After our third child, Jonathan, was born, we moved to Berkeley, where I was fitted with an IUD.
Ezra’s architectural practice was thriving, and he was teaching at UC Berkeley. His work involved frequent travel to the East Coast, and he was away for weeks at a time. I was being pulled in many different directions by three children with very different needs. I began to feel inadequate as a parent — out of my comfort zone and overwhelmed.
I struggled to hold things together for five years. When Jonathan entered kindergarten in 1969, I was thrilled to be able to return to my studies at the University of California. Kindergarten was half a day, and I was able to coordinate my classes with his. Life finally took on a comfortable rhythm.
One morning in October that year, I woke up feeling the familiar signs of early pregnancy. At first, I denied the possibility. Abortion was illegal, so I continued to rely on my IUD, considered the safest form of birth control available at the time. I had been told they were 99% effective, which meant I was now part of the unlucky 1%.
The thought of a baby growing together with the IUD was terrifying. What damage could that cause? But, more than that, I knew I couldn’t handle taking care of another baby. Life was just beginning to feel normal. The prospect of dealing with a fourth child filled me with dread.
I made an appointment with my obstetrician, who confirmed I was pregnant.
“I suppose I’ll have to resign myself to having another baby,” I said, my eyes stinging with tears. “We thought our family was complete. I don’t know how I’m going to manage. I’m afraid it’ll push me over the edge.”
“It sounds as if you might not want another baby,” my doctor said.
“No. I really don’t. I’m stretched so thin already.”
“Go home and talk to your husband. If the two of you decide you definitely don’t want to continue the pregnancy, here’s what you’ll do,” he told me. “Call my office and tell them you are having a lot of bleeding. They will tell you to go to the emergency room, and I’ll meet you there.”
I had been looking down into my purse, groping for a tissue. I felt my jaw drop as I raised my eyes to meet his. He was smiling and nodding slowly as he spoke. In his subtle, gentle way, he was offering me a choice — one I’d never anticipated would be possible for me. A sense of relief washed over my entire body. I had thought I was trapped, and I had been offered a way out.
When Ezra and I talked after dinner, there were no doubts — neither of us wanted more children.
The next day was Saturday. I called my doctor’s office and lied to the receptionist about bleeding heavily. Ezra drove me to the hospital, where we met the doctor. The two men shook hands, and the doctor told my husband, “Not to worry — I’ll take good care of her.”
As I was wheeled into the operating room, the nurse walking beside the gurney squeezed my hand. “You’ll be fine,” she said. That’s the last thing I remember about the procedure.
When I awoke from the anesthesia, I got dressed and waited for Ezra and the children to pick me up in the hospital lobby. They arrived in the late afternoon. They’d gone to a football game, and the children were still excited about it.
That evening, Ezra and I hugged and shared our thoughts about how relieved we were. He was particularly attentive and brought a stool so I could put my feet up. After he washed the dishes, he slipped out and came back with a tub of butter pecan ice cream — my favorite — our special way of marking important occasions.
I didn’t mention the experience to any of my friends. I had broken the law, and if word got out about my doctor’s willingness to perform this procedure, his life could be ruined. The threat of legal action scared me into silence. I’ve maintained that silence until now.
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