ABSTRACT
Before I got sterilized, at the age of 27, people told me I was crazy. I would ruin my life; I would regret my unalterable decision; I would feel like less of a woman. I would meet Mr. Right and my womb would start yearning to carry his child. After the terrible deed was done, I got another reaction: people kept asking me how I felt now that I had done it, and wasn’t I worried about its effect on future relationships with men? The answers were disappointingly undramatic. I felt relieved that I had done it. Not ecstatic. Not despondent. Relieved. The dreary possibility that I might have to deal with an abortion or an adoption was gone: in a world of constant uncertainty, I had carved out one little piece of security for myself. As to how it would change my relationships with men, it wouldn’t. I feel a moral obligation to tell any man I become involved with that I will never have children. Ten years ago, I felt the same obligation.
