If your menstrual cycle is delayed, here’s what you can do: Heat up half a bottle of red wine and consume it while it’s warm. Then position yourself on a chair and leap off multiple times. This method may help resolve the issue.
It was March 1957, and I had just finished packing my trunk. I was leaving the next day to sail from England to the United States, where I would marry Ezra, my soldier fiancé. Those were my mother’s last pieces of advice. Not “never go to bed angry,” or “choose your fights carefully,” but how to terminate a pregnancy.
Her suggestion was unique. For numerous British women attempting to terminate pregnancies, knitting needles were the preferred tool. With fewer Americans engaging in knitting, prior to the Roe v. Wade decision that legalized abortion in 1973, many women in the United States—or those who helped them end their pregnancies—resorted to wire coat hangers. My mother thought her alternative approach was a safe one.
I smiled to myself, knowing her advice was likely ineffective. In the United Kingdom, only married women could obtain birth control, so I intended to get a diaphragm as soon as I reached America. I was certain I could prevent any unexpected pregnancies.
The following day after I arrived, I checked the yellow pages for “obstetricians and gynecologists” and located a nearby physician. I was upset when she declined to accommodate me, stating that I should return after getting married. Similar to Britain, the United States at that time only offered birth control to women who were married. My wedding was just two weeks away. What did this doctor believe would occur during my honeymoon?
Our first child, Ruth, arrived two years into our marriage — exactly as Ezra and I had intended. Dan came along 21 months later. Even though I was frequently tired, I found nurturing two young children to be exciting. Observing their growth felt like a continuous miracle. Later, three and a half years after that, while we were residing in Palo Alto, California, I learned I was pregnant once more.
As I was still experiencing morning sickness, Ruth and Dan both contracted German measles, also known as rubella. It was widely understood that if someone got it during pregnancy, particularly in the first trimester, the baby faced a significant risk of severe birth defects such as hearing loss, cataracts, heart problems, developmental delays, and damage to the liver and spleen. The baby could also be stillborn.
I inquired of my obstetrician what he would do if I were to contract rubella. “Nothing,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. A pregnant friend contracted rubella from one of her children and received the same response from her physician. She tried to take her own life as a result and remained in a vegetative state for the rest of her life.
After the birth of our third child, Jonathan, we relocated to Berkeley, where I received an IUD.
Ezra’s architectural firm was doing well, and he was instructing at UC Berkeley. His job required regular trips to the East Coast, and he would be gone for several weeks at a time. I found myself juggling the demands of three children, each with unique requirements. I started to feel insufficient as a parent — outside my comfort zone and stressed.
I had difficulty keeping everything together for five years. When Jonathan started kindergarten in 1969, I was excited to go back to my studies at the University of California. Kindergarten lasted only half a day, and I could schedule my classes around his. Life gradually settled into a pleasant routine.
One morning in October of that year, I awoke experiencing the usual indicators of early pregnancy. Initially, I refused to accept the reality. Since abortion was against the law, I kept using my IUD, which was believed to be the most secure method of contraception at that time. I had been informed that they were 99% effective, meaning I was now among the 1% who faced an unexpected outcome.
The idea of a baby developing alongside the IUD was frightening. What kind of harm might that lead to? However, even more than that, I realized I wasn’t ready to care for another child. Life had just started to feel stable. The thought of managing a fourth child made me extremely anxious.
I scheduled a visit with my obstetrician, who verified that I am pregnant.
I guess I’ll have to accept having another child,” I said, my eyes burning with tears. “We thought our family was finished. I don’t know how I’ll handle it. I’m scared it’ll push me past my limits.
“It seems like you might not be interested in having another child,” my physician remarked.
No. I truly don’t. I’m already overburdened.
Go home and discuss with your husband. If the two of you decide you definitely don’t want to continue the pregnancy, here’s what you should do,” he said to me. “Call my office and let them know you are having alotabout bleeding. They will advise you to go to the emergency room, and I’ll be waiting for you there.”
I had been staring into my bag, searching for a tissue. When I looked up and saw him, my jaw fell. He was smiling and slowly nodding as he spoke. In his quiet, kind manner, he was presenting me with an option—something I had never imagined could be available to me. A feeling of comfort spread through my whole body. I had believed I was stuck, but now I had been given a path to escape.
After dinner, when Ezra and I spoke, there was no uncertainty — neither of us desired additional children.
The following day was Saturday. I contacted my doctor’s office and falsely claimed to be experiencing heavy bleeding. Ezra took me to the hospital, where we encountered the doctor. The two men exchanged handshakes, and the doctor assured my husband, “Don’t worry — I’ll take good care of her.”
As I was being taken into the operating room, the nurse who was walking next to the gurney held my hand. “You’ll be okay,” she said. That’s the final memory I have of the operation.
After I came out of the anesthesia, I got dressed and waited in the hospital lobby for Ezra and the kids to pick me up. They arrived in the late afternoon. They had attended a football game, and the children were still full of energy from it.
That night, Ezra and I embraced and discussed how happy we were. He was especially considerate and brought a chair so I could rest my feet. Once he finished washing the dishes, he left briefly and returned with a container of butter pecan ice cream — my favorite — our unique way of celebrating significant moments.
I didn’t share the experience with any of my friends. I had violated the law, and if it became known that my doctor was willing to carry out this procedure, his life could be destroyed. The fear of legal consequences kept me quiet. I have remained silent until this point.
What might I have done if my doctor hadn’t provided this chance? My friends were traveling to Mexico for abortions, but the state of medical care there was unknown to me. I could have suffered a poorly executed procedure, which frequently occurred with illegal abortions carried out in back-alley settings in the United States. What if I had no access to healthcare initially or the funds to cover the procedure, as many women and families still face today?
I also thought only a well-trained obstetrician could be relied upon to remove the IUD that was positioned in my uterus next to my developing baby. Removing it presented another chance for errors to occur. Being cautious by nature, I might have declined these options and continued the pregnancy. I would have ended up as an angry, exhausted mother to all my children.
Today, at 92 years old, my childbearing years are long behind me, yet aging does not lessen the resentment I hold for lawmakers who use their authority to force a woman to continue a pregnancy against her will. Women who seek abortions are frequently depicted as naive teenagers, but countless responsible women with families find themselves in this situation, just as I did.
Our present lawmakers argue that some fertilized cells hold greater significance than a woman’s overall well-being — a well-being that affects her current family. Pro-life advocates raise concerns about “partial birth abortions,” yet women who have endured and cried through these uncommon procedures due to severe health problems are often labeled as criminals.
I’m sharing my experience now because perhaps it can help us realize the terrible situation we’ve brought upon ourselves. If I had been required to have a fourth child, the consequences would have been overwhelming—not just for me, but for my entire family. We have let down numerous women who are in the same situation I was in. I was too scared to speak out at that time. Now, I am choosing to speak up.
We find ourselves in an era prior to the Roe v. Wade decision, a period where women are stripped of authority over their own bodies. Medical professionals are naturally hesitant to emulate my obstetrician’s approach. Miscarriages are met with doubt and lack of compassion for a woman’s sorrow upon experiencing one. Women facing severe pregnancy-related issues are advised to “let nature take its course,” endangering their lives. Tragically, many have lost theirs.
Narratives of women who live with remorse over their abortions and long for the child that could have been are common within anti-abortion groups. My experience after an abortion was different. It allowed us to build the family we desired. I have felt no regrets.
I will forever be thankful for my obstetrician who was ready to face imprisonment and lose his profession to carry out my illegal abortion. Now that we’ve traveled back in time, women who don’t wish to have a child will still find methods to terminate a pregnancy as they did before abortions were legal. They’ll simply have to do it in unsafe and potentially life-threatening ways.
We are returning to the era of coat hangers and knitting needles.
Cynthia Ehrenkrantz is an author and narrative artist. She was born in the United Kingdom and moved to the United States in 1957. Her book, “Seeking Shelter: Memoir of a Jewish Girlhood in Wartime Britain,” can be found at all major book retailers. She currently resides in Westchester County, New York.
This piece first was published onHuffPost in July 2025.
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