I was standing outside a clinic notorious for its illegal abortion services in Central Jakarta. All my research pointed me to this place—a building that, from the outside, looked more like a disease-infested shack than a clinic.I knocked and nobody answered. I peered into the windows, but it was dark. It’s safe to say it wasn’t open for business that day. I was sort of relieved—it looked like a place where people die. I thought about how my then boyfriend’s parents offered to pay for my abortion in the Netherlands, where they are citizens. It would be a whole lot less dodgy experience than this, but it was out of the question. How could I explain the trip to my conservative parents? And applying for a visa there sounded like too much of a hassle.
Advertisement
As I was figuring what my next move would be, a rickshaw driver pulled over and told me that there were other "clinics" nearby. I hopped on his rickshaw and he took me to a home clinic that looked far more welcoming than the first. It looked pretty shady too, but at least I wasn’t the only one there. There were a few women, perhaps my age or younger, waiting alone. While I was grateful to have my two friends waiting with me, I also felt kind of guilty for bringing them there while the other women came alone. And although my ex-boyfriend, who I broke up with two weeks before I found out about my pregnancy, wasn’t there, I knew would still be able to rely on him whenever I needed to.Watch: Backstreet Abortions in the Philippines
I registered, signed a waiver, and paid $355 USD. Then "nurses" ushered me inside the operation room.Inside, I saw the vacuum—the instrument that would suck out my would-be child, the glob of cells that somehow I was already in love with. The nurses gave me a full dose of anesthesia and when I wake up I was in another room. I felt sore down there but it was nothing compared to the ache in my heart—regret, relief, grief combined.That night, I felt weak and started shivering. When I texted a friend who had the same procedure years prior, she told me to watch out for a fever. "It was normal," she wrote.I tried to believe her until I was woken up in the middle of the night by the violent shakes of my body. I knew something was definitely wrong. For a few hours, I stayed in bed, just waiting off the storm.
Advertisement
I went on Google to look up my symptoms and the result said: septic shock. I didn’t completely understand what was going on. I tried to get out of bed but I just slumped to the floor, unable to keep myself upright. At this point, I was sweating profusely, slipping in and out of consciousness.I called out for my family and when they came to my room, I already started convulsing. From here on, everything was a blur. I remember being in tremendous pain, my family rushing me to the car, and the brightness of the hospital, but not much else. The last thing I did, before going unconscious again, was telling the doctor about the abortion. I didn’t care about stigma, I didn’t want to die.Three weeks later I woke up strapped to a bed with tubes hooked all over me. My hands were restrained to each side of the bed. I could hear nurses speaking among themselves in a thick accent that I recognized but couldn’t put my finger on. I was later told that I was put into an induced coma and that I had to be medically evacuated to a hospital in a neighboring country. The hospital where I was being treated in Jakarta for a few days told my family that they have “done their best.” At this point, my kidney, liver, and lungs had stopped functioning. Luckily for me, my family didn’t give up as easily.At the new hospital, I was diagnosed with septic shock, which is known to be a severe progression of sepsis. Sepsis is a widespread infection carried through the bloodstream which causes multiple organ failure. The doctors found remnants of fetal tissues inside my womb and quickly cleaned it. I was hooked on life support and it was only a matter of time until the infection reached my heart and brain. In other words, my body was shutting down. It’s common for women who go through surgical abortions to suffer from sepsis, and since the clinic I went to wasn’t likely to be sterile, my doctors suspect it was where it all started.
Advertisement
Waking up from the coma was perhaps one of the most terrifying ordeals that I’ve experienced in my life. The process of regaining consciousness was one hell of a trip—it came in stages. For three days, I was unable to process anything. I was delirious and terrified. But now that I think of it, being put in an induced coma spared me from a lot of pain and distress.A few months following my discharge, I still had to come in and out of the hospital for constant checkups. I had to go to several specialists to monitor my health. But while I had to cope with many other issues, I only had one main concern.Would I still able to bear children?My gynecologist told me that there’s no permanent damage to the uterus, but she did tell me that having children in the future could be challenging.It’s been almost four years since the whole ordeal and it’s been a long road to recovery. While I have made a full physical recovery, mentally, I’m still coping. The abortion itself already weighs heavily on the mind to this day. Add in the coma and the post sepsis care into the mix—it has taken me years to get back to my ‘’normal’’ self, but I’m not quite there yet. And I’m afraid I will never going to be.Just as I thought that I was moving forward, about a month ago, a pap-smear indicated some abnormalities. I had to get a biopsy and helplessly wait for two weeks for the result. I had not told my doctor about my abortion. Here in Indonesia, I thought it would be safe to not say anything. The last thing I needed was for anyone to judge me. During the excruciating wait time, I had convinced myself that somehow my botched abortion had fucked me even further and gave me cervical cancer. When the result came, I didn’t know if I was more relieved that I didn’t have cancer or that I didn’t have to come forward to my doctor about my illegal abortion.Above all else, I’m angry. I should be able to prioritize my health over everything else, especially stigma. Maybe in another world.
ONE EMAIL. ONE STORY. EVERY WEEK. SIGN UP FOR THE VICE NEWSLETTER.
By signing up, you agree to the Terms of Use and Privacy Policy & to receive electronic communications from Vice Media Group, which may include marketing promotions, advertisements and sponsored content.
