Today, I saw a headline on the Open Salon Home page that said, "My Saturday as an abortion clinic escort". 

I did this one day.  And, until I came across this teaser on the home page, I had thought that the memory was firmly locked somewhere in the darkest recesses of my mind.  I knew it wasn't gone, but I had hoped that it wouldn't be something I'd be forced to think about again.  Unfortunately, it seems that the experience wasn't so much locked up as it was just lying in wait for just such an opportunity to rile up all the conflicting thoughts and emotions again.

I am, without a doubt, pro-life.  I'm not fanatical or rabid about it; I don't try to force my views on others.  But, that is my stance. 

I am also a licensed healthcare provider, and I don't leave my job at the door.  I make a point of not working in facilities where my beliefs regarding abortion would come into conflict with legal and appropriate medical treatment, and I had always thought that this would be sufficient to avoid too much strain on my conscience.  But of course, as is the weird way of Life, a situation came about in which I had to choose: my pro-life stance, or my beliefs regarding the responsibilities of my profession.

To me, part of working in healthcare is accepting that the job will follow you home in some way, whether in a literal sense, or an emotional or academic manner.  I would have accepted that fact anyway, but as it turns out, I really had no choice in the matter.  Before the ink on my license to practice was dry, the calls began. Calls from family, calls from friends,  calls from friends of family.  Calls from acquaintances of family, from family members so distant that their particular branch of the family tree is likely closer to China than it is to me, from people who met one of my family members over the oranges at the grocery store and were somehow referred to me for sound medical advice regarding their bunion/sprain/strain/lumbago/bursitis/nausea/leaky bump/failure to poop/failure to stop pooping/pooping in weird shapes (yes, that's one I've actually had)/weird- icky-oozing-rash-in-a-place-where-the-sun-doesn't-shine.  And, oddly, people who are decidedly not friends, but for some inexplicable and unmentionable reason came to me instead of their doctor when they found themselves in need of help.  (Maybe because they don't have to wait two weeks to get an appointment.  Something else to blame on managed care.)

 Of course, it would be the last of those on the list who, involved in a tempestuous situation of their own, managed to ensnare me in the private ethical dilemma I had always hoped--and secretly assumed--that I would be capable of avoiding.

She called me early one afternoon.  I knew her voice well--having heard it too many times to count over the previous few years--but something was different.  The impetuous, demanding manner was absent from her normally strident tones; her voice was lower, and gritty.  It was quite clear that she was in great distress, as the desperation reached out through the lines and washed over me, causing a vague, mild anxiety.  I inquired about the reason for her call, fearing some horrific accident; after all, she was the ex-wife, and the mother of my best friend's children.  I assumed they--or my dear friend--could be the only reason for such a call.  She gulped a few times, as if swallowing back tears,  and poured out her heart.  Odd, up until that time I had wondered if she even had one.

I should stop to explain that I had no kind feelings whatsoever towards the Ex at that point, nor do I now.  She had married my best and oldest friend under false pretenses after becoming pregnant; he thought it true and lasting love, and she thought of him as her starter husband (she actaully told me that), acceptable for the purposes of wringing him dry to finance a large and luxurious wedding, and to avoid the talk that always seems to follow the bearing of an out-of-wedlock child in a small town.  After the wedding, she encouraged him to take a job that required him to travel out-of-town all week because it paid more; enough for her to "play".  While he was away, the future Ex would take the kids to the home of her playmate of the month (or week, or day).  The kids had a lot of "uncles".  My friend would come home on the weekends, expecting to spend time with his family, and instead was berated for daring to watch his wife primp for a night out with "friends".  His world was shattered one day when, upon arriving home early as a surprise, he took receipt of the shock instead.  The pregnancy test-- clearly used, clearly positive and left out in plain sight on the bathroom counter--said all that needed to be said, as marital relations had ceased to be well over a year before.  Being the loyal, naive and trusting type, he was crushed by the betrayal and the subsequent behavior.  The list of reasons for intensely disliking this woman could go on for reams, but I'll get back to my recounting.

 Through her wrenching sobs, I managed to decipher the gist of the matter: the odds had failed her once again, and she was pregnant with the baby of her current copulation cohort, who was not the man she was currently extorting...ahem, residing with.  Of course, it was not her fault; who knew that the result of being too cheap to buy another condom packet would be getting knocked up?!  Stifling the impulse to advise her to buy in bulk (or at least lift some from the stash of the Current Cohab), I struggled to beat down my inner catfight to hear the rest.  Apparently, the moment the strip turned blue (well, probably half an hour after the results were in; being the overly dramatic type of human who has a knack for making everything more complicated than it actually is, I doubt she could have managed to evaluate the test in less than 30) she had rushed to the car and driven to her best friend's home, undoubtedly endangering many innocent lives on the way.

 In retrospect, she probably should have anticipated the reaction she got, but again, she was just one of those people who don't seem to realize that the worlds of others don't actually revolve around her.  The friend, a flower-child type in  manner and dress, happened to have rather a lot of children.  Lots of children, she was constantly surrounded by a sea of humans in multiple sizes; it is possible that the number of children was smaller than appeared, as the Flower Child's residence was quite small. 

Perhaps blinded by her tears, but likely by her selfish nature, the Ex arrived at The Shoe, expecting a shoulder to cry on, a reassuring pat on the back and an offer of assistance.  What she got was rather different than anticipated(karmic payback, maybe?).  The sympathetic shoulder dissolved into what the Ex viewed as a brutal backstab.  Fervently pro-life, and honest to boot, the Flower Child refused to accompany the Ex to the "anti-baby" clinic, and insisted that the Current Cohab be told, as the Ex had conveniently failed to mention the part about the parentage of  Baby On Board.  The Ex did not take this at all well.  Hysterical, she fled the Flower Child Who Lived In A Shoe and her many children for the relative comfort of a vehicle paid for by the parent of the Current Cohab and the reassuring bars indicating adequate cell service.  And she called me.

She had already made an appointment, she said.  She just needed a ride, because the clinic won't perform the procedure unless you have someone to drive you home (I later found out that that wasn't true).  It wouldn't take long, maybe an hour, two at the most.  She didn't have anyone else, she said.  Her best friend had turned her away, and threatened to tell on her unless she came clean with the C.C.. I think she was more upset by the possibility that the Flower Child would spill the beans to the Current Cohab, as that would likely have presented similar incontrovertible evidence to the C.C. as had been presented to her ex-husband in the past. It was clear that she did not desire a repeat performance.

Despite my catty and uncharitable personal thoughts, and the bile that had instantly risen to my throat at the thought of the procedure she had so casually scheduled, my professional strings went taut.  Despite my negative feelings for this woman, despite the things she had done, the lives she had callously toyed with, the feelings she had injured...no matter how badly my personal persona literally throbbed with the almost overwhelming desire to bark an exceedingly rude comment (advice to do something sexually explicit to oneself, as if she had then she wouldn't be having her current troubles) into the receiver, hang up on her and puke...my professional conscience kicked in, bit my tongue and took the reins. 

I have always loved what I do.  Despite the emotional rollercoaster days, the sleepless nights, the stress of the field, I had never regretted working in healthcare...until that moment. This was a desperate, unbalanced woman, near hysteria, a drama queen to whom appearances mattered more than anything, calling my healthcare provider self.  She wasn't looking for a friend to hold her hand, nor a shoulder to cry on; she was looking for medical assistance.  And although my rude, catty self privately thought that she should be seeking a rather different type of professional help, involving a lot of chemicals, some serious needles and possibly a locked ward, it was to me that she came.  And since I can't seem to leave my work at the door...my private thoughts remained private, and I agreed to give her a ride.

 My personal conscience was appalled, and shocked silent as she gave me the information.  My provider self dutifully recorded the appointment.  I hung up.  I threw up. 

I dreaded the approaching day every single day of the two weeks leading to the appointment.  A queasy feeling was my constant companion throughout the waiting period.  I told no one.  I prayed.  In a strange way, the incident brought me closer to God.  Lord knows I am not the model Christian, but I do try to adhere to at least the most basic the tenets of my faith.  Finding the time to pray though, does challenge me.  That was an area of my faith upon which I improved dramatically as a direct result of the whole situation. I think I prayed during every moment that my concentration was not otherwise seriously occupied during those two weeks.  Was this the right thing to do?  Should I cancel? How I wanted to cancel! Could I live with myself if I actually drove her to the appointment?  Would God hold me responsible for enabling her?  How could I live with myself if I cancelled and something terrible happened? Could I sit there in that room, knowing every detail of the procedures being performed as I sat, a useless, spineless bump on the proverbial log, conscience warring with duty?  Would I suffer as a provider if I didn't see it through?  Was I ethically obligated now since I had agreed to drive her there? Legally obligated, since the Ex had come to me in a professional capacity? I prayed for guidance.  I was physically sick.  I worried about being mentally sick, obsessed.  Seriously, I love my work so much that I can't say no to someone I can't stand? I couldn't sleep at all the night before; I didn't even try. But when day dawned, I went.

The Ex was fine when I picked her up that morning.  Fairly cheerful, though dressed down quite a bit from her usual, in jeans and a drab gray sweatshirt that matched the dreary weather, she chugged coffee and yakked throughout the entire 90 minute drive as she applied her makeup, layer upon layer.  I blamed my reservedness on my anti-morning tendencies.  I chugged coffee like a German chugs beer at Oktoberfest.  I smoked like a chimney.  I sped like the Little Old Lady From Pasadena.  Go Granny, go Granny, go Granny, go.

We arrived in the parking lot at 8AM.  A tiny clot of ancient and wizened anti-abortion protesters anemically shouted standard we-can-help phrases and feebly waved with knotted, wrinkled hands signs much too large for the windy conditions.  The Ex shuddered, whether from genuine fear or for appearances' sake I didn't know.  As we exited the car, the cold, thick rain changed over to snow.  A sign?

I normally love snow; it blankets all the ugly things with a fresh, clean cover, and instantly cheers me.  A message that I would be forgiven for doing what I felt duty required me to do, despite feeling that it was wrong on a personal and spiritual level? The internal conflict raged; my stomach heaved.  I felt so torn, part of me wanting to comfort the non-violent, little old church lady protesters, who appeared genuinely saddened by our failure to approach and be helped.  They were careful not to set so much as a single arthritic toe in the parking lot, sticking to the median like glue.  I felt like a traitor; to myself, to God, to the little old ladies.  But duty won out,  beating down the personal.  I took hold of the Ex--who actually asked me if the little old ladies a full football field away (and in grave danger of being blown away should a gust of wind catch the oversized signage just right) were going to hurt her; damn, I knew she faked that shudder--and escorted her to the door of the clinic.  I sat while she signed in.  And sat.  And we sat.  And sat some more.  The room was packed to more than maximum capacity; we were practically overlapping the thighs of the strangers sitting next to us.  Private discussions were impossible.  And some of the things I overheard that day...I would give almost anything to not have heard them in the first place.  The Ex didn't seem affected, but then again, she'd had quite a bit of Valium; a little perk for those who brought a driver.  I waited there in that room for seven hours, trying not to listen to the conversations around me...A muted but easily distinguishable conversation between Fashionably Dressed Girl and Adorably Rumpled Guy Obviously Dressed By FDG over in the corner.  FDG was angry and snarled at Rumpled Guy as he bent toward her, urgently whispering as if his life depended on it; RG looked considerably distressed.  When she was called in, Rumpled Guy took off, as though the Hounds of Hell were nipping at his heels.  It was not hard to imagine what he would be thinking about until FDG emerged, as I had overheard the conversation.  I'm sure his heart was bleeding that day, and I had no choice but to empathize.  To suffer your own hurts is bad enough, but to be a very large, very obvious fly on the wall in such a private, emotional conversation is almost as bad;  a weird and heart-rending empathetic experience for a complete stranger.  When it's on TV at least you know the characters...I saw girls leave, alone, and again struggled with my choice.  Watching the lonely kicked the duty argument up a notch or two; no one should have to be alone for this...Casual discussions of acquaintances coincidentally meeting up in the same place as before, comparing notes on how many procedures they'd had done.  Nine for one....seven for another.  Another girl couldn't remember, and was trying to decide how many she'd had by counting her partners  on her fingers.

I thought they were talking about something else at first.  I could not believe that someone would make the same "mistake" nine times.  Come on, even if you knew nothing about birth control--and they aren't supposed to let you leave without a prescription for your choice in contraception--you would have had to figure out cause and effect after the first few, at least.  Hello!  While abortion is a legal choice, it is not supposed to be intentionally used as one's primary form of birth control.  A legal choice doesn't absolve one from the responsibility to try to prevent the need to make such a choice.  It's not supposed to be a freaking reunion.  It's not supposed to be fun.  And therein lies the argument for many against abortion: there are no regulations in place that ensure that abortion will not be used as the sole form of birth control.  No, it's not the norm.  But neither is it okay.  And one would think that those who are pro-choice should be just as opposed to this behavior as the pro-lifers, as it is that behavior that endangers the current woman's right to choose.

The Ex was loopy and irritating all the way home; part of my irritation may have been jealousy that the Ex, to whom the whole thing was a relief, got to be zonked on Valium while I drove with those lingering thoughts and questions and intense emotions felt for strangers for company.  Again, I chugged coffee; again I smoked like a chimney; again I put the pedal to the metal like Granny.  I dumped the Ex off at the C.C.'s place, and cried myself home. 

I will again lock this memory behind little doors, and hope it stays there this time.  I made a choice, but I still don't know if it was the right one for me as a whole person.  My private persona still grieves.  My professional side feels that I could not have turned away someone in need.  I can live with myself, but only by locking it away.  I am shamed.  I hope with my whole being that I will never be placed in that position again.  But the experience did assist me in making those decisions for the future should there be a need.  I can fulfill my professional duty by locating someone else who can help personally without betraying the sum of my parts.