This Common Secret: My Journey as an Abortion Doctor (26 page)

For the black-and-white protesters, women are reduced to little more than incubators. Their role is to produce babies, no matter what the circumstances. Where do their rights, their pursuit of happiness, their ambitions enter the equation? Why, like for the seed that falls, aren’t the conditions for growth considered?

We talked for more than an hour. I gained respect for his convictions and earnest beliefs. He, I think, learned a few things about the realities of abortion and the tough life dilemmas women are faced with.

Several times over the ensuing months we met and talked more. The last time we spoke was just before he was entering a seminary. At the end of the conversation, before we parted ways, he said, “You know, I can’t hate you any more.”

I don’t know what happened to him after that, but I never again saw him protesting outside of a clinic.

The professional protesters are the ones I fear. They are mostly men, and for them, protesting is a full-time obsession. They target different regions in the country or particularly vulnerable clinics. They bring their hate-filled slogans, their planes that fly over towns and cities pulling banners depicting bloody babies, their confrontational tactics. When they come to town, I wear my bulletproof vest and carry my gun. Unfortunately, their views have infiltrated the laws and policies of our country and the lives of my patients.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” the young woman said, after I introduced myself.

She was a Montana resident and member of the military stationed in Germany.

“How long are you home for?” I asked.

“Just long enough to get this abortion, a note from you that I’m no longer pregnant, and then I’m on a plane headed back to Germany.”

“Are you telling me that you had to come all the way back here to have an abortion?”

She nodded. “Our government won’t allow abortions in military facilities, so this was my only option. I had to leave my unit for almost a week and pay my own way to fly from Germany to Montana so I could continue to serve my country. Seems pretty stupid, doesn’t it? Here we are, overseas, fighting for other people’s freedom, but mine is taken away.”

It isn’t only the United States military that marches to the anti-abortion drumbeat, but all recipients of our foreign aid. In Africa and Asia and throughout the developing world, humanitarian aid is cut off if family planning counseling includes any discussion of abortion, or if women are referred to clinics that provide abortion services. If the option of abortion appears anywhere on the radar, it negates aid for well-baby care, infant formula, prenatal care, HIV treatment and counseling, and a host of other critically important medical services.

Worldwide, more than five hundred thousand women die each year from complications during pregnancy and childbirth. Tens of thousands of those deaths could be prevented by reproductive health care provided in clinics, the same care often denied because of the gag rule. Clinics in the United States are also cut off from federal funding and aid if abortion appears in the repertoire of services.

Sometimes the “gags” have nothing to do with the government or political atmosphere, but are self-imposed: silence and hypocritical denial enforced by the fear of public exposure.

One day in Kalispell, Montana, I stood before another young woman. She had her head down, wouldn’t look at me. Staff had warned me that she seemed repressed and unresponsive. They hoped I’d be able to get her to open up.

“Ruth,” I insisted. “We’re concerned about what’s pushing you to make this decision. We need to be sure this is something you decide for yourself, not for anyone else. I need you to tell me if you really and truly want this abortion.”

“Yes, I do,” she said quietly, still not looking up. “I want to finish college.”

“I was a single mom through college and medical school,” I told her. “It’s not impossible.”

She didn’t respond.

“I’m not trying to talk you out of an abortion, but I’m getting the feeling that there is more to this than going to school. If you won’t tell me what’s going on, I can’t proceed with an abortion.”

She finally lifted her head. Her eyes met mine, held mine, seemed to assess me. She sighed.

“My parents are very religious,” she began. “My dad is a deacon at the church. If I have a baby out of wedlock, it would be a mark on them. It would say to all their friends that their daughter has sinned. Sex out of marriage. It’s a terrible sin, and it would make them look bad.”

“Okay, so you’ve sinned in their eyes, but how do they feel about abortion?” I asked.

She laughed bitterly. “Oh, abortion. That’s totally unforgivable. But it’s the lesser evil because it would be a secret. If I have an abortion, their friends in church will never know.”

“So you’re having an abortion to protect them?”

“No, I’m having an abortion so I can finish college.”

I looked at her, my face full of questions. The clock hummed on the wall.

“This is the situation,” she went on. “I live at home. My folks help pay my college tuition. Their income is high enough that I would never qualify for student grants, and they won’t cosign on a student loan. If I have this baby, they will kick me out of the house and take away any financial help. I would be banned from my family.”

“They have TOLD you this?” I couldn’t keep the outrage out of my voice.

“In no uncertain terms,” she nodded.

“Well, that’s certainly a Christian thing to do . . .” I caught myself too late. The words were out. I usually enforce strict neutrality on my interactions with patients, even if I am shocked and appalled by a statement. I bite my tongue a lot, but this time I slipped up. I felt my face go red with embarrassment, but when I looked at Ruth, she was just nodding sadly in agreement.

Sometimes, when I catch myself judging others, I circle around and look at myself, the paths I’ve taken and the prices I’ve paid. I don’t spend a lot of time regretting things, but if I’m honest, I have to recognize the truth. My commitments have demanded a great deal from the people I love.

Sonja is thirty years old now. She is one of the most kind, loving, competent young women I know. I am immensely proud of her. But I can’t escape the pangs of guilt I feel for the years I was absent, the things I missed doing with her. For much of her youth, Randy might as well have been a single parent. I worked one hundred hours a week, missed parent-teacher conferences, missed doing homework together, going to swim meets, helping Sonja through tough times with friends. Randy, and sometimes David, her stepdad and dad went to the conferences, stood on the sidelines at games. They were there together often enough that some of Sonja’s classmates thought she had gay parents.

Those two men picked up the loose ends, they covered for me, and Sonja persevered and triumphed in spite of the challenges I threw her way. I know that my marriages, and to some extent, my relationship with my daughter, have suffered because of my commitments.

It continues to this day, that compromise. Julie is still back in Wisconsin dealing with Dad. Her life is bound up with his care every day. I am involved with his medical treatment. I take care of his finances. We’ve been able to keep him living at home, the house he’s lived in more than fifty years. I have made the two-thousand-mile round-trip drive from Montana to Wisconsin more times than I can count, in response to every imaginable emergency, but I have also chosen to carry on with my life.

Recently I drove to my family home again, across the plains of eastern Montana, through the badlands of North Dakota, into the forests and fields and humidity of the Midwest. At the end, weary with highway hours, I pulled in to the same leaf-strewn driveway where I learned to ride a bike, where I set up hay bales to practice parallel parking, where I galloped on horseback, my hair flying.

Flower Grandma’s trailer had been pulled away years earlier, replaced by a poorly tended garden. The house needed paint. The bird feeder hung broken and empty. But the creek still whispered below the house. When I stepped out of the car, I heard the wind in the white pines, the sound that strips away the decades and makes me a young girl.

“Hi Dad!” I strode up the steps to the door. I knew his hearing aid was likely missing or turned off.

“Dad! It’s Sue. I’m home from Montana for a visit.”

He looked at me blankly, and then recognition fired up his eyes. He opened his arms wide to hug me.

“Hey, maybe we should go somewhere,” he said. He didn’t ask how I was, what my drive was like. I was a possibility for escape.

“I thought maybe I could beat you in a game of cribbage,” I offered, instead.

“Yep, by golly. Let’s do that.”

But we couldn’t find the cards. He had moved them from the cupboard where they’d been for forty years. Looking around the living room I saw a note in Dad’s writing taped to the television. “You people get out of here and quit using my electricity!”

Julie had told me he talks to people on the TV, waves to them. He sees himself in the mirror and thinks that it’s his brother, Elmer. He’s convinced that Elmer lives with him, but he gets frustrated with him because he won’t answer.

“Someone came in here and stole those cards.” Dad was getting upset. I tried to push us into another direction, to change the mood. Finally, he turned to me. “Vera,” he said, “let’s have coffee.”

“That sounds good,” I said. I thought of Mom, her name hanging in the air, and of her life energy that I still felt in the house. I poured a dose of that Scandinavian liquid magic into our cups and sat down across from Dad, wondering whom he saw facing him.

Four days in Wisconsin, tending to some medication details, catching up with Julie, shouldering the load of Dad’s care briefly, then back to Montana in time for a Mother’s Day peace rally I’d helped coordinate.

For months we had been making calls, sending emails, printing posters, organizing interviews, gathering support from around the state. Many other organizations joined up. Speakers were coming from around the country. We had music scheduled and expected a huge turnout for our march down the Main Street of Bozeman.

On Sunday morning we were there early, setting up tables, water stations, information booths. The stage and sound system went up, along with the children’s tent. Ready to go. Great energy from everyone.

My cell phone rang. It was Julie.

“Just wanted to wish you luck today, Sis.”

“Thanks,” I said. “How’s Dad?”

“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. We’re taking him on a picnic to the lake today.”

“Have fun,” I said.

A pause.

“Hey, Julie?” I continued.

“What?”

“Thanks for being there.”

I closed the phone, started up the entrance road toward the stage. People were streaming in to the rally. Families, old people, kids in strollers, couples with picnic blankets, people carrying handmade signs and posters about peace. Hundreds of people.

I noticed a truck pulled up to the curb, someone erecting large signs on the back. Bloody pictures. Dead babies. Anti-abortion rhetoric. All the good energy I’d been feeling drained away, along with my feelings of well-being and hope. I stopped, stunned by the awful contrast, stricken by the old knot of fear.

“Susan Wicklund!” A rough man’s voice shouting from near the truck. A man pointing at me. “Susan Wicklund! Stop killing babies. Stop the murder!”

People turned to look at me. Instinctively, I wheeled away and started walking fast. I wouldn’t look back, but I felt like a target, waited for the sound of a shot. I reached for my left side, where I would sometimes carry the .38 Special. Not there. I hadn’t worn the gun in months. A decrease in clinic violence had lulled me into believing that I had a normal life. I pulled out the walkie-talkie and paged one of the rally organizers.

“Margie,” I said, urgently, “the antis are here. They have identified me. They’re putting up signs and—”

“Get out of there right now,” her voice cut me off. “Go to the area behind the stage and stay there. Go now! You have to stay out of sight.”

Crestfallen, I followed directions. I knew she was right. The old brew of emotions rose in me like bile, bitter and angry. That old dread that used to boil up every time I turned the car key in the ignition, every time the phone rang, every time I stepped off of a plane. Damn! Why today?!

In the area behind the stage, though, it felt comfortable, protected. There were details I could help with, questions I could answer. I saw people I knew. We waved to each other. I ignored the bad taste of confrontation, regained some of my positive momentum.

“Sue, are you okay?” Margie popped in to check on me. “We’re about to start.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” I told her. “Let’s make this a great day.”

“Listen,” Margie continued. “Would you mind sitting with Elsie Fox? We’ll be bringing her on stage in a bit. I think you’d enjoy talking with her.”