is that there is no time, to cry. There is no space to wait for someone to fix your situation. My cousin asked me to please give her back. I left shortly after that interaction. As went by, I found a new job in my field. I tried to ignore the 13th of June replays in my head, and as time went on, the gaps between the memory creeping into my head became longer. In September that year, when I found out that I was pregnant with Rose, from the man who had left me no choice but to abort my previous pregnancy, I remember feeling the urge to jump from our Fourth floor apartment balcony. And Sidney walked in. He never fucking left me alone. I hated the child in my womb. I hated her for being predestined to be hurt by everything. But I knew I was never going back to that clinic. After a few hours in the emergency room, I am called in. WorthlessPoes, what seems to be going on? He writes down more words than I have said, and calls a colleague. A fellow, female student doctor. Take it from my hands…. Long story short, there is no blood, my cervix is closed and I probably have an infection. I take my Potomist and leave… Oddly enough, feeling and looking like a fucking hippopotomist. That Saturday, we went to the wonderfully clean, halaal establishment and I laid on the bed. Yes, there is loads, loads more. The repercussions of certain life choices are more painful than most would like to admit. In my next blog, I will elaborate on the many challenges that I have encountered in the last few weeks. Thanks for following my journey. God Bless you all.
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