Two days after
© 1999 Lillian Hendrickson

Waiting, waiting, waiting? Sitting by the phone. Checking the ringer. I thought about how I noticed the passage of time. While I was going over my bills, I stopped suddenly as I realized one thing I had not done all month. Now I just waited for the phone call.  What would I do if it were positive?

I didn't need this now. I couldn't deal with it at this time. My son needed me more than ever. I had just explored the thought of divorce with my husband. Financially I was teetering more than I was emotionally. It was such a wild possibility that I wouldn't think about it until the results were back.

The news did come and I let out a heavy sigh as it was confirmed.  Indeed I was pregnant. As I asked the nurse if she were sure there wasn't any sort of mistake, I decided what I would do about it. 

I had an appointment the next day to talk with the doctor. I went over the possibilities all night. My choice was the right one for me at this time. After already knowing the bond a mother and her unborn child create, I knew I certainly couldn't give it up.  I could never bare that. Then there were the complications another child would cause. It'd wreak havoc on my son adjusting to the changes that would soon occur. I couldn't provide adequately for another child financially, let alone emotionally.

I went over all of this with my doctor when I asked for a referral. The thing that made me uneasy the most was the fact that my insurance would not cover any post counseling.

Two days after Valentines day, three days after my husband came back, I was to go to the clinic. At that time, as far as anyone knew I had a tubal pregnancy. I did confide in one person, a friend to whom I could turn to. Perhaps that was cruel, but had I told anyone, surely I would have been stopped.

My father drove me to the city and dropped me off in a parking garage. I took my referral slip to the counter and wondered if I was in the right place. Indeed I was, but somehow I had pictured it as different. Though why it would be any different, I didn't know. It just wasn't what I had expected.

I took my forms and watched mothers bringing in their daughters. Some were angry, some indifferent, and some seemingly very compassionate. Obviously all the mothers of soon to be UN-mothers were "helping then make the right choice". I was there alone.

At the side door on this chilly afternoon, there was a lone man pacing. He carried a sign that said "abortion kills" or something to that effect. It shocked and horrified me. I could only imagine what it would be like if there were more picketers. The kind you see on TV, the kind that shouted and cursed the young girls making a difficult decision.

I watched the man as he quietly passed the doorway again and again until my name was called. I approached the counter and informed the lady at the counter of the old man.  Not knowing just why I did, I thought, "Well what could this lady do about it. She couldn't take away that image. She couldn't stop him from his right, just as he could not stop her from her right."  The lady shrugged it off, saying, "There's usually someone(s) out there." She then processed my information and sent me to get my blood work done.

I was sent to wait some more until the counselor came to explain step-by-step what would happen and asked me for my reasoning. I was then
taken upstairs to another waiting room where I met another young girl. We started talking, both wondering if we were sent to the right place. It made waiting more comfortable.

We were given gowns, robes, and a muscle relaxer. As the "meds" took effect we seemed to forget why we were there. We even giggled some. It faded, as our half hour wait was about to end. Our names were called. Each of us was taken to a room.

The room was sterile and white. Two nurses came in and informed me the doctor would be in shortly. As the doctor entered, the nurse that was holding me made an off comment.  It was meant to be funny, to set me at ease, but I found it offensive.

Again I was informed step-by-step, but this time as it happened. It began to hurt. I closed out all thoughts of how this procedure worked. As I began to think the pain was too intense, the doctor said it would be just another minute until they were done.

I could feel the suction tube inside me and could no longer shut out the details.

In recovery, of course we were reflecting on what had just transpired. But coming to grips with how it can never be undone, I didn't need nor want to hear her say how she could feel her baby holding on. Of course that wasn't possible and was her way of expressing the emotional aspect of it all. Now I only wanted to watch the clock and hold the heating pad against my stomach. The heating pad was comforting. In fact in some strange way, it will live on as a warm memory of that day.

I slept for a day and a half before calling my friend I had confided in. I even apologized for worrying her by not at least calling and saying I was OK, not that I needed to apologize.

I feel no regret, for I knew it was the right choice. Every year two days after Valentines day, I light a candle, and read the poem I wrote as closure. It will forever mark my soul, yet I feel justified. And for each time someone makes a comment about "those girls," I will want to ask them if they think I reflect that image. For each person that wants to deny a woman the right to make the choice, I will want to scream, "Until you are there, you will never know!" For every newscast that shows picketers shouting "whore" at scared girls I will glare, knowing most of those girls ARE NOT. And for every person that claims the medical provider and the girls themselves are murderers, I will think of two days after Valentines Day.