It’s Impossible to Get an Abortion in Burgos Translated from Spanish by Ehren Abbott

It’s impossible to get an abortion in Burgos. In 2010 I got pregnant. I’m aware that the circumstances of this fact is what piques everyone’s interest. Am I a first year nursing student? A lady that drinks coffee on Paseo del Espolón every Tuesday with her needlework club? A married woman with three kids? A Muslim woman who works in a hospital? Am I young and single? If so, am I promiscuous? Do I know who the father is? What color is my skin? Who did I vote for?

Answering just one of those questions changes everything for the reader. My story would be completely different, and that’s what I want to avoid. I am anybody, I am every woman.

I am creating life, and I have no intention of finishing that process.

The first thing I did when I saw the plus sign on the pregnancy test was go to the emergency room. I know you can’t go to the emergency room if it’s not an emergency, but in that moment it felt like one to me. It seemed unacceptable to get in bed, fall asleep, wake up the next day, eat breakfast, shower, and go to the doctor’s office to make an appointment with my GP.

So I sat down in a plastic chair in the emergency room and waited patiently for them to tend to my misfortune, just like everyone else there, even though I’m sure they all wanted to burst into the exam room yelling and begging for help. But above all all else we are a civilized species.

When my turn was up, the ER doctor asked me what had happened as she looked for who-knows-what in a drawer. “I’m pregnant.” “OK,” she said as she typed on her computer. “I’ll make you an appointment with the obstetrician on Monday.”

The word “obstetrician” reminded me of epidurals, of flowers in vases and of little knit bootees, so I said, “No, I want an abortion.” “Ah.” Silence. Coughing. More silence. Typing. “That’s not done here. You can talk to a social worker, but I can’t help you with that.” “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

I laid down in bed to do some searching on the internet even though I knew I wasn’t going to like what I found. Teens giving advice on forums to take legally-dubious pills, home remedies that are clearly bad for you, offers on Craigslist to perform a private abortion for fifty Euros…

I went back to the doctor’s office the next morning and waited for the obstetrician. Magazines on lactation, coloring books, six-month bellies, and bags under my eyes.

On a post-it note the obstetrician wrote the address of a nonprofit for women that I could go to.

There I was met with empathetic glances and helpful intentions. There were also magazines in the waiting room, but these were on science and history.They told me I should wait thirty days for THE PROCEDURE, which would take place at a clinic in Valladolid.

I spent those thirty days vomiting and dodging all of life’s odors: food, tobacco, people wearing perfume, animals, tight-fitting clothes…

When the day was upon me I boarded an ALSA bus, which took me to a bus station in Valladolid. I had been there before, but this time it seemed hideous, dirty, and plainly provincial. People’s faces were grotesque. Everything scared me. I was craving some vanilla ice cream, but I had to fast for THE PROCEDURE.

At the entrance of the clinic the sidewalk was littered with mud-covered pamphlets that I didn’t read because I had the feeling they were not in support of what I was about to do. I doubt anyone goes to the entrance of an abortion clinic to scatter pamphlets that read: “Cheer up, everything will be fine. You’re doing what’s right for you.” with a smiley at the end. I went into the clinic.

There were other women next to me in the waiting room, either alone or with their partner, no background music.

In the exam room two young men greeted me and asked me to disrobe from the waist down. I remember the sound of something that resembled a vacuum cleaner with a tube. While one used the tube thing on me, the other put some cream on my stomach and looked at a screen where he could see inside of me. He talked to me. He talked to me a lot. He had very dark, black eyes. The kind where you can’t even make out the pupil. I told him where I was from and he told me how much he liked my hometown, reciting a litany of cultural topics that made me feel better.

THE PROCEDURE lasted five minutes. When I got up they gave me a glass of water and told me to sit down for a bit on the examination table. It was a nice gesture.

I got on the ALSA night bus headed for Burgos, where everything seemed even more unpleasant. I got in bed, and the next morning I showered, ate breakfast, and took a walk along the Arlanzón river.