In the Service we said
In the Service we spoke clearly and distinctly:
We said, This is Jane from Women's Liberation;
please leave your name, your number and a message.
We'll call you back. When she did, we did; then
we said, What was the date of your last period?
When we met to talk, we said, Are you sure
you want to do this? When she said Yes,
we said syringe, speculum, dilator, curette;
we said vagina, we said cervix, we said uterus,
telling how to open it from the outside;
sometimes we had to say forceps, placenta, labor,
trimester, hours, contractions, fetus.
(To each other, learning, we said it feels like
the roof of your mouth, those ridges up in there;
the curette scrapes along those ridges, spoonlike.
We said you can feel the shape, like a textbook
illustration; it feels just like the picture looks,
it feels just like you think it will; that helps. Later,
sometimes we said, She was more afraid of the shot
than anything else. Or we said, Her cervix was so tight,
I thought I'd be there for an hour, my arm frozen,
my shoulder numb, holding that dilator still.)
Lying there, some would ask, so we said No,
we're not doctors; we're women just like you.
We needed to know how, so we learned it –
you know, just like you learn anything.
First published in pms, peommemoirstory, 2001.
Women's Liberation
– for Esther
Every week we went to a meeting,
but not like now. No one stood up
and said, My name is Jane and I'm
an abortionist. No. Because we didn't
want to stop, we weren't trying not to do it.
We sat in apartments, passing the cards.
One card is Sandy from West Lafayette,
eighteen years old, coming in on the bus.
She's got about sixty-three dollars, she thinks
she's nine weeks pregnant. The next card is
Terrelle, who's thirty-two and angry. Her
doctor gave her an IUD that didn't work;
he says there's nothing he can do.
Here's Mona, fifty-four years old, has one
hundred dollars, wants to keep this secret
from her family. And Carlie, a long term –
twenty weeks pregnant, may have ten dollars,
twelve years old like Mona's youngest – she
got herpes from her brother when he did it.
Every week some of the cards were passed
around for hours; none of us wanted
to counsel those women, take one
into her life. The longest of long terms,
they lived far away, had no one but us,
no one to tell, no one to help, no money.
They needed everything. Cards went around
the room while we talked: dilation, syringes,
xylocaine, the Saturday list. At the end
of the meeting, all the cards were taken.
Oona Delany, 1971
A woman came to us, seventeen
weeks, nervous. Maybe scared,
like Julie said. Her eyes were steady,
dark. I'd seen some scared,
and Oona Delany was different
holding back, but not afraid to do it.
Her vulva was a wall, labia taut.
I had to massage her feet and belly,
rub her forehead. Then she relaxed,
let her thighs fall open,
let the speculum slide inside,
one smooth motion, in and open.
Then yellow pus poured out of her,
creamy pus, running thickly
down the plastic sheet. She tried it
before she found us. Maybe a hanger,
knitting needle, crochet hook. Maybe
a pencil with a sharpened point.
(She'd faked her temperature:
took the thermometer out, held it
up in cool air, waited ten, fifteen,
twenty seconds. Then Julie
came back, smiled, said Ready?
Oona smiled too, said Yes.)
We pulled the speculum out, cleaned
her perineum, thighs, buttocks.
You have a bad infection. We can't do this.
You should go to the hospital.
Go now. Julie will drive you.
But she grabbed my arm.
No! You have to do it! I brought money!
I can't have this baby. You can't make me.
Nobody can make me. I said I was sorry.
I said Please get dressed. We can't do this.
She was not crying. Tears filled, then
covered up her eyes; they closed her eyes.
Here is what happened
She was fifteen years old, she had to pay for college,
she had to pay for this, she came to my apartment
on a Saturday afternoon, her parents didn't know,
I didn't know her parents; her girlfriends brought her
up the stairs, holding on, holding her hands,
they wanted to help; I told them go, get orange juice.
She was already five months pregnant.
Two days before, we'd reached up inside,
pushed down on her belly; she breathed out like fire,
gushed out salty water (she was lucky, it came soon,
Saturday, no school, the girlfriends lied for her);
when she called, contractions coming, I said come over;
she sat on the floor, she bent her knees, I rubbed her back
like the baby was alive, nine months instead of five;
she rocked and pushed through those contractions,
they were close, we were close, I never saw her again;
she pushed everything onto the floor.
Her name was Rachel; she saidI don't want to see it.
When I took it away, she cried; I washed her body,
fresh cool water, holding her like the girlfriends;
she drank her juice, she took her medicine,
I drove her to a corner two blocks from her house.
She walked home from there because, you know,
she said; she touched my shoulder: thank you.
yes and no
yes; it's true, we killed babies, none of them born yet
none of them born yet to mothers just born a while ago themselves
mothers who were their babies' sisters, sharing the very same daddy
mothers with plenty of babies already, more than enough
mothers whose babies were all grown up, long grown up
mothers who got babies punched inside, shoved up hard inside
none of them born to mothers who wanted no babies at all
mothers who wouldn't feed them, didn't need them, couldn't keep them
so those babies, none of them born yet
never rolled their eyes back in their heads when they got slapped
never had to ask who their mama was, or their daddy
nobody ever told them it was their fault she couldn't finish school
they didn't fall down a lot, go to the hospital late at night
their mama didn't live with new daddies to make the rent
they never sucked Pepsi from a rubber nipple on the bus
and they never had to cry in a locked apartment
while their mama said, I can help whoever's next
while it was never them, they were never next; no
She said
– before 1973
On the phone she said, I have a friend who's got a problem, but she couldn't get to a phone so I'm calling for her. Do you know what I mean? Is this the right place?
When she lay down, she said, Are you a doctor?
Then she said, Aren't you afraid you'll get caught?
When we were putting in the speculum, she said, Oh, I had breakfast before I came. I know I wasn't supposed to but I was so hungry I just ate everything in sight, is that ok?
Later she said, I think I have to throw up.
Or, I have to go to the bathroom right now. Stop. I just have to go to the bathroom, and then I'll come right back.
Or, on a different day, I don't feel so good, should I do it anyway?
The next week she said, Infection? I don't have any infection. Oh, that. That's not really an infection. That infection's nothing, I've had it before, it's nothing, go on, go ahead and take that baby out.
Sometimes she said, Can I see it before you throw it away?
But another time she said, I don't want to look at it, ok? When it comes out, I'll just close my eyes, and you take it away, ok?
Once she said, What do you do with it all at the end of the day? Boy, you people are gonna get in trouble sometime, this's against the law.
And when we were done she said, What if it happens again? You know – this. Would you do me again?
She stood on the back steps outside the counselor's apartment and said, This is mi prima, my cousin, from Mexico. Can you talk Spanish to her? Habla un poco? Un poquito? Si, gringa! We will do this.
No, I'll keep it on, I'm not hot, it's ok, I'm fine. She was wearing her boyfriend's baseball jacket in the kitchen. She said, Just tell me what I have to know.
This is my husband, Ed. He's going to sit here with me. She leaned over, touched his arm, and said, Ed, honey, this is Julie, she's my counselor, the one that got assigned to me when we called the number.
When we told her she should pay whatever she could afford, she was quiet a minute and then said, I think I can get nine dollars.
My father brought me here today. He's paying for this but he's really mad at me for it. She took a hundred dollar bill out of her pocket and said, He thinks if everybody got liberated, like with civil rights, that there'd be a lot of trouble, and he says I prove his point, because look what happens when you just do what you want. He says that's why we have to have so many laws on everybody, because if you let people be free and do what they want they'll just do evil things.
When the sister-in-law was asked why she called the police, she said, It's a sin, she can't do this. She has to have it, we all have to. Jesus doesn't want her to get rid of this baby, that's why I did it.
He doesn't like me to talk to my mother. Him and his mother, they don't let me go home to visit. She put the tiny baby in her mother's arms and said, We sneaked to come for this appointment. He doesn't know I'm pregnant again. My baby is so new, I can't have another one right away. He wouldn't even want it really, he thinks this one makes too much noise. He doesn't like me to do anything without his permission.
Holding her purse, wearing her gloves, the girl clinging to her coat sleeve, she said, You take good care of her, she don't know no better, she's just a baby her own self, she don't even know how this happened. She don't know what it's all about, this whole thing.
My mother told me I couldn't keep it, she told me she'd get the baby taken away from me right away if I had it. She cried, loud crying with snot and choking. She wiped her nose and said, She knows I want to have it. I could be a good mother, I've taken care of babies and I know what to do. But I'm only fifteen so she'll get them to take it away from me, I know she will. That's why I'm doing this! I'd rather not even see it!
After the cervical injection, she said, How did you learn all this? Did you read a book? Is there a book?
Every now and then, she said, How come you let us bring our boyfriends over to your house to wait? Aren't you afraid they'll tell? And, Jeez, who are all these little kids? What're you guys doing, running a kindergarten on the side? Are those doughnuts for us?
When we finished talking and gave her our phone numbers, she said, What if it comes out alive? What should I do then? I can't have it be alive. Should I, you know, should I…? Can I do it by myself? It could be alive, right?
Now and then she said, Oh I'm so sick, what a mess, oh I'm so sorry, I really feel fine but this just happened oh oh here it comes again. Oh god I'm so sorry, I can't help it, I'm such a mess, oh thank you.
She rang the bell, and when we buzzed her in she said, My girlfriends are downstairs. They brought me over when I called you about the cramps. Should they come back for me or can you give me a ride home? How long will it take for it to, you know, all come out?
Another time, waiting to miscarry, she said, I'm sorry it's taking so long. I'm sure you've got other things to do, I know a lot of women are waiting. But thank you so much, thank you for letting me come to your house. I couldn't have done this at my house, for sure. My parents think I'm at my girlfriend's house, I just hope they don't call to check on me, `cause my girlfriend's mother could say something wrong and then I'd really be in trouble.
Ok, it'll take me about an hour and a half to drive home – I live over the line in Indiana – and here's what I'm going to do, she said one winter weekend. My father's a heavy sleeper, so if the cramps come in the night while he's sleeping he'll never hear me; I'll just go in the bathroom and lock the door. I'll do it all in there. He won't even hear the toilet flush, he never does, even when it's just ordinary, you know, flushing for regular reasons.
She looked at the clear plastic sheet on the mattress, the speculum and the syringe. Then she laughed and said, You ladies somethin, doin this up in here; you somethin, all right.
Why do you do this? She looked around the small bedroom and said, You're not rich. With what you charge, you can't be doing this for the money. What's it all about? Are you a bunch of women's libbers? Is that it?
I'm not nervous. I think you are good women. I'm never nervous, maybe cuz I'm always tired. She was so tired that when the woman beside the bed rocked her shoulder softly to wake her up, she said, It's over? I'm sorry, I just closed my eyes after the shot you gave me down there. I'm sorry, but I was real tired, I had to work a double shift and din have no time between work and here.
Ohmygod, does this happen all the time? This bleeding? She gasped and said, The blood is so dark. Ooh! Ice?! Ay! Make it stop! This ice tray is too cold! Ohmygod! You better not be scared, I'm the one scared, not you. Orange juice, are you kidding? Ay, what if I faint? I know people faint when they lose blood. Can you still do me? Did you finish?
She leaned over to the woman driving and quietly said, My daughter's in Children's Memorial, she's only two, she's having an operation on her stomach valve today – it doesn't work right, since she was born. My husband's over there, with her, for that, while I'm here, for this. Could I leave right after I'm done? Could you take me back right away, so I don't wait `til everybody is done? Would that be ok? Would the other women mind, do you think?
She gulped some water in the kitchen and said, Oh thank you, you'll never know what this means to me. Thank you so much. I could never thank you enough, I'm sure. I know some people say it's wrong, abortion, that you shouldn't take a life. And maybe we did take a life. But it's all give and take, isn't it? My mother always said that everything comes down to give and take. So I think the baby, today, that was the taking – and me, me in my own life, I think that was the giving.
First published in Calyx 17:3, Winter 1998.