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The saga continues�
The next day, I called Planned Parenthood, and talked to one of their hotline volunteers about abortion�the actual procedure, the required waiting period, how to make an appointment, what my payment options were, what would happen when I checked in, whether I could bring the Artboy with me, what resources would be available afterwards if I needed them. The volunteer told me that in order to be more sure the procedure would be successful, they liked to wait until the patient was at least 8 weeks pregnant. Otherwise, they might "miss". I sat with my calendar and counted back to my last period, then counted forward eight weeks. My voice shaking, I made the appointment. That gave me two and a half weeks to live with the reality that there was a baby developing inside me.
Adam, the Artboy�s roommate, was an anthropology major. He had a book in his bedroom that showed the different stages of fetal development. When the Artboy got home from work, he found me on the couch in my pajamas, poring over the book. He sat down close beside me and looked down at the pictures. "Are you sure, Jennifer?" he asked me. "You don�t have to do this. We�ll figure it out." Again, for the 100th time since I found out for sure, I tried to picture us as parents. Again, I came up blank. I was as sure as I was going to get. He took the book away and held me in his arms.
It was a long two and a half weeks. I was afraid I wore the pregnancy like a sign. I avoided my mom, sure she�d be able to smell it on me. I didn�t meet anyone�s eye. I didn�t look in the mirror. I slept in pajamas for the first time in 10 years, afraid of the sight of myself naked. I was exhausted and hungry all the time. My breasts ached. I didn�t want to be touched by anyone but the Artboy. I tried not to think about it.
I also avoided alcohol of any kind, stayed out of the way of the cigarette and pot smoke in the house. Despite the fact that I�d decided I wouldn�t let it live, I didn�t want to hurt it in the meantime. I was full of contradiction.
Finally, the appointed Saturday arrived, and the Artboy and I set off to the clinic. I had $400 in cash and a sterilized bottle full of my first morning urine in my backpack and directions in my hand.
In my confusion, I read the address wrong. We parked on Beacon Street and started walking toward the building I thought had the clinic in it. Oddly, it was the building that housed the other clinic on the street. There were a handful of protestors outside waving full-color photos of aborted fetuses and God loves you literature. The Artboy put his arm around my shoulder protectively and walked quickly through them, looking for the address I�d given him. One of them, a middle-aged, dumpy looking woman, stepped in our way and put her hand out to stop us. Cries of "God loves your baby�why don�t you?" filled the air behind us. She locked eyes with me and said, "You�ll always be a mother, honey. You�ll just be the mother of a dead child."
The Artboy�s grip tightened as he pulled me out of her path. "Don�t listen, Jennifer. Sing the Banana Splits theme song. La la la, la la la la, la la la, la la la la." We moved out of their reach and I looked at the directions again. The real address was about eight blocks down, back through the protestors. I was ready to walk. The Artboy, knowing I�d be in no condition to walk back afterwards, wisely suggested moving the truck. We crossed and walked as far from the protestors as we could. They smiled, thinking they�d saved my soul.
We parked again directly across from Planned Parenthood. There were protestors there, too. My heart sank at the sight of them�how could I walk through that again? Two women in (bulletproof?) vests displaying the Planned Parenthood logo approached us. "Are you coming inside the clinic this morning?" one of them asked. At my nod, she offered us an escort inside. When I nodded again, she stood on one side of me. Her companion stood next to the Artboy and they quickly ushered us in through the front door.
Inside, an armed guard asked for my first name and last initial, and the Artboy�s first name as well. He searched our bags and made us go through a metal detector. Satisfied, he hit a buzzer on the wall, signaling the inside staff to trip the lock on the inside door. The receptionist inside was behind a wall of bulletproof glass. I spoke to her through little holes and passed my paperwork and the $400 through a drawer, just like at the bank. She told us to have a seat.
We waited. And waited. And waited some more. I went inside once for a quick physical, then came back out. I went back in for a meeting with a counselor, then came out. We waited some more. I couldn�t have anything to eat or drink. We were almost an hour past my appointment time. Finally, exhausted and near-hysterical, I went to the desk to ask how much longer. They brought me inside to wait, away from rest of the room. The Artboy hugged me again, kissed me and watched me walk away with worried eyes.
Inside the procedure room, I waited another 15 minutes, then a nurse came in and reviewed the actual procedure with me. She advised that it would probably hurt. Then she and the technologist in the room did an ultrasound to confirm the pregnancy. I made the mistake of looking at the screen on the ultrasound machine. The nurse moved into my line of sight. "It�s better if you don�t look, Jennifer." They gave me an IV. I almost passed out. When I came to, there was a horrible noise in the room. I slowly realized it was the vacuum.
The "procedure" itself seemed to last forever. And it hurt. Nothing had prepared me for the pain of it. I bit the inside of my cheeks to keep from screaming. Finally, they shut it off. The only sound in the room was my crying.
A few minutes passed. The nurse helped me into the recovery room. I have no idea how long I was there. Finally, I was the only patient left. The nurses took pity and brought the terrified Artboy back so he could see I was okay. We sat in the sterile room forever. I�d had a bad reaction to the anesthesia. The nurse, anxious to get out the door and a bit annoyed that we were holding her up, advised me that if I should ever need to avail myself of their services again, I should make sure I was the first appointment of the day. The Artboy, in a clipped voice, reminded her that I had no idea I�d have a bad reaction, and that he was sorry we were inconveniencing her, but that surely she�d rather be sure I was okay than send me out before I was ready. They stared at each other. Finally, she walked away.
After what seemed like days, they let me get up. The Artboy helped me back out to the truck, brought me home, tucked me in bed, gave me ginger ale and let me cry on his shoulder.
I felt empty. Like they�d sucked my soul out along with the "tissue."
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