Dad met me at the airport in Fort Lauderdale in a
white Volvo station wagon.
“Whose car is this?”
“Florence’s. We’re having dinner with her tomorrow
night. She wants to meet you.”
“Florence?”
“She’s a friend of mine. You’ll like her. She has a
Ph.D. in Latin American Studies. She’s probably the smartest woman I’ve ever
met.”
But what about Mom?
It was 1978. Two years previously, Dad and I had both
left home in Connecticut. I had just graduated from college and moved to
California. Dad had lost his executive position in midtown Manhattan and had
been out of work for a year when he moved to Florida. An old friend had offered
him a job as the manufacturing manager at Panelfold Doors in Miami, which made
the kind of big, folding doors that divide up conference rooms. He was promoted
to VP in six months – even so, he was overqualified and, by New York standards,
underpaid. The move was supposed to be temporary, but Dad found he liked being
functionally single and thousands of miles away from his responsibilities. He
told Mom he wanted a divorce.
“Does Lista know Florence?” The car darkened as we
drove through the Las Olas Boulevard underpass. Lista was Mom’s younger sister
who had lived in Fort Lauderdale since the fifties. Dad had been living in
Lista’s back room for the past two years. With the divorce pending, Lista told
him to move out, but he hadn’t done so yet.
“We know a lot of people in common – it’s really a
small social circle.”
The pending divorce had jolted me. When I moved to
California, I didn’t expect my version of home to disappear so abruptly. I
thought I’d be visiting Mom and Dad in the same house into an indefinite
future. I felt stranded on the far side
of the continent.
I had flown down to Florida from New England, where
I’d already spent most of my vacation. It was late September and Mom had
planned a four-day trip to Vermont for the two of us. She had guessed right
that I might be yearning for the flaming foliage and piercingly blue days of
autumn in Vermont. I also think she wanted
a brief escape from the reality of divorce. She’d told me that Dad had been
repeatedly late paying the bills and mortgage. She worried constantly about my
older brother’s schizophrenia and my younger brother’s prep school tuition.
I was uncomfortable hearing about Mom’s troubles.
We’d never had an intimate relationship and I didn’t know how to have a
conversation about emotional subjects; I’d never had to.
In Vermont, we’d stayed at an inn with horse stables
and took long trail rides every day. I was fine as long as we kept busy. In the
low afternoon light, we’d sit on the porch, drink cocktails and stick to
inconsequential topics like books and movies.
When we returned to Connecticut, Mom went out to
dinner with an old family friend – a widower, my sister’s godfather. From my
room at the top of the stairs, I overheard their murmured goodnights at the
front door – then wordless rustlings and throaty contented noises. I pulled the
covers around my ears. Later, I didn’t want to ask Mom if he was her boyfriend;
I was afraid the answer would only unsettle me more.
Dad and I were approaching the Sunrise Highway exit.
“When did you meet Florence?”
“In May.”
He didn’t ask for the divorce until July. Was
Florence the other woman?
I changed the subject. “When are we leaving for Key
West?”
I was in Florida to spend a weekend in Key West with
Dad. He had invited me specifically –
maybe in reaction to the Vermont trip with Mom, but I didn’t care. This would
be the first time Dad had wanted to do something with just me and I was
thrilled, but apprehensive.
By the time I’d reached junior high, Dad had become a
shadowy presence in my life. He’d traveled constantly for business, sometimes
for weeks on end. Most nights, we never saw him. When he did come home on
weekends, he’d be tired, and I’d be busy with homework, friends, or riding
lessons. It wasn’t until college that I realized some fathers took active roles
in their daughters’ lives. Lauren called her father in New York almost every
day for long, laughing conversations. Mary Jo’s father in Philadelphia had
taken her to Broadway shows and to Europe on ships and taught her how to train
dogs. For both, their fathers were the most important and loved people in their
lives.
I was looking forward to Key West. While I didn’t
expect the trip to remedy the past, I did see it as a means to a new
relationship with Dad as an adult.
I stayed at Lista’s. When I was in college, Lista
would invite me down for Spring Break. She didn’t treat me like a child, but
let me drink and showed me the best places to meet boys. I used to like
visiting Fort Lauderdale.
She and I spent an afternoon shopping. It was still
hurricane season. The heavy air pressed in on me like steamy strangers. I felt
claustrophobic in the bright, yellow light. I bought a sleeveless cotton dress
designed for the tropics. It had eyelet scalloping along the deep “V” neckline
and a drawstring waist that gathered the fabric into a loose blouson. I felt
light and unrestrained in it.
Dad and I
arrived at Florence’s early the next evening for dinner. From the outside, her
house was a typical low-slung Florida place. Florence met us at the door. I put
her in her mid-to-late forties. She was thin, reedy, petite. Her voice was
penetrating and nasal, like a myna bird’s. It originated high in her cheekbones
and resonated down the length of her narrow, beaked nose. Her smile and
movements were tight and nervous. I did nothing to put her at ease.
Florence’s house was dark. She had densely patterned
carpets in browns and terra cotta in the living room. A boxy sectional sofa
upholstered in a dull fungal beige framed the room. A collection of
pre-Columbian masks and sculpture leered like predators from their perches on
shelves and tables. I felt confined and disoriented. Looking for a way out of
the dark jungle, I was startled by the futuristic gleam of a sleek white
Saarinen dining table on a single flared pedestal in the adjoining room.
Starkly lit from above, the table was surrounded by molded plastic chairs like white
tulips opening to a cold sun.
It was nothing like Mom’s house. In Mom’s living room, the sofa and chairs,
upholstered in cheerful blue-green chintz, were comfortably arranged with a few
clean-lined Colonial antiques in a room lit by tall windows.
“Okey-doke,”
said Dad. “You two can talk about me until I come back.”
“Where are you going?!” I panicked.
“I’m going to pick up Larry and Alita. I’ll be right
back.” He left through the garage.
Bewildered, I turned to Florence.
“Larry and Alita are my youngest; eleven and seven.
They’re at soccer. Your dad’s been helping Larry with his game.”
I’d ridden horses since age nine, taking lessons at
the Hunt Club, teaching at summer camps, competing through college – it was my
only sport, my long-standing passion. Dad never came to see me ride. “I don’t
like horses,” he’d say. “They’re too big.” I’d sung in church choirs for almost
as long as I could read and by high school I’d advanced to an elite Small
Choir. Dad seldom came to church. “I’d just fall asleep,” he’d laugh.
Over time, I stopped talking about my interests to
him. I kept my passions close and safe. I became invisible.
Florence’s nasal voice jarred me back. “Your father
has told me a lot about you. I’m so
glad you’re coming to Key West with us so we can get to know each other.”
I was stupid to let myself hope it would be different
this time. I don’t think Dad thought it would matter to me if she came. I don’t
think he considered me at all. I felt miserable and abandoned.
Dad returned with Larry and Alita, two ordinary
children. He herded them into the kitchen for their macaroni and cheese supper.
I tried to make conversation with Florence so I wouldn’t have to talk to Dad. I
was afraid I’d cry.
Florence cooked an impressive dinner – a coulibiac of
salmon in pastry and steamed asparagus with hollandaise – but I couldn’t taste
it through my hurt and indignation. I drank two glasses of wine quickly, but I
barely felt them. Dad kept up an animated chatter throughout the meal, blithely
unaware that something might be wrong.
I didn’t know what to expect of the Florida Keys. I’d
never been south of Miami. Sitting in the back seat of Florence’s Volvo on the
long drive south, I filled my head with stock images of thrashing marlin,
Bogart and Bacall trapped in a rickety hotel, and crocodile skins stretched
outside wooden shacks. Thank God the kids had been left at home.
We stayed in the old section of town at the Pier
House Hotel, a waterfront white clapboard building encircled with broad decks and
patios dotted with café tables and bars. Every night, street performers,
panhandlers and tourists gathered at nearby Mallory Dock hoping to see the
green flash at sunset, applauding when the sun slipped below the horizon. I
wanted to follow it over the edge of the earth.
Dinosaur plants with platter-sized leaves lined the
narrow streets. Trees with bark as smooth as honeydews, their heavy trunks
embraced by woody python vines filled the small yards. Damp moss hung like
grayish frayed cheesecloth from branches, and velvety green and black mottled
mildew clung to the shaded sides of fences.
I formed an uneasy truce with Florence, despite her
ignorance of the war I’d declared. She was
smart, well-spoken and accommodating. Late on Saturday afternoon, she and I
were dangling our legs in the hotel pool and chatting idly about the day.
“You know, Cindy,” she said. “I don’t know what your
father was talking about.”
“What do you mean?”
“He said that you were the difficult one, but I find
you delightful.”
Tears leapt to my eyes as if I’d been slapped.
I grabbed my cigarettes, mumbled, “I have to go now,”
and stumbled away. I walked without direction around the hotel decks and
stopped at an empty corner overlooking the ocean. I struggled to put a name to
what I was feeling, but my mind was jumbled. I felt sick and woozy as if on the
carnival ride that spins and tilts as it whips the twirling cars into
gravitational pandemonium. I clutched the wooden railing to keep from reeling.
I told myself I just had to hold on until Monday, when I was flying back to Los
Angeles.
I joined Dad and Florence for dinner that evening. I
was not going to let them see that they had upset me. After dinner, I decided
to visit the bar on the lower patio. I had seen that the baseball playoffs were
on the bar’s new big-screen projection TV, but I wasn’t going for the game. I
was going sport-fishing for men. I went up to my room and put on the new dress.
The loose, blousy top slipped around on my shoulders, setting the V-neck askew,
and allowing an unobstructed view down my front. I took off my bra before going
downstairs.
The patio bar was teeming like a tropical reef that
night. I ordered a Daiquiri and drank it quickly near the bar. I sipped a
second drink as I threaded my way through the crowd. I spotted a boy standing
near the big-screen TV, laughing easily with two friends. He was short,
dark-haired and dark-eyed. I don’t remember his name – I think it was Jonathan
– but he looked like a nice Jewish boy, easy prey. I let him buy me a beer,
then another one or two. I don’t know what we talked about, but he laughed at
my jokes. I decided that I would spend the night with him.
His friends left with their car, but I had the keys
to the Volvo. Jonathan offered to drive, but I declined. I liked to drive. In
college, I was always the designated driver – not because I drank the least,
but because I never seemed drunk. I was fearless behind the wheel. I reveled in
my ability to pilot a carful of friends back to the dorm on icy, winding New
England roads late at night. That night, driving an unfamiliar car along
midnight streets with a stranger didn’t faze me. The air was warm, the highway
was clear and dry, and I’d only had a couple of Daiquiris and beer. I felt
completely in control.
Jonathan was staying at a chain hotel near the
airport. The room had a king bed, a bathroom, and the requisite furniture. Once
inside, I don’t think we even turned on the lights. I had my dress off two
steps inside the room. I helped pull off Jonathan’s clothes with one hand and
yanked back the bed covers with the other. The sex was urgent and vehement. I
abandoned myself to it. When he fell asleep, I left, relieved and spent.
Two days later, I flew back to Los Angeles. I sat by
a window and watched the landscape change as we flew west. I felt I could fall
from the plane into any state and feel no less at home than I did now. My
ingrained definition of home had evaporated with the divorce. I felt completely
adrift.
After six weeks I had settled uneasily into my
regular routine. I didn’t talk to my parents much, but we had never phoned
frequently. I went through my days and slowly the anxiety retreated into a
dark, tangled background.
*
The magenta tiles, reflecting off the bathwater in
the weak blue light, tinged my skin the color of a bruise. On the water’s
surface, a film of soap and sloughed skin broke like algae around the hummocks
of my knees. A rivulet of water pooled at my collarbone and trickled onto my
chest. My hands drifted underwater like pale invertebrates. My breasts hurt. My stomach felt liquid,
threatening queasiness. My legs ached. I knew with a sudden certainty that I
was pregnant.
For me, the only true peril of sex was pregnancy.
Venereal disease, while possible, was unlikely and easily treated. Crabs could
be killed and AIDS didn’t yet exist. Getting pregnant was the most serious
consequence of sex I could imagine. And yet I had flown east without my
diaphragm.
Sitting in the tepid water, I felt like a cautionary
tale about unprotected sex. I leaned my forehead into the heel of my hand, and
muttered, “Dumb, dumb, dumb!”
Did Jonathan give me his phone number? Had I given
him mine? I had written him off as a one-night stand the minute I stepped out
of his hotel room. I couldn’t think of a reason to find him. I knew what I had
to do – get an abortion.
I didn’t allow myself to dwell, even for a moment, on
alternatives. I was twenty-four, single, had no steady boyfriend and an
ever-changing cast of sexual partners. I was a secretary in a medical research
institute – my first job – and had just earned a fifty-dollar raise to
$820/month. Alternatives were complications I couldn’t afford.
I stood up out of the bathwater and reached for a
towel. Turning, I caught my reflection in the mirror over the sink, its silver
oxidized and cloudy. Did my breasts, slick from the bath, look fuller or was it
a trick of the light?
I didn’t know where to turn for advice. I couldn’t
ask my mother – how could I explain what happened in Florida when I didn’t
completely understand it myself? We’d never even had a talk about sex. At age
fourteen, I had let her know my period had started by mutely presenting a pair
of stained underpants. I couldn’t ask my roommate although we’d been friends
since college. She used to jokingly complain about being schooled K through 12
by the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, but I knew her Catholicism was genuinely
and deeply ingrained. I didn’t want to force our friendship into an awkward
position over her personal convictions and my mishap. I worked with doctors,
but I couldn’t imagine approaching any one of them with such an intimate
problem. I could think of no one who could help. It didn’t occur to me to call
the company health plan. I felt
stranded on a sandbar in a rising tide.
Don’t panic yet, I advised myself. First find out if
you’re really pregnant.
I didn’t have a doctor in Los Angeles; I hadn’t felt
the need for one. Before leaving home, I’d gone to the family pediatrician. In
college, at the campus health center, I had gotten a pelvic exam, a diaphragm
and meager advice. I had never been to a gynecologist.
Now, I was irrationally afraid that an ob-gyn would
chastise or lecture me. Scenes of bad girls in grim stories about unwed mothers
and back alley abortions from half-forgotten movies and pulp fiction drifted
into my consciousness. Would I be talked into having a baby I didn’t want? I
knew I was being melodramatic, wallowing in frightening images in order to feel
sorry for myself, but I was a little afraid. I knew abortion was legal here in
California and was safer if done early, but I didn’t know how to go about
getting one or what to expect. I had thought I was a capable adult, but all at
once the world was looking like a big, scary place I was ill-equipped to deal with.
A free clinic struck me as an anonymous solution to a
difficult situation.
I was living in Echo Park, a marginal neighborhood in
northeast Los Angeles. My roommate and I shared the top two floors of an aging
1920’s house just south of Sunset Boulevard. We could see Dodger Stadium from
the upstairs window, and could hear traffic, sirens and angry conversations
wafting up from Sunset day and night.
I found the Northeast Community Clinic in the yellow
pages. I called for an appointment and almost hung up when the phone was
answered in Spanish. The woman at the other end quickly switched to English and
reassured me that I’d called the right place. I made an appointment for the
next day.
I didn’t know what to wear.
My wardrobe at the time could best be described as
“preppie” – virgin wool sweaters, all-cotton blouses and button-down shirts,
A-line skirts, chinos and jeans for casual, sensible shoes and a few pieces of
“good” jewelry. Although I had little money of my own, I was afraid my WASP-y
wardrobe would disqualify me for the free clinic.
My appointment was in the middle of the workday. I
decided on a faded but clean wrap skirt, an old sweatshirt to pull over my work
blouse and scuffed shoes. I left my college signet ring, antique amethyst, and
heavy link necklace made from my grandfather’s watch chain at home.
The clinic was on Figueroa Street in Highland Park.
Only seven miles north of downtown, Highland Park was one of Los Angeles’ first
suburbs. There were still clusters of Queen Annes and Craftsman bungalows in
the hilly neighborhoods. But now gritty industrial warehouses gave way to gas
stations, Taco Bells, seedy mini-malls and donut shops. As I drove north on
Figueroa, stuccoed apartment buildings transitioned to tired wood-frame houses that
seemed barely able to support the thick security bars covering every window.
Fences and walls marked with graffiti increased my disquiet.
I’d never been in this area before. Were there gangs
here? How do you tell? I’d spent almost all my life in New England and had no
cultural reference other than the Sharks and Jets. French had been my foreign
language; the C students took Spanish. I’d had dinner once at Viva Zapata, the
sole Mexican restaurant at home, but the hot sauce was so spicy I couldn’t taste
the rest of the meal.
I’d lived in Los Angeles long enough to appreciate
salsa, huevos rancheros, and chile relleños, but still wasn’t comfortable
around Hispanics. I lived in a Latino neighborhood, but with the exception of
Mrs. Acosta in the back house, I never spoke to any of them. I didn’t know if
there were gangs where I lived, but there was crime. My car had been stolen
twice and we were burglarized once. I presented these facts to my family with
the bravado of an urban explorer, but I was nervous walking outside after dark.
I found the storefront clinic in a block of small
businesses with shabby awnings and hand painted signs – bodegas, carnicerias,
credito facil, and check cashers. Inside, thick-bodied women with impassive
Mayan faces sat patiently on wooden chairs as if waiting for the next bus.
Their heads turned simultaneously as I entered the tiny waiting room, but I
could read nothing in their dark eyes. I felt like an intruder in their realm.
These women lived real lives and were waiting with legitimate medical
complaints. Their steady gaze seemed to expose me as an imposter. I wanted to
flee from them, in whose eyes I imagined I had committed a thoughtless,
frivolous sin.
I walked quickly to the reception window, identified
myself, and was asked to produce a urine sample. Returning to the waiting room,
I tried to make myself invisible until my name was called.
Estella, the nurse-practitioner, asked me to follow
her into the back. She handed me a thin smock. “Remove your clothes and put this
on. I’ll be in to see you in a minute.” I didn’t understand why I needed an
examining gown. I thought she would simply tell me the results of the pregnancy
test.
Estella returned. She was in her forties, maybe, and
tiny. Her high cheekbones arched up from either side of her long nose like the
narrow wings of a seabird and disappeared into her sleek black hair. She smiled
when she entered the room, breaking the severity of her features. Her brown
eyes communicated empathy as she took my history. I felt like a pale hulking
brute next to her dark grace, but her quiet competence was reassuring.
I lay back on the examining table. I was ashamed to
find myself here. I wanted to yank my feet from the uncomfortable stirrups and
clamp my knees closed. I held my breath as Estella slid the cold, clanking
metal speculum in. She removed it, stood, and put two fingers inside me and
pressed down hard on my belly with her other hand. I didn’t know where to look
– I couldn’t look into her face and it seemed too grimly stoic to stare at the
ceiling. I focused instead on a jar of cotton swabs on the counter beside her.
“Okay, you can sit up now,” Estella said, peeling off
the latex glove. “I’d say you’re about six weeks pregnant.”
I felt like I’d fallen into ice water at the bottom
of a deep well. A tremor shot through my gut and tightened around my uterus.
Estella was watching me intently, as though waiting for a response. I took a
deep breath, hoping my voice wouldn’t break. “What’s next?”
“That’s up to you. Do you want to be pregnant?”
I shook my head. “Could the test be wrong?”
“It’s possible, but not likely. What do you want to
do?”
I was sitting on the edge of the examining table in a
paper gown, my bare feet dangling like a little kid’s. I didn’t look up. “Well,
I don’t want a baby. I mean – not now, maybe in the future – but definitely not now.”
“Do you want
to terminate?”
“Terminate?”
“Abort.”
“I think I have to, don’t you?”
Estella cocked her head as if assessing me. “No, you
could carry to term and put the child up for adoption.”
“No! No, I have to have an abortion. Is that
something you do here?”
“We do perform abortions at this clinic, but I’d
recommend Family Planning Associates on Westmoreland near Sixth Street. They
charge more – two hundred rather than one seventy – but Westmoreland gives you
the option of a general anesthetic. We can’t do that here.”
I left with a packet of condoms and went back to
work, where I was in the middle of transcribing an article for a medical
journal. I liked transcription: the low hum of the typewriter, the clacking of
the keyboard, my foot dancing from pause to play to rewind as I banged out long
Latin-rooted medical terms. I felt safe under the headphones, words buzzing
from my brain down my arms and fingers like an electric current. I sat textbook
perfect: back slightly arched, elbows bent, forearms parallel to the desktop,
eyes fixed on the page. I watched the words race from left to right under the
spinning, twitching typing ball. I could have stayed in that world forever.
Three days later, at 9 am, I arrived at the
Westmoreland Clinic. I had made the appointment early so my roommate would
assume I was off to work. I called work and said I was feeling a little ill,
which wasn’t a lie. When I had called the clinic, the receptionist asked if
anyone would be coming with me. I told her no, I was coming alone. She paused
and asked, “Are you sure you’ll be okay by yourself?” Yes, I said, projecting a
self-reliance I didn’t feel.
I felt anxious as I drove past work and turned south
on Rampart to Sixth Street. I turned on Westmoreland and found the clinic. It
was a low brick building, trimmed in white stone, set back from the street in a
business district. It could have been a veterinary hospital, a printer’s
office, or a branch library. Its professional, benign anonymity calmed me.
Soothing classical music greeted me as I entered.
Women seated in armchairs scattered around the lobby bent over clipboards
filling out forms.
The nurse
behind the reception window handed me my own clipboard, pen and plastic sample
cup. Another urine sample? I filled
the cup, completed and returned the forms, and read a pink leaflet about first
trimester abortion. Other women had entered the room, some with men, some with
female friends, only a few by themselves. We all seemed fortressed in thick
shields of privacy. Like magnets of different polarity, we were alike but our
similarity repelled each other.
“Cynthia Smith,” the nurse said, standing at the door
with a file folder.
I followed her back to a small office to wait for a
counselor. I read in the pamphlet that the procedure was called “vacuum
aspiration.” It sounded like how I felt.
Ann, the counselor, came in and sat down. She looked
at my file.
“How are you feeling, Cynthia?”
“Um, okay, I guess.”
“Great. I’m going to explain the procedure and what
to expect, and answer any questions you might have. Do you have any questions
before we start?”
“I’ll wait.”
“Have you had anything to eat, drink or smoke since
midnight?"
“No,” I lied. I’d had at least two cigarettes since
leaving the house.
“Do you have the fee with you as a money order,
cashier’s check or cash?”
I had asked for hundred dollar bills at the bank
yesterday instead of twenties. I pulled them from my wallet and laid them on
the desk. They looked as unfamiliar as foreign currency. “Is that correct?”
Ann nodded, slid the bills into an envelope and
clipped it to the file. “You can pick up a receipt when you check out later
today.”
“After we finish here,” she continued, “you’ll change
your clothes for surgery. The gown, booties and cap are in private changing
cubicles. Lockers are provided for your personal belongings. Did you remember
to leave your valuables at home?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Ann glanced up and smiled. “You follow
directions, I see. After changing, a nurse will review your medical history and
draw blood to check your RH factor and iron level. When the exam is finished, you’ll be escorted into the surgical
area. Any questions so far?"
“No…”
“The surgery is performed by a licensed medical
doctor. You’ll be in surgery from seven to ten minutes. The contents of your
uterus are gently removed by vacuum.”
“What about
anesthetic?”
“You have a choice of either local or general
anesthetic,” she said. “The advantage of local is that the recovery is much
faster – ”
“ – but you’re awake.”
“Yes. Your cervix is numbed, but you remain alert
throughout the procedure.”
“So you can feel what’s going on, but it doesn’t
hurt. Like having a tooth pulled?”
“Well… you’re similarly awake, but you may experience
some cramping during the aspiration.”
I’d had a wisdom tooth pulled a few years back under
local anesthetic by an oral surgeon. I
remember the enormous pressure he exerted on my jaw while the nurse braced my
head, and the grisly cracking as the tooth was pried out of bone. It didn’t
physically hurt, but I was shaky when he finished.
“What about general?”
“You’d be asleep for the entire procedure, but the
recovery is much longer, and you may experience some nausea or headache. Plus,
you’ll need to arrange a ride home when you’re released.”
“Oh.” I said. “I guess I’ll take the local. When will
I be able to go home?”
“Plan to be here two and a half to three hours – but
it may be less.”
Ann’s brisk professionalism was infectious. I began
to feel a confidence building under my anxiety. When I left Ann’s office, the
nurse brought me to the changing room. It was clean, spare and smelled of
disinfectant – like a public bathroom. A row of metal stalls lined the long side
and, instead of sinks on the facing wall, a squadron of metal lockers with
keys. Several other girls were moving
from stalls to lockers with me.
Once changed we sat in a small room waiting for our
names to be called. There were no magazines to read or pictures to look at.
Still, we didn’t speak or make eye contact with each other. Dressed in matching
green gowns, I felt like we were identical parts about to be processed by a
very efficient machine. I settled into a comfortable anonymity.
One by one, a name was called and a nurse led a girl
away. The wait was agonizing. I longed for something to read. Instead, I made a
game of guessing which girls chose the general anesthetic, and which opted for
local. Is the redhead nervous because she chose the local, or did she choose
general because she’s nervous? Were they thinking about me?
My turn arrived. History taken, blood drawn, I was
once again flat on my back, feet up in stirrups. I no longer felt ashamed. I
was confident about what I was doing. I felt purposeful. I took a scientific
interest in the procedure, anticipating success.
A drape across my legs bisected my torso, creating a
visual barrier. I glanced down to my right and saw a squarish, metal
contraption on wheels. A nurse inserted a speculum, diverting my attention.
“I’m going to numb your cervix with an injection of an anesthetic much like
Novocain,” she said. “This may hurt a little.” I braced myself, but the
sharpness of the pain stunned me. I let out my breath in a short, stuttering
moan. There were several injections, but each one hurt less than the last – or
maybe I was prepared for the impact.
“That’s the worst part,” the nurse said, patting my
thigh. “The doctor will be here in a
few minutes to perform the procedure.”
The male doctor bustled into the room a little bit
later and spoke in a pleasant, conversational tone.
“Hello, Cynthia. You doing okay so far?”
“Uh-huh.”
He disappeared behind the drape. I heard some
rustling as he spoke to the nurse in low, short phrases I couldn’t make out. I
heard something being wheeled near the foot of the bed, then I felt movement
around the speculum. “Cynthia, does this hurt?”
“No.”
“Good. I’m going to insert a tube into your uterus
and begin the aspiration. You’ll feel it moving around. It might be
uncomfortable and you may experience a little cramping, but you shouldn’t feel
any pain. This will take only a few minutes. Do you have any questions?” I
shook my head. “Then I’ll begin,” he said.
I heard the machine go on with a low hum. The character
of the sound changed to a hollow, hacking, rasp like a cat expelling a
hairball. I could feel the vacuum tugging roughly at the walls of my uterus as
it passed by, pulling the lining inward, like a loose rug lifting from the
floor. The pattern of movement seemed random – I wondered how the doctor knew
when he was done. Where did the tissue go? I imagined a plastic pipe feeding
into the building’s plumbing, whooshing everything cleanly down the drain. It
all seemed so hygienic.
Then the unpleasantness was over. In the recovery
room, a nurse handed me a sanitary napkin. “Put this on in the bathroom, then
come back and lie down,” she said. “We’d like you to rest for at least an hour,
in case you cramp, and to make sure the spotting has stopped. How do you feel?”
“Relieved,” I answered.
I felt physically disconnected from my body, but my
mood was brightening. I took a clinical inventory of my condition. I didn’t
feel any worse than I do on the first day of my period – just a little tight
and achy – and I barely stained one pad. I lay still and waited.
How long had I been here? I fidgeted and looked
around for a clock. How much longer did I need to lie here? I felt just fine. I
finally sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. A nurse hurried over.
“Are you OK?”
“I’m great. Which way is the locker room?”
The nurse looked at her watch. “You’ve only been here
forty minutes. Are you sure you’re ready to leave? You know you can stay here
as long as you need to. Do you want a snack?”
“Really, I feel fine,” I said. “I’m ready to leave.”
I dressed, checked out at the desk and walked to my
car. I had the sense that I was no longer in the same world I had left this
morning. I drove south on Westmoreland. Light glittered off the plain buildings
on either side of the street. While I knew exactly where I was, I felt that
reality had shifted around me.
Westmoreland jogged right at Wilshire. The fanciful Art Deco edifice of the
Bullocks Wilshire department store materialized like an enchanted castle directly
in front of me. An ornate crown of verdigris copper shimmered above narrow
columns of terra cotta stone. Latticed squares of green copper leap-frogged
windows up the middle of its central tower. Copper crenellations rimmed the
roof, glimmering pale green in the liquid light. This was my frontier –
foreign, confusing, and difficult – yet dazzling in its peculiar splendor.
I made the turn and drove home into a hazy, luminous
day.