My personal decision to abort was not a straightforward one – I had to consider a whole range of complicated factors. I am decidedly pro-choice, but that stance didn’t make the process itself easier. My abortion was traumatic. A large part of me felt attached to that potential child and I was consumed by grief and crippling depression for months following. There is little to no non-religious space to discuss feeling a sense of loss post-surgery.

A very supportive male colleague of mine approached our CEO to ask if he could pass on some of his sick leave. He knew I was still bleeding and almost out of time for recovery. Not only is this incredibly touching, it illustrates an issue that rarely comes up in this discussion.

Greens candidate Kathleen Maltzahn recently outlined that medical abortions are becoming widely available and access to abortion is finally being viewed as a health issue rather than a political one. But while we strive to have access to treatment without being abused and assaulted, nuanced topics, such as other barriers and the issue of recovery, are unable to enter the dialogue.

Bleeding after medical abortions lasts for 10 to 16 days and side effects can include nausea, vomiting, diarrhoea and fever. From a mental health perspective, medical abortions can be incredibly taxing. Any of the blood clots that pass through could be your pregnancy. Think about looking down at that in your workplace cubicle. It is an experience that can be disturbingly visceral – more distracting from work and life than “just a heavy period” as it is often described medically.

I was told after my surgical abortion that I would be OK in 24 hours. The following day, I had extreme diarrhoea and could not get off the toilet. I bled for a week and felt huge pain in my abdomen for weeks following. My body, still thinking it was pregnant, continued the waves of nausea (which do not only come in the morning).

I tell people that I lost a pregnancy, because they are much more likely to equate this to the range of emotions and distress felt since. Abortion has rightly been normalised, but sadly reactions to it are often either held with stigma or dismissiveness. In my case, I felt a huge amount of pressure to “just try again” if it was “something I really wanted”. My mental health plummeted. I lost my partner, my enthusiasm for life and ultimately a job I cherished.

My predominantly male workplace was very supportive, and my employer allowed me to go into negative sick leave, take days off for mental health, work from home and put together a “back to work strategy” for re-entering the workplace. By the time my due date was nearing, however, I was suicidal and unable to work entirely.

I have since started doing something I wish I did a lot earlier – talking to other women about their experiences. I’ve attended a “loss circle” and finally opened up to friends who share a similar grief. It’s a horrible thing to have in common, but we make each other’s arms feel a little less empty.

A fellow writer took a week off after a miscarriage. Her work let her go into negative sick leave, which she says “all came down to the fact that I was comfortable talking to my editor about it.”

Should this approach be considered the best case scenario? Are we “lucky”? Many women do not have the same relationships with their employers. After her second termination in 18 months, a close friend returned to a job in hospitality within days. She had to work on her feet. She was still bleeding heavily. Her body “just lost it” and she got very sick, not having any time to rest before or post-surgery. She says she would have “never even asked for time off, because it would have made me feel silly.”

Another woman suffered a miscarriage and told her employer but has struggled to get the time off work she needs. She is now trying to resolve ongoing health issues, which has been met with a distinct lack of understanding. For both women and businesses, any time off work inevitably costs money.

Women, sadly, are often expected to pick up and carry on without much recognition for the weeks to months of physical recovery that happen after a short-term pregnancy. Emotionally, it is something that is likely to stay with you for life. Another self-employed friend made the difficult decision not to abort, despite getting pregnant at a young age, then went on to lose her pregnancy. She supported me around my due date, saying that every year I might find myself thinking “I could have a toddler beside me right now” or “my little girl/ boy would turn five today”. The day you could have given birth is lonely. The grief is private. There is no public mourning or body to bury.

The more I talk to other women who have had to make difficult decisions around complicated pregnancies, or where nature made it for them, the more I ask myself – why isn’t this a health issue with ingrained support structures in our society? Getting women to receive the healthcare they need is vital, but once we get the conversation past indulging a handful of people’s “freedom of speech”, maybe we can start talking about ongoing support, workplace involvement and our friends’, sisters’ and partners’ long-term recovery.

• Hannah Bambra is a writer and researcher based in Melbourne

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