During night two of the RNC, anti-abortion activist Abby Johnson took the stage to do what she does best: lie about abortion and the people, like me, who have had them. Among the litany of truly bonkers, and not to mention dangerous, claims Johnson made in her four- minute and thirty-four second speech was the notion that "abortion has a smell." While the woman who advocates for "head-of-household voting" and is best known for arguing that her Black son is, in fact, statistically more likely to commit a crime than her white children did her best to depict abortion as a brutal act—and not a common, safe, legal medical procedure—she did get one thing right.
My abortion did have a smell. It smelled like the perfume the kind, thoughtful, capable nurse was wearing as she held my hand during the seven-minute surgical abortion. I was a year out of college and seven weeks pregnant. I wasn’t scared, or even particularly nervous, but when the nurse offered to stand by my side and put my hand in hers, I distinctly recall a flowery fragrance, not unlike the scented candles my first OB-GYN used to light in her office.
It also smelled like a small cup of apple juice, which I had along with some saltine crackers when my abortion was over. It was the first "meal" I was able to eat and keep down in seven-ish weeks. As I sipped on that cold juice and stuffed crackers in my mouth, I started to feel like myself for the first time since I held that positive pregnancy test in my hands.
My abortion had the scent of a brand new studio apartment, which I moved into weeks later, after my then-live-in boyfriend and I broke up. We had been together for a year when I found out I was pregnant. He didn't want to be a parent either and, like me, knew that our volatile and toxic relationship was not stable enough for impending parenthood. My abortion allowed us to go our separate ways, untethered from a romantic relationship that was nothing if not unhealthy. He's a father now. My abortion gave him a chance to enjoy being a dad when he was ready, too.
It smells like barbecued ribs and a glass of Maker's Mark a blind date ordered me as he watched the clock, patiently waiting for me to show up. I was 20 minutes late, per usual, and he was gracious in his light teasing about my inability to be punctual. He's now my partner of seven years and the father of my children. He still makes fun of me when I'm late (again) to our two sons' pediatrician appointments.
It is the smell of the New York Times I picked up on 43rd and Sixth near Bryant Park, where I read the first of what would be many headlines with my name underneath it. As a child living in Eagle River, Alaska I had dreamed of living in New York City and writing for the paper of record. Moving across the country, securing a job as a writer and editor, and making that dream come true never would have been possible if I had a child as a poor, unhealthy 23-year-old.
But mostly, if there’s a smell to abortion, for me, it is the scent of my sons' heads as I held and kissed them for the first time—two perfect boys I never would have had or had been able to adequately parent if it wasn't for my abortion. It smells like economic stability, a healthy relationship, my career, dreams realized, goals reached, and the ability to maintain my mental and physical health.
It smells like choice. Like a human right. Like freedom.
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Yes, My Abortion *Did* Have a Smell - Cosmopolitan
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