I've never been good at giving news. I wanted to be a journalist in college, but I kept crying when I listened to NPR, so I chose comedy.
With that in mind, it was Saturday night and I had just picked up my then-boyfriend Gabe for our hot date: feeding spaghetti to the homeless. He gave me the classic awkward car hug and kissed me. He told me that his sister just had her first baby. Seeing this as the perfect transition, I told him I was going to have a baby too, except I wouldn't be keeping mine. He blinked at me.
So I did what any woman of a certain generation would do in this situation. I played Enya's big hit, “Only Time.”
The lyrics were haunting and ethereal:
“Who can say where the path goes?
Where does the day flow? “Only time”
Gabe got sick in the next few days and didn't talk much. It wasn't that he talked much to begin with, but now he practically didn't talk. She felt personally responsible for the situation, but she couldn't blame him. I was there too. Did I consider that I came from a long line of fertile women or that this is how babies were made? No, I wasn't exactly thinking.
Originally from North Carolina, Gabe, who played drums, moved to Los Angeles just a year earlier with his two musician brothers. Out of place, but finding his groove in long, lonely nights painting and playing music with his family, he lived an artistic, if quiet, life. During the day, he worked as a substitute teacher and I worked as a comedian in Los Angeles, which, if you look closely, is not work at all. I was underemployed. A baby wasn't in the cards. Plus, I had my career to focus on.
I called Kaiser Permanente and asked for an abortion.
“I'll have an abortion, please.” I asked as if I was ordering a pizza.
“Would you like to terminate a pregnancy?” confirmed the person on the other end of the line.
“Yes, an abortion,” I repeated.
“When do you want your dismissal?”
Kaiser directed me to Planned Parenthood. The closest clinic I could find that could perform the abortion as soon as possible (within two weeks) was in Lawndale. That was two hours from where I lived in my childhood home.
I asked my brother to take me and my sister in the back seat. I went to the appointment and waited three hours to be seen. I waited so long that they put the first two “Twilight” movies on the small TV on the ceiling. Women of all ages sat in the waiting room, looking around quickly, seeking connection and distraction. The only thing I dared to do was put on red lipstick and take selfies. They told me the baby was 5 weeks old. The nurse was friendly in customer service. She told me to expect chunks.
That week I did a comedy sketch. With the title “How to get rid of COVID-19 in 5 easy steps!”, I represented five very false ways to get rid of COVID-19. He earned 110,000 views on TikTok.
A month later, I hosted a comedy variety show at El Cid on Sunset Boulevard. Around the same time, Roe v. Wade was potentially going to be reversed and Texas banned abortions. Then I made a joke about my beat-up car and abortions that went something like this: “I'm so glad I had an abortion in California because if I were in Texas, I wouldn't be able to drive out of state. I have a 1999 Toyota Camry, I just couldn't stand it.”
This is how Gabe's brothers found out. Me speaking into a microphone with 60 strangers in a Spanish restaurant on a Wednesday. We didn't discuss it later. I posted the joke online a few weeks later – 2,892 views on TikTok.
Shortly after, my sister told me that she had seen Gabe on a dating app. We broke up shortly after that. I processed it the only way I knew how: once again, by telling jokes to strangers. “My ex was really into door hardware. (Pause.) He was on Hinge. My sister told me he was on Hinge. I don't recommend it. (Pause.) Having a sister.” It ended with 19,600 views on Instagram.
A few months after the breakup, Gabe came. After we had sex, he was washing in the bathroom and I was in the bedroom. I called him.
“Do you ever think about the fact that we almost had a child?”
His response was instantaneous. “All the time”.
“All the time” sounded like a mantra in my head for days. It sounded to me while I was sleeping, in my waking life. I wanted to play my 20s again, rewind, move forward, choose differently. He would try to see me with a boy. They would be 4 years old now. Gabe would be there. We would live together in North Carolina, where he is from. We would be happy. I would be writing. I would be painting. We would have large windows and a backyard.
Recently, Gabe returned to North Carolina. I stopped acting. When I think about giving up a baby for a comedy career, I think: What career? I work as an editor. There are no awards in my name. Nobody recognizes me. I never reached 100,000 followers. At the time of writing this, I have 3,390 followers on Instagram. Only 96,610 are missing.
I think about Gabe and I think about him thinking about it. The potential child, the aborted future. I wonder if he regrets it too. He must do it. Like a failed version of Enya's smash hit, her voice calls out to me from the wall between us.
All the time. All the time. All the time.
Emma Estrada is a writer and comedian who lives in Glassell Park. She co-hosts Confessions, a monthly reading series. Find out more about it on Instagram: @confesiones.reading.
Los Angeles Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to hear your true story. We paid $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find shipping guidelines. here. You can find previous columns. here. Editor's Note: Do you have any dating stories to tell about starting over? Share it on LA Affairs Live, our new competition show featuring real dating stories from people living in the greater Los Angeles area. Find audition details here.
