My brain whispered, “you’re pregnant.”

"Tequila shots!" 

"Maybe this tequila shot will kill the baby". I thought. 

"You know you said that out loud," Tamara said. "Stop saying that! You're going to be fine."

Her eyebrows furrowed and she avoided my eyes and looked to the left of me as she said it.

I took my second tequila shot of the night, squeezed my eyes shut, and tried to erase my memory, and the growing clump of cells in my uterus. 

I knew before I knew. I was never one of those girls, the ones that were perpetually scared they were pregnant. I had always been vigilant about condoms. I hated how birth control made me feel - uninspired and sexless. So I decided to stay off it and go the condom route instead. And I did, every time. If the condom broke, I would take a Plan B within 24 hours, every single time. 

I had been dating a male friend of mine for a few months who was a senior graduating in a few months, so it wasn't serious because I was only a junior and not interested in doing long distance or serious relationships at the time. He complained about using condoms because it interfered with the "feeling". He said he never used a condom with his last girlfriend of 4 years, and she never got pregnant, so I 'probably' wouldn't either. 

I'm Indian and have birthing hips for days. I had seen pictures of his wafty, blonde, narrow-hipped Eastern European ex. She probably hadn't had her period (or bread) in years. 

So I always made sure he used them.

That July, after dozens of barbecues, bluegrass patio nights, and after-parties that lasted until dawn, one day my brain whispered, "You're pregnant". It may have been the first time I felt like throwing up at 7 AM in the organic chemistry lab. It may have been when after sleeping 10-12 hours my lids felt heavy as I walked to class. It may have been the first time a sharp pain hit my stomach from my chest while sitting on the couch. I had never had heartburn before. 

The night I got pregnant was my friend Meredith's 21st birthday. I stood on top of our kitchen countertop dancing in a pink dress with two friends as we clinked our champagne glasses. As more people crowded near the counter, I scanned the room looking for him. He saw the look in my eyes and held out his arms, pulling me down and hugged me. I felt safe.

That's the last thing I remember clearly. 

Weeks later, when mind-numbing fatigue took a front seat, I took out a physical calendar and started marking off the days after my last period ended. When I saw that my most fertile day that month was on July 28th, the night of Meredith's birthday, it all suddenly made sense. 

"We probably had sex." 

"He probably didn't use a condom because I didn't protest in the moment."

"Shit, I was so tired, I don't remember."

It was too early to tell, and my friends didn't believe I was pregnant. Many of them had had pregnancy scares a million times in their past, and none of them ever materialized.

"Besides," they reasoned. "You're so crazy about wearing condoms. You even yell at us for not using them. You just can't be pregnant!" 

I knew without a doubt. 

I finally broke down in a club bathroom one night a week later, in a city a few hours away from our college town. My friend came in, took one look at my face, and whipped out her cell phone. 

"Call him, right now". 

I nodded and took the phone. 

I don't remember what I said. I remember crying a lot. He said, "Have you taken a test?"

"No, I just know."

He exhaled. I could picture him rolling his eyes. "Well then let's not freak out yet! We're probably OK."

I didn't understand why no one got it. I was 100% pregnant. 

A few days later back on campus, I walked to the neighborhood Walgreens, picked up a test, and came home. My roommate - and the same friend that was with me in the club bathroom - left "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" on as I walked into the bathroom, leaning her back into the corner of the L-shape. "Let me know when you're out!" she said, without turning around.

I peed on the stick, laid it carefully on the counter, and waited. I knew I was pregnant, so this part wasn't scary for me. I just needed confirmation so I could start getting help. 

Sure enough, the two faint pink crossed lines showed up. 

"Hey A, the crossed lines mean positive, right?"

She looked over at me, saw me holding the stick, and immediately turned off the TV. She ran across the living room, stood in front of me, and peered over the stick. "Oh. My. God."

"What do we do now?" I said. 

My mind tried frantically to search for helpful information. I mentally sifted through healthcare classes, mom advice, group texts, books about girls in college, anything that would prepare me for this moment. 

I felt irrationally angry towards my high school healthcare class, for focusing so much on abstinence and not enough on actual life.

I called him. "Hey, I'm back. It's positive." It came out a whisper. 

He came over immediately. As he stood on the porch having a smoke in the sunlight, one of my housemates came back from class, immediately ran upstairs, and hugged me. She said when she saw him "looking white as a ghost," it was obvious what had happened. 

"He's Eastern European - that's how he always looks," I said wryly. 

I knew I couldn't have the baby. I knew that. I was 21, still in college, with no money to my name. I regularly consumed spicy Cheetos, Kraft Mac and Cheese, and white wine for dinner. 

So I would get the abortion, I reasoned with myself.

I still felt sad, and this surprised me. I always imagined the first time I got pregnant would be filled with gifts, foot massages, diaper genies, and...a husband. 

I wanted to be excited to be pregnant. I wanted to embrace the miracle. I wanted to have it. Even though I was single and directionless, I wanted the baby more than I've ever wanted anything.

I have never told anyone that. 

Mostly because my parents would freak out. In Indian communities, not getting married before 30 is grounds for being disowned, let alone having a baby out of wedlock before you even graduate college.  

I remember thinking it was strange that we only talk about pregnancy in the context of baby showers, boyfriends, and husbands. At the end of the day, I was still an "I", with nothing tethering me and my baby to this guy other than his sperm. It felt like my baby that happened to have his genes. Not our baby.

I wondered if it wasn't so taboo, how I might have reacted. Would I have called my mother? Would she have rejoiced and moved in with me and helped while I finished school?

As a next step, I scheduled an appointment with the one Planned Parenthood we had left. They had removed the main one from campus, which made it super complicated because I didn't have a car being from out of state. So now I had to have my pseudo-boyfriend, pseudo-baby-daddy, take me to my appointments.

He drove me to my first appointment at 8:30 AM. I handed him the McDonald's wrapper from our 8 AM breakfast hash brown patties and walked into the clinic. He said he would wait outside because he felt too uncomfortable to come in. 

The clinic had linoleum walls, small grey seats, and was filled with serious-looking couples and a small TV blaring in the corner.  

I was given a woman doctor. I walked in, sat down, and said, "I'm pregnant, and I need to take care of it."

She looked at me.

"Well, have you taken a test?"

I said, "Yes, I have. Twice."

"Well, you are required to take one again in the clinic so we have it on file."

Fair enough. I wasn't one to save a pee-soaked stick anyways.

After I tested positive for the third time, I sat and waited as she typed on her computer. I would get this taken care of today, and then I would go get ice cream. 

Doctor: "OK so, it looks like you are pregnant. Have you thought about your options?" 

Me: "I have. I would like to get an abortion."

Doctor: "You know there are other options. We can discuss them."

Me: "I know. I would like to get an abortion."

What felt like the longest silence in the world ensued as the doctor continued typing and avoiding eye contact. It was probably 2 minutes. 

Me: "OK, so what's the next step? Do I go in today?"

Doctor: "No. You have to come in for two more appointments. We want to make sure you are sure you want this."

TWO MORE APPOINTMENTS?!

My brain was on fire. I couldn't believe I had to stay pregnant for a few more hours, let alone a few more weeks. 

"Ok, Ok. Well, I have organic chemistry lab every morning from 7:30 to 11 AM. Can I come in after that?"

Doctor: "Well, we don't have any afternoon appointments available for a month. Do you want to schedule it a month from now?"

She wanted me to stay pregnant for ONE MORE MONTH?! I tried to imagine myself getting through it and the only thing in my head was a vision of vomit splattered in my chemistry lab glasses. 

Me: "OK...I'll see if I can miss lab and come in earlier," I said in a near whisper. 

I had lost my resolve to stay strong and I felt defeated and so alone. Why didn’t she get it? I just couldn't stay pregnant. 

The problem is, for summer labs, you weren't allowed to miss more than one class, and Planned Parenthood was requiring me to schedule not one, but two morning meetings to get this done. 

Here's the other problem, I was already not doing well in the lab. I suspect because cortisol and nausea had invaded my body and brain. 

So the next day I set up an appointment with my chemistry lab teacher. He said that to get approval I had to meet with both him and the head of the chemistry department. 

They started talking to each other and to me in what felt like a rapid pace. 

"You can't miss any more classes otherwise we'll have to fail you."

"Oh, it's a doctor's thing? What do you mean you can't tell us? We have to know."

"Well, I guess we can just average out the grade you have now and see what happens."

"Well, she's in the bottom half of her class, so..."

"Yeah, to not fail, you're going to have to give us a reason."

Voice trembling, I said, "Is there a woman I can speak to?"

They cocked their heads. The head of the chemistry department, who was British, said, "Nope, all of the teachers are men. We’re it."

Again, silence persisted for what felt like hours. 

"Would you feel more comfortable if your teacher left the room?"

I nodded yes, eyes on the floor. 

My teacher rolled his eyes and walked out. 

The head of the department then firmly stated again, "Okay, now tell me. Why can't you go to class?'

Out of nowhere, or maybe everywhere, I started to wail. 

Between sobs, I said, "I'm pregnant, and it sucks."

Then it came pouring out. 

"I wish I wasn't, I'm so tired."

"I don't know how I'm going to afford this."

"I wish someone would help me."

Now the silence persisted, but from his end. 

When I looked up, he was holding a box of tissues and his mouth was agape. 

"I-I-I'm sorry. Have you tried talking to someone?"

"I'm talking to you now."

"I mean...a therapist."

"I just wish someone would help me," I said softly, as I continued to cry. 

After 10 minutes of sobbing into complete silence, I willed myself to stop, smoothed my pants down and stood up.

I walked out and neither of us said another word. 

From then on, whenever I was in the chemistry building and he walked into a room I was in, he would avoid eye contact and immediately walk out. 

2.5 weeks later, a friend drove me to the abortion clinic for my final appointment. It was far away from campus. The guy didn't come - he had "stuff going on" in his hometown a few hours from campus. 

I didn't care. He was barely part of this. 

When I walked into the clinic, the waiting room was eerie. Being the only clinic that did abortions for miles, it was filled with couples, rather women with gloomy faces sitting next to sullen or indifferent men. Some held hands, others turned away from each other.

In a small TV on a bench in the left corner of the room, the Maury show was blasting, screaming "Your teenager got pregnant. Which one is the daddy?!" 

I wondered why they would leave something like that on. 

As the nurse gave me instructions on what would happen, I looked over at my friend, A, and her face had turned gray. 

"Don't faint on me, A!"  

"I'm trying not to!" 

We laughed, both grateful for the brief levity. 

I walked into the room alone, while my friend sat in the waiting room. That's how it works - you're the only one in the room, besides the doctors, when it happens.

When the machine started whirring, my back on the hospital bed, I remember the song on the radio crooning about daughters. 

I wondered why they would play this song. 

The doctor leaning over me looked sad. 

A sharp pinch hit my belly button. I couldn't breathe. The scream stopped before it left my mouth. I closed my eyes and waited. 

The whirring stopped. I thought of all the things I would do when I did have a daughter, and all of the things I was missing out on with this one. The decision had been made. 

There was so much blood. I had brought a loose, cotton, flowy blue dress with straps that tied around my neck to the clinic to change into, thinking it would cheer me up. As bright-red blood came out of me and stained the dress almost immediately, I realized it may have been a weird choice.

When they saw the stain, they handed me a pack of thick pads. 

"Wear these every day for a few days. You may have some blood."

I went home and my roommates had ordered pizza, opened bottles of wine, and slipped the movie “Baby Mama” into the DVD player. 

It was crazy yet weirdly perfect. 

I bled every day for almost a month straight, and no pad saved me from staining couches, rugs, and my bed constantly.

Until one day I stopped bleeding, and I breathed. It was over.