His name was Mike.
Please don’t judge me when I say that was pretty much all I knew about him when we started kissing in a dark corner of a nightclub.
I was 25 and single; Mike was sexy and this was fun.
Later, back at my place, we had sex a few times.
I was dimly aware that on one of those occasions, a condom had split. Dimly being the operative word – a full 48 hours passed before I went to get the morning after pill, which according to statistics, would make it less than 75 per cent effective.
I know, I know.
About six weeks later, I was standing in a bottle shop struggling to choose a bottle of red for a dinner, my stomach churning.
Suddenly, I gasped aloud. My breasts had been swollen and sore, my period had been unusually light.
I’d been having hot flushes while sitting in the chilliest air con. The smell of burgers cooking on a BBQ had made me retch.
Now, I didn’t fancy my favourite wine, and the penny dropped.
A test confirmed my fears. I was pregnant.
It didn’t take me very long at all to decide I wanted a termination. I was young. I had no financial stability. I wasn’t ready to become a mum; didn’t know if I ever wanted to be one.
And Mike was…a man whose last name I didn’t even know.
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I booked an appointment at a clinic where they told me I had two options: surgical or medical.
“Medical is far less invasive,” the doctor told me. “You’ll take a pill and you’ll pass the pregnancy within the next few hours. It’ll be like having a heavy period.”
For me, it was a no brainer. I took one pill there and then, returning the following day to take the second one.
“It might make you a bit nauseous,” the doctor warned.
I’d barely stepped out of the consultation room, when I felt the colour drain from my face. Painful cramps ripped across my tummy, my head spun.
I threw up in a kidney-shaped bowl; saw the pill I’d just swallowed swimming in my own bile.