Let me tell you, I have sat in doctors’ waiting rooms knowing that I had dead embryos in my uterus, and I have hated every single fertile woman sitting there with a beautiful swollen belly, the lovely Madonnas reading Parent Magazine or talking on their cellphones about what color to paint the nursery. I have woken up groggy after the surgery, sick to my flat stomach. I have laid on the table for an ultrasound and been told by a technician that there were two sacs, and in the course of a few seconds, I have envisioned two infants, seen their toddlerhood, walked hand in hand with them through the park, chosen my dress for their weddings, and booked my tickets to Oslo for their Nobel Prize ceremonies. And then seconds later, I lay there, legs splayed in the stirrups, while the tech ran to get the doctor because there was something “wrong” with the ultrasound.

So don’t tell me I don’t understand the agony of a D and C.

I never once changed my opinion about the right to choose.