“I took a good friend with me, as well as my boyfriend. It was a three hour drive to Houston and no one said much. As we neared the abortion facility protesters with large, grotesque signs came into view. I averted my eyes. I had a sick feeling as I sought to push away the reality of what I was about to do.
Once in the facility, I checked in and my boyfriend and friend sat down with magazines….
There were so many women there of every age, race, and seemingly socio-economic class. We were grouped together as we made our way through the process. At one point, I was given an ultrasound, and the tech matter-of-factly declared, “5 weeks.” Then it was on to group “counseling.” A young woman explained the process and then opened the floor to questions. I knew the answer to mine before I even asked, “Is it alive?” The response was, “It’s a clump of villi.” It was what I wanted and needed to hear, but I knew better.
Then it was back to the waiting room where we all sat until we were called, one by one, to do the actual procedure. I was struck by the tea party like atmosphere. Most women chatted seemingly nonchalantly. At one point, a woman tapped her foot impatiently, glanced at her watch and said, “How long is this going to take, I have stuff to do.” I was shocked, and wondered to myself, “Does she not have any idea of the significance of what she’s about to do?” A pretty brunette suddenly offered, “My husband keeps saying we’re going out tonight. He just doesn’t get it.” She told us she was 13 weeks pregnant and had a three year old daughter. Again, all I could think was, “You’re married with a child, why are you here?”
I found myself talking to a woman to next to me. At 38, she was older than most of us. Inexplicably, I began trying to convince her that she could do it, raise her baby. She gave me all the reasons why she couldn’t.
Out of all of us present in our group that day, there was only one woman who, in my view, was having the appropriate response. She never stopped crying, never made eye contact with anyone, never spoke. She just sat there, curled up in a fetal position, as she stared off into space, and wept.
One by one we were called. I sat there, stomach churning, knowing in my heart of hearts that this was SO wrong. I had not been able to quiet that inner voice that kept gently telling me, “No, you must not do this.” I argued back and forth with that voice. It was so gentle, so serene, but also very persistent. My name was called. I got up and made my way to the table. “Take everything off below the waist and lay on the table, feet in the stirrups.” I reached for my pants.
I hesitated. I stood frozen. The nurse noticed my reaction and advised me to go back to the waiting room and let a few more go ahead of me, until I felt more ready. Ready never came. When I was called a second time, the same thing happened. The nurse looked at me and said, “You don’t really want to be here.” I replied, “Does anybody really want to be here?”
She told me I was early and had lots of time to come back. Plenty of time. I knew I was walking out of that place and NEVER going back.”
