JUNE 26
A line of people stand in front of Planned Parenthood holding signs and pictures of aborted fetuses. Some are holding rosaries, their heads bowed.
I make the mistake of looking at one of the protestors, a man about my father’s age. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says ABORTION IS MURDER.
He holds out a pamphlet. “Jesus loves you, and he doesn’t want you to have an abortion. He’s given you this child as a gift.”
I ignore him and grip the strap of my bag. My heart starts to beat hard, and I want to run away.
Two clinic volunteers dressed in bright pink vests stand between the protesters and me. But that doesn’t stop them from yelling at me. “The devil has you in his grasp,” one of them shouts. “Those women are his handmaids!”
“Don’t worry about them,” an escort with long braids says. “They’re here all the time.”
“Don’t let them intimidate you,” another volunteer says.
Too late.
I check in, and the receptionist hands me a clipboard with paperwork to fill out. I find a seat toward the back and sit down, tucking my purse under the chair. The girl next to me is talking to her boyfriend, something about getting a pizza tonight. He puts his arm around her and kisses the top of her head.
I look away before they notice me staring.
I fill out the paperwork as fast as I can, worried the nurse will call my name before I’m done. My pen pauses over one question: How many sexual partners have you had? I look around the room, wondering how many sexual partners all these people have had.
I hate that phrase sexual partners. It sounds like something from the sixties, like the word lover. I’m not sure Dean qualifies as a sexual partner, because it only happened once. I write in the number one, cross it out, and then write in one again with a question mark next to it.
I watch patients come into the clinic. Some walk in with their arms crossed tight over their bodies, staring down at the ground like they want to make themselves as small as they can. Some come in defiant, their jaws set and a determined look in their eyes. Most of the women are accompanied by other women, though a few are with guys; one trails behind his girlfriend, his expression sheepish, holding a wad of money in his hand.
People come out of the clinic door clutching small cans of ginger ale and white prescription drug envelopes. Some are crying; some look relieved. Others come out nonchalant, and I have to guess those are the ones here for birth control and not abortions.
Finally, my name is called. The nurse takes me down a hall, and we do the weigh-in—I’ve gained two more pounds—blood pressure, and temperature thing.
She hands me a plastic cup, and I go into the bathroom and pee in it. I leave it on a little shelf in the bathroom where she told me to, wash my hands, and leave. I feel sorry for the person who has to test those pee cups day in and day out. It must be the grossest job.
Another nurse takes me into a room and has me undress from the waist down. This time I leave on my socks. I hide my underwear inside my jeans pocket.
I sit on the crinkly paper and wrap the paper sheet around me. I wait. The longer I wait, the more nervous I get. I think about the crisis center, and how they made me wait on purpose. I know this is Planned Parenthood and they wouldn’t do that, but I can’t convince my body. My hands start to sweat and my heart starts in with that pounding.
There’s a knock on the door, and a woman in a lab coat comes in. She’s reading my file and closes the door with her foot.
She sits on a rolling chair. “Hi, Camille,” she says. She holds out her hand and I shake it. “I’m Dr. Esperanza.” She wades in right away. “So you probably already know that you’re pregnant, and the test does confirm that. You’re trying for a judicial bypass?”
“Yes, I’ve already met with the lawyer Jane’s Due Process got for me.”
“Okay, so this will be our first appointment together, which will include the Texas-mandated counseling and ultrasound to confirm the pregnancy. Your second will be the actual procedure. Now, have you thought of all your options?”
“I don’t want to have it,” I say quickly, firmly. “I don’t want to talk about my choices. I mean, if that’s okay.” I try to look Dr. Esperanza in the eye, but I can’t. I’m not like those defiant girls in the waiting room. I try to sit up. I try to pretend I am.
She hands me a pink booklet called A Woman’s Right to Know. “Texas law requires me to present this to you, but I can tell you that it isn’t accurate. For instance, the side effects of abortion that they name are the same ones as being pregnant. Look it over because the judge might ask you questions to check you’ve read it, and then make sure you keep it for your court file.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice shaking. “Did I fill out the paperwork correctly? I mean, I didn’t know what to put for birth control or for that question about sexual partners. I’ve only been with one guy.” I swallow. “Man, I mean. He’s not my partner.” Stop talking, Camille!
“Of course,” she says. “Go ahead and lie back, and we’ll get started.”
The ultrasound is the exact same thing they did at the crisis center so I know what’s coming—the cold, hard probe covered in goo. But I’m having a harder time putting it in. It’s like my insides have clenched up.
Dr. Esperanza sets her hand on my shoulder, her face kind. “It will be better if you relax. I know that’s easier said than done.”
I finally get it in, and Dr. Esperanza takes hold of the handle. Dr. Esperanza is gentle, and I don’t feel it sweeping around as much as I did at the crisis center.
“Okay, Camille,” says Dr. Esperanza, looking at the screen. “I’m required by Texas law to describe what I see. You don’t have to respond. By the measurement from head to rump the fetus is about eleven weeks along, and about an inch and a half in size. I’m going to turn the screen toward you, but it’s up to you if you want to look at it.”
She turns the screen, and I keep looking at the ceiling. I hear the squeak of the screen as she turns it back toward her and then the hum of the printer. She takes the ultrasound picture and puts it into my file. I remove the probe and take the cloth she hands me. She holds out her hand and helps me sit up. The paper crunches as I scoot back on the table.
“Any questions for me?” she asks.
“Will the abortion hurt?”
“It can be uncomfortable with cramping and bleeding, but we’ll prescribe pain medication to make it easier for you.”
Suddenly I don’t care if the abortion hurts or not. I want this over and done with. I’m sick of thinking about it. I’m sick of it taking over. I want everything back the way it was. I want to stop thinking about what will happen if I let this continue.