I knew the woods well and finally felt ready to head down the hill. I heard voices around the front of the house and saw a cigarette glow about thirty yards off the trail. Every few careful steps I stopped again, thinking of the things Dad taught me about stalking game and about being nearly silent in the woods.
It seemed an eternity. Step by step I made my way, pistol ready, heart louder than my carefully placed footsteps, slowly passing familiar ditches and other landmarks. Please. Please let me make it to the dirt road.
Just as I reached the prearranged spot, a small red car pulled around the corner, came to a smooth stop, and went silent as the engine was cut. “Sue?” I heard the whisper.
“Yes,” I breathed, “I’m here.” I stuck my head up from the cover of the ditch, shivering with adrenaline.
She delivered me safely to the stables. I walked inside. It was quiet, but full of the sounds and smells of horses. I opened the stall of my black mare, Beauty, and stepped inside. She roused and turned her head toward me. I buried my face in her neck, breathed in her scent, promised her a long ride on my next free day.
Once in the truck and on my way the questions started pounding in my head again. What’s happening? I kept asking myself. I’m not a criminal. I’m not a fugitive. I am sneaking through the woods with a gun in order to get to work. I flashed on a memory: the day in June 1989 when the clinic directors tried to warn me that life could prove to be a real challenge as an abortion provider.
After two hours of driving my adrenaline had been spent, and I could hardly stay awake, yet I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I felt a desperate need for a shower and found a motel room at two AM. I stood under the pounding hot water a long time, as if I could wash away memory and start over.
I reached the clinic before dawn, parked in the back, and dozed until someone came to open up. Out front, the protesters were already gathering, jubilant, taunting. They were obviously in contact with the group at my home and believed that I was successfully trapped there, unable to drive away because of the blocked driveway.
“No clinic today!” they jeered at the guards. “Your doctor won’t make it today! No babies will die today!”
I called home to find that my fears had been justified. The driveway was completely blocked. The police still hadn’t even begun to remove them from our property. The protesters had, however, rolled one barrel to the side enough to allow a police car to go pick up Sonja and then exit only after they had been convinced that I wasn’t in the car as well. As soon as the car was out, the antis quickly put the barrel back in place. The remaining officer let them do whatever they wanted, waiting for reinforcements to come later in the morning.
Outside the clinic, 240 miles away from my home, the protesters continued celebrating their victory. I couldn’t stand hearing them any more.
“That’s enough,” I muttered.
I opened the door at the front of the clinic and walked right out on the porch, stood there in my scrubs, and looked at the protesters, the suddenly silent protesters.
“I’m here!” I shouted. “I’m here, and there WILL be clinic today!” The look of shock and anger on their faces came really close to giving me some satisfaction.
Later that same day, between patients, I was called to the phone. It was the principal of Sonja’s school. The tone of his voice when he called me by name told me immediately something was very wrong. “I just found Sonja in the hallway, surrounded by some of her friends, but crying.” I could hear her in the background. Blood rushed to my head.
“What happened? What have they done to her?”
“She had a flyer crumpled in her hand,” he said. “It has a picture of you. It calls you a murderer. It says that ‘Sonja’s mom kills unborn children.’ I’m very sorry. We also found some of the troublemakers in the library looking at school yearbooks. I think they were looking for Sonja’s picture, but we’ve gotten them out of the building.”
“I’m so sorry, Sonja,” I said, when I had her on the phone. “I’m so sorry.”
“Mom,” she said, her voice surprisingly firm. “Mom. Stop apologizing. It’s okay. Really. I’m with friends. I’m alright. Stop worrying.”
After I hung up, I sat numbly, Sonja’s voice still in my head. I knew the antis were right about one thing: the support or lack of support by a physician’s family is often the salient factor hanging in the balance, the single thing that weighs most heavily on the decision whether to continue providing abortion services. Getting to the doctor through his or her children or spouse is a despicable tactic, but an effective one.
I was sitting at the desk with the clinic director. While I was talking to Sonja, Jane was on another line. I could hear her saying, “No, Dr. Wicklund does not do media interviews.”
“Who’s that?” I interrupted.
“It’s 60 Minutes,” she said, covering the phone. “They want to do an interview. I told them you don’t want to talk to them.”
“Jane,” I said, “tell them to hold on.”
The protesters had invaded every corner of my life. They had violated me and the people I loved. They were making my work hell. They’d laid siege to my home, even entered my home. They were stalking me, confronting my daughter at her school, threatening us. Every shred of normalcy had been stripped from our lives. How could I, a media and mass communications virgin, hope to get the message to mainstream America that the protesters’ claim of peaceful, prayerful protest was a blatant lie?
“Jane,” I continued, “it’s time. People have to know what’s going on here. I’m ready to talk to 60 Minutes. Give me the phone.”
It was an impulsive decision but one I’d been subconsciously mulling over for some time. I had been doing my work, staying quiet, not broadcasting my commitment. Why should I have to, any more than an electrician or editor or brain surgeon has to make his or her work public? But as long as I kept it behind a curtain, hidden from view, the protesters could remain hidden and immune to consequences.
More important, bit by bit I was learning to trust people. When I spoke honestly, even to strangers, and even to people who weren’t on the same philosophical page, what came back was support, understanding, even outrage. Was I ready to count on that response from a national audience of millions of people?
I would know soon enough.
In a matter of days one of the assistant producers had arrived with a sound and camera crew. The bulk of the filming took place in our home, at the clinic in Fargo, in airports, and on the road.
My interview with Lesley Stahl was arranged in a hotel room in Fargo. She’d been at the clinic much of the day, watching the protesters and police outside, absorbing the situation. She had been able to talk privately with several patients and had interviewed protesters.
In the hotel room it was difficult to relax and concentrate with the distraction of cameras and lights. The crew had a good chuckle over my lack of makeup. They asked me to powder my nose, and I had to borrow makeup from Lesley. That broke the ice, and I began to feel at ease.
Lesley established my background. We talked about my barricaded home, my work in regional clinics, the growing threat from protesters. We talked a little about my decision to take up this work and the price I paid for that commitment.
At one point Lesley asked, “Do you think there is a point at which it becomes so impossible you’ll be forced to quit?”
“No,” I said, immediately. “No, no,” I repeated.
I hesitated for a moment. I thought of Sonja, of Randy, of Flower Grandma. They would all listen to this program.
“There are limits for everyone,” I said. “I have to believe in my heart that even the protesters have their limits. Everyone has limits.
“At the same time,” I added, “I’m cautious with my safety. I’ve handled firearms all my life. I carry a gun, and I know how to protect myself.” That was for the protesters. Some of them would be watching, too.
Sonja held up remarkably well through all the turmoil and fear
. When the 60 Minutes piece aired four months later, she took it in stride. I was still reeling with emotions. I curled up in a blanket on the couch to watch, but my thoughts that night were of my Flower Grandma, home alone in her trailer with the flickering television. Alone with her memories.
The decision to go public to a huge audience was one of the most daunting choices I’ve ever faced, but in the end, it brought added protection for me and other physicians, as well as a heightened awareness to thousands of Americans about the real situation at clinics and the tactics of the protesters.
The segment drew tremendous support. I received more than a thousand letters. Less than a dozen were hateful or threatening. People poured out their hearts, shared their stories—stories of lives saved because of legal abortions and tragic accounts of lives lost in the days of illegal abortions.
“Just a vote of confidence and support,” one typical letter read. “I am sixty-three years old—old enough to remember what it was like before Roe v. Wade. I don’t want that world for my granddaughters. Do take care, and God bless you.”
Nearer to home, neighbors I’d never met came out to offer help and support. New security measures were put in place in Sonja’s school. The administrative staff, teachers, and Sonja’s beloved swim coach all reached out in kindness. The local shelter volunteered to chauffeur Sonja to school and offered her safe haven if needed.
A parent of one of Sonja’s friends called me at home to talk. She was mortified at what we, and especially Sonja, were enduring. She made it clear as we began our conversation that her personal beliefs were not necessarily pro-choice, but that having our family targeted and harassed was unacceptable.
As we talked more, she said that everyone should have the right to privacy in their home and that no one should be threatened for engaging in a legal activity. Before the talk was over, during which she offered their home as a refuge, we spoke more about choices. She ultimately agreed that no one should be able to make that choice for any woman. Not the government. Not a parent or husband or minister.
I pointed out that she was, by definition, pro-choice. In its simplest form all it means is that the woman gets to decide.
Never again would I feel as alone or exposed as I had before I spoke out publicly.
Then, a year after the airing of 60 Minutes, the unthinkable happened.
I was taking a long overdue road trip with my dad. Just the two of us. We were driving through the Midwest on a sunny, glorious day to see Vince Gill and Mary Chapin Carpenter in concert in Iowa. It was March 9, 1993.
At a small gas station I decided to check in with the clinic I’d just opened in Montana. Stacey’s voice was strained. “Call Jane in Fargo,” she said. “You need to call Jane right now.”
I remember everything about that gas station. The location of the phone along the inside south wall, tucked between the magazine rack and the car products. I remember the dull orange paint and the smell of the new linoleum, orange and blue stripes.
Jane’s voice was almost a monotone, her words slow. “Sue,” she said, “they’ve shot and killed an abortion doctor in Florida. Dr. Gunn. He’s dead. Murdered.”
I felt my knees buckle, and I sank to the floor, holding the phone, cord stretched, my jaw angled up to the receiver.
My mouth was open, but no words came out. I was slumped in that awkward position, shaking, my tears starting to flow when Dad walked in. He turned and looked down at me, startled.
“Shooting us, Dad. Abortion doctor. Gunned down. Dead. Oh no. No. No. No.”
Dear Dr. Wicklund,
I want to begin this letter by apologizing that it has taken me two years to contact you. I am the woman who sat in your office more than two and a half years ago, crying and crying. You advised me to keep my baby, explaining that it would be more than I could handle emotionally to not keep her. You could not have been more correct. I prayed the night before I came to you and asked God to stop me if I was wrong. I wanted my baby so much. I had been in a four-year relationship; it had not been happy or stable (her father left when I was 5 months pregnant). My decision to come for an abortion was made with my mind, not my heart. My daughter was born on April 3, 2001. Rose weighed 8 lbs., 15 ounces. I cried for about five minutes after she was born; I knew in my heart that she was a girl. I now have one girl and one boy. I purchased our first home last July and we love it! I want you to know that I will be forever grateful to you. It is very possible that I would not have survived the wrong decision.
Former Patient
chapter seven
Just a month before the first murder of an abortion provider, I had opened up my own private clinic in Bozeman, Montana. So many events in my life have come about because of serendipitous events. The opportunity to operate my own clinic was no exception.
In late November of 1992 I was working at the clinic in Fargo. Fargo Women’s Health Organization was housed in an old, two-story wood building. It had been a single family home at one time, then converted into a clinic. It was mid-morning, but we had been unable to start seeing patients because of a large protest. Women were having a hard time getting in or were reluctant to attempt breaching the wall of confusion made up of protesters, police, security personnel, volunteer escorts, and media.
Most of our staff was standing in the waiting room on the second floor, watching out windows. Different factions would dominate the scene at different times. Watching the ebb and flow of the action was like seeing a war unfold. I had seen enough and retreated down to the main floor to fin-ish setting up the procedure rooms.
The phone was ringing, and no one was answering it. I was sure the receptionist was on the other line, but the ringing wouldn’t stop, and although I hardly ever take calls, I finally answered it.
“Fargo Women’s Health. How can I help you?”
“Could I please speak with your doctor? The woman doctor? The one I saw on 60 Minutes?”
Because we get so many crank calls and even death threats, I was reluctant to identify myself. Still, there was something about this caller’s voice that was not threatening.
“May I ask what you’d like to speak to her about?”
“Certainly,” he replied. “I am also an abortion provider and have a clinic in Bozeman, Montana. I just wanted to give her my support and encourage her to keep working.”
With that, Dr. Balice and I delved into a twenty-minute conversation about the challenges, joys, twisted logistics, and everyday reality of providing abortion services. We talked about being marginalized in the medical community, about our resolve not to give up in spite of the threats. We agreed on the importance of supporting each other and our other colleagues.
Toward the end of our conversation, he mentioned that he was past retirement age and anxious to spend some time on the ski slopes. He had been unable to find anyone willing to take over his practice, but he refused to close the doors. He knew that the protesters would take undeserved credit for ending abortion services in Bozeman.
I was speechless.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled. “Did you say you wanted someone to come and work for you?”
“No,” he replied. “I am looking for someone to completely take over. Someone to buy my clinic.”
I immediately knew that this was my chance, a chance I had been fantasizing about for some time. I’d looked into it enough to know that the financial risk was tremendous, the responsibility and increased exposure sobering, and the consequences for my family substantial.
But I also understood that owning and running my own facility would allow me to elevate counseling and recovery to the level I had always believed necessary, to pick everything from the décor to the music we played, and to handle each aspect of the many financial and ethical decisions without interference.
I told him I would fly out within a week. Before clinic was finally in full swing later that morning, I had already made the necessary arrangements to travel to Bozeman. I still had three days of work to focus on before the trip, b
ut that didn’t keep me from daydreaming about providing more than just abortions. Pregnancy planning and prevention, prenatal care and births, annual exams, well-woman care—abortions are only one facet of the services available in a clinic that truly provides choices for women.
I had been doing abortions full time for less than five years but was already a veteran through working in five clinics in three states, packing in an intense amount of frontline experience. In that brief time, I had learned so much from counselors and educators and clinic directors who were all dedicated to their patients. More to the point, I had learned from the hundreds of women who presented themselves, and their life situations, to me over that time. Now I had an opportunity to take the best of each clinic, along with my accumulating experience, and fashion it into a facility with my name and style behind it.
I’m the first to admit that I like being in control. I don’t think that is a bad trait in most situations, and in the case of providing abortion services, the doctor is the one ultimately responsible. It made complete sense for me to manage the entire experience, not just the procedure.
As the doctor actually performing the abortion, the one who physically removes an embryo or fetus from the pregnant woman’s uterus, I had better be sure this is truly what she has chosen of her own free will. The clinic staff is a team. It has to be. The receptionist, the counselors, the lab techs, the surgical assistants, the nurses, and the doctor all have to be on the same page.
Still, I am the one who ends a potential human life. I am the one who lives in fear of performing an abortion on someone who will later regret it. I am the one asking a woman to lie back so that I can begin the procedure. I had better be listening to her unspoken fears and paying attention to her body language. I have to be tuned to the questions that signal ambivalence.
This Common Secret: My Journey as an Abortion Doctor Page 7