An extract from Reservoir Bitches by Dahlia de la Cerda, translated by Julia Sanches and Heather Cleary

You might think I’m exaggerating, that an unwanted pregnancy isn’t a catastrophe or anything, but for me it was. It was the biggest catastrophe of my life. A fucking tsunami that wiped out every one of my hopes and dreams, even the mistakes I hadn’t gotten to make yet.  

I sent Gerardo a text. “I’m pregnant,” I said. “Really? Awesome!” he texted back, followed by a string of the dumbest emojis ever. “We’re gonna be parents, Diana. That’s fucking great!” “Great? Fuck no. No way.” “Wait, what? You wanna get rid of it? You’re fucking kidding.”  

Okay, I made that up … There is no Gerardo. I just wanted to add some romance to the story. I got pregnant from a one-night stand. I didn’t know the guy’s name and had zero interest in finding out. His performance was underwhelming. Yup, I got knocked up by a terrible lay.  

I’m the kind of girl who gets used as an argument against abortion. The kind who hooks up with the first guy who sweet-talks her on a night out. The kind who should be on birth control, get her tubes tied, or keep her legs closed. I let total strangers grope me. I like parties, getting wasted, making a drunken ass of myself.  

The idea of going through with the pregnancy never crossed my mind. So I looked into my options. I googled “abortion” and found a few clinics, all in Mexico City. Too far. I read up on a whole range of shady home-abortion methods. Stuffing parsley up your vagina. Using a mix of Coca-Cola, aspirin, and black sapote as a vaginal enema. Drinking rue tea, oregano tea, star anise tea. Stabbing your uterus with a coat hanger. One click after another led me to a video of a fetus fighting for its life while screaming “Ouch, ouch, that’s my foot!” I laughed, then I felt sad.  

I came across women who’d had abortions talking about hemorrhages, blood clots as big as planets, painful curettages, hypovolemic shock, and rotten, worm-eaten intestines. Tales of remorse, pain, and terror. Somewhere in these stories, I heard a girl mention a drug called misoprostol. I googled it.  

Misoprostol—according to Wikipedia—is used to treat gastric ulcers, but it also makes your uterus contract. It was Brazilian women living in favelas who discovered it could end pregnancies. The World Health Organization later studied the drug and authorized it as a safe abortion method. It was a no-brainer, I grabbed the 500 pesos I had left and headed out.  

There was a Farmacia Guadalajara on the corner of my street, but the pharmacist asked for a prescription. I kept walking and reached a Farmacia del Ahorro, but the drug cost 600 pesos. I sighed and anxiously continued the search. I tried five other drug-stores. Most of them required scripts for misoprostol; the ones that didn’t charged more than I could afford. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I had another panic attack. “What am I going to do?” I thought. 

I read the instructions one last time, turned on the TV, logged on to Netflix, and found a good movie for an abortion: Mean Girls. I opened the box of misoprostol, took out four pills, put a drop of water on each one, and placed them under my tongue. I left them there for half an hour. They were bitter as hell, and swallowing was an epic feat. I threw up twice in my mouth and started shaking almost immediately. I washed what was left of the pills down with a little chamomile tea, then finished the movie and put on another, Legally Blonde. The chills got worse, and I pulled the blankets around me with Ricardo on my lap. I threw up and then had diarrhea. I wasn’t bleeding, and the cramps weren’t any worse than PMS. Legally Blonde ended, and I clicked on Miss Congeniality, put another four pills under my tongue, and waited for them to dissolve. It was easier this time: I’d gotten used to the taste, so it didn’t make me gag anymore. I washed down what was left with mint tea and made myself a quesadilla with panela cheese and turkey. Then the pain started: it was like a bad period, nothing too crazy. I took an ibuprofen and got into bed with a hot compress over my belly.  

A sharp tug in my uterus and an uncontrollable urge to push sent me running to the bathroom. I pushed, and a stream of blood and clots turned the toilet bowl red. The pain got more intense: it was way worse than a period now. The heavy bleeding lasted for a minute or so. I had another panic attack and wept inconsolably. I was terrified. I didn’t want to die, not in the middle of all this blood and shit. I’d always imagined a more rock-and-roll death, something involving an overdose at least. I slid to the floor and wrapped my arms around the base of the toilet, sobbing with fear, anger, and grief. I wanted a Gerardo to tell me I was doing great.  

Then the pain eased up. I stuck my hand in the water and felt around for the baby but all I found was a load of clots like the kind you get with your period. I flushed. I got undressed, ran the hot water, got into the shower, crouched, and started to push like a bitch with her litter. I pushed as hard as I could and squeezed out a stream of blood and a clot the size of a guava. I lay down on the tiles and stayed there for around half an hour. Then I got up, finished showering, and fed Ricardo. I made myself instant chicken ramen with a ton of lime, some Ruffles instead of tortillas, and an ice-cold Coca-Cola. I did the exact opposite of what the abortion instructions said, which was to eat light, drink Gatorade, and avoid anything that could upset your stomach. Maybe I did exactly the opposite because I wanted things to end badly, like with me in the hospital or jail or both. I watched Almost Famous and cried, as usual. The cramps came and went, and the diarrhea was annoying but manageable. My abortion lacked drama. I’d read about hemorrhages, excruciating pain. This was less a tragedy than a bad period plus the flu. I was also pissed that for the first time in my life it seemed like something was going to work out.  

I put the last four pills under my tongue and waited, almost happy, for them to dis- solve. The diarrhea had stopped, and there was no nausea or chills. Maybe a low-grade fever. I clicked on Knocked Up, rolled a joint, and opened a Heineken. When the pain came back it made me want to push so bad I busted out laughing. I went into the bathroom, sat on the toilet, and pushed hard. A bunch of huge clots and a wine-red liquid gushed from my vagina.  

I sat on the floor and stuck my hand in the toilet. There it was: a little sac the size of my pinkie with a rosy bean floating inside it. I sighed with relief and smiled, then tossed it back in and flushed.