Her Very First Time

We must keep talking about this. Then we have to yell and fight and donate and never, ever yield.

Jane (not her real name) gripped my left hand so tightly I gasped out loud. It felt like if she squeezed any harder, she might break some bones. She uttered a sentence over and over as if it were a mantra, “you’ll be with me through the whole thing, right?” It didn’t matter how many times I said “yes, I’m here, I’ll stay, I’ve got you,” she’d just ask me again. Did it soothe her? I don’t think so. I think she was in shock, I know she was scared. And even with all her apparent anxiety, it seemed she was dissociated from what was happening and what was to come. She was mostly focused on keeping it a secret, just between us and the other people present who were caring for her.

We’d just braved a crowd of protesters outside the clinic. I prepared her for that possibility ahead of time. They’re always there, with their signs and their shouting and their sincere promises of damnation and hellfire.

Sitting in the treatment room, one of the two LPNs pointed to a privacy screen, she handed Jane a paper gown and said she could leave her shirt on, but nothing else. The nurse asked her to then get under the sheet on the table. Jane was so little; she needed the help of a step stool to climb up. The nurses moved around quietly, mindfully, aware of the tension she was feeling, sensitive to the enormity of why she was there. We waited for the doctor. I was given a chair, so I could sit next to Jane, hold her hand, and talk to her softly. I hoped I was providing a modicum of comfort. She wanted me there for it, so I was there.

I sat there in the sparkling clean, overly bright room, nervous for her, angry at her situation, and praying for a good result, not too much pain, and a speedy unremarkable recovery. I was furious that children find themselves in these situations. What kind of world do we live in, I asked myself. I was so tired of asking that question, I still am. She’s a child, a little girl.

The doctor opened the door, greeted Jane warmly and sat down on a low backless stool with wheels. She rolled to the counter where Jane’s chart was, read it quickly, then scooted back to the end of the exam table. She positioned herself between Jane’s legs, her heels placed in stirrups. We could see the doctor’s soft brown eyes above the mask she wore, snug to her face. She gently explained the procedure, telling Jane what she’d be doing, how she might feel for the next few days, and instructed her to buy a good supply of sanitary pads. When the doctor said that to her, Jane looked at me, her eyes flashing panic. She said, “I don’t have any money.” I assured her I’d take care of it.

Jane showed up at the outreach center the week before, quiet and visibly frightened. She was tiny, couldn’t have weighed more than 90 pounds. I couldn’t peg her age, but it was clear she was very young. She sat down in one of the chairs in our “living room,” a wide-open space filled with baskets overflowing with multi-colored condoms in various sizes. A couple more baskets contained little tubes of lube in an assortment of flavors and there was a small box containing a cache of dental dams and vaginal condoms. There were kits made up for clients who needed supplies in order to clean their works, and in the kitchen, the counter was filled with brown paper lunch bags, neatly ordered in rows, each containing a variety of snacks for hungry teens and anyone else who might come by for protection, conversation, and a safe place to just be and sit for a while among friends.

I was working as an HIV educator for Planned Parenthood in a poor part of town quite close to where I lived, back when abortion was legal in all 50 states. At that point, people, women, still had some agency over their bodies. Even kids had rights, at least in my state. I taught them how to use condoms effectively; my demos were the talk of the town. They were, to say the least, funny and entertaining. Picture me, with a regular sized condom stretched over my entire head, and watch me inflate said condom to the size of a healthy balloon, without it popping. I did this to illustrate to the teenage boys that maybe they didn’t really need the magnum-sized rubbers. I taught sex workers how to cheek a condom and put it on a customer without their knowledge. I taught people who injected drugs how to keep their works clean and coached them on how to obtain new needles at drug stores, especially when they encountered push-back and harsh judgment from so-called professionals.

I watched her for a minute or so, sitting there, as her right knee bounced up and down, a nervous tic that showed me how anxious she was as she tried to maintain a neutral expression.

I waited for her to say something, I tried to make eye contact, but she kept looking at her hands. I introduced myself and asked if there was anything I could help her with. She motioned at the other two kids in the space with a quick nod, and I nodded back, understanding that this would be a private conversation. My assistant, a peer educator, was in the kitchen assembling snack bags for the next day, and I asked him to cover for me so that she and I could speak in confidence. I invited her to come into my office, where she might be more willing to tell me what was happening.

She sat in my comfy desk chair, and I pulled up another one, and I came in close, but not too close; it was hard to understand her, she spoke so softly. She began to tell me her story, and kept stopping, afraid to say too much. I listened, gently prompting her when she’d get stuck, but never pushing.

Her story came out slowly. She was quite vague, but this is what she shared. She was almost 12 years old, had just started middle school and lived in foster care. And yes, she was pregnant. She wouldn’t tell me who the guy was, she was visibly frightened and as she told me some details, she seemed to grow even smaller. I thought she was 10 when she walked into the center. What she did stress was that her foster family couldn’t find out. Whatever came next, they couldn’t know about it. She’d been in and out of the system her whole life, and she’d finally ended up with a family that felt safe, a place she wanted to stay. They were very religious, and she was afraid she’d get kicked out. She hadn’t wanted to have sex, she was forced. She wouldn’t tell me the age of the kid or the man who’d assaulted her. She was afraid if she told, she’d be hurt, and that she’d lose her placement. I asked her if she was in danger. She said no. I asked her if she felt safe in her home, at school. She said yes.

I asked her what she wanted to do. She looked into my eyes for the first time, and very clearly said, “I need to get rid of it. I need an abortion. I don’t want a baby. I can’t have a baby. My life will be over.”

In New York State, there are privacy laws extended to minors with regard to birth control, abortion, prenatal care, and other reproductive health issues. They don’t need parental consent to access these services even today.

The doctor began the D&C, and Jane stared at the ceiling, unblinking, swallowing repeatedly, with tears streaming down her cheeks and finding their way to each of her little ears, forming small puddles there. I held her hand, squeezing back every time she squeezed mine.

When it was over we drove back to our town, about an hour away, and made a stop at the pharmacy. We chose the sanitary pads she’d need and some Tylenol and Advil. As we walked down the aisle to the register, we passed through the candy section. She looked at me, asking with her eyes, and I said, “choose whatever you want.” She picked the largest bag of gummy bears, a couple of candy necklaces, and a few giant Pixy Stix. As we walked toward the cash register, I saw a small teddy bear on a shelf, and grabbed it. I handed it to her after I paid, and she held it to her cheek, and smiled the tiniest, saddest smile I’ve ever seen.

I drove her home and waited in my car as she walked through the front door. The house seemed calm and well-maintained. She looked back at me briefly, nodded a quick thank you, and headed inside. I sat for a few minutes, until she parted the curtains in the living room window, waved once, and quickly closed them. I drove away from the house, back to mine, a few blocks away and a world apart.

I never saw her again. Today, she’s about 30 years old. I hope she’s doing okay.

The proceeds of every new paid subscription or donation from this post will be donated to abortion rights non-profits. Become a paid subscriber today. Fight the good fight. Take back our bodies, they don’t belong to anyone but us.

AND….I’ll be teaching a 5 Week Zoom Master Class in May all about the ins and outs of publishing on Substack: So, You Want to Write on Substack But You Don’t Know Where to Start? Find out more or register now! The first session meets on May 1, 2025.