anything as I took a seat and grabbed a magazine to read while I waited.
I suppose it should have occurred to me to open up to these people and tell them what I had learned about abortions. I should have told everyone there in the waiting room about my abortion experience, and about how they should change their minds and not go through with it. It would have been the perfect opportunity. But as usual, I was so fixated on ME and my problems that I didn't even think of this. My mind was focused on only one thing--talking to someone who could help me feel better. There was no room left in my brain for any other constructive thought.
Minutes passed. I found it hard to concentrate on my magazine, especially since mom's statement about Jonathon's heartbeat kept echoing back into my mind. I felt impatient that it was taking so long for them to find someone I could talk to. After all, how hard of a request was that?
I took a peek around my magazine at the other people in the reception room. As before, it was mostly filled up with young girls about my age, some of them unhappily sitting next to their mothers. There were also a few older women. No one looked very pleased to be there, and the deadness in everyone's eyes was depressing.
Suddenly the door opened, letting in a cool breeze. We all looked up to see a middle-aged lady enter the room. She was shabbily dressed and had rather heavy doses of makeup all over her face. From the way she was swaying on her feet, she had obviously been drinking.
The lady teetered over to the reception desk. "May I help you?" the receptionist asked, trying to pull back from the smell of alcohol that rolled off the woman.
"I'm here for my abortion," the lady said loudly. "Time to get this baby out!"
"Your name please?"
"Dorothy Malk. I hope the Doc's more careful this time. In my last abortion, I felt a pinch."
"Just have a seat please."
Dorothy Malk looked around the waiting room. I felt my heart sink as she spotted a seat next to me and headed for it.
"Hey, toots, this seat taken?" she asked as she sat next to me, the scent of alcohol descending on me like a fog. It was obvious there was no need to reply, since she was already sitting there and didn't look like she intended to move. I therefore chose to ignore her and pretended to be intently interested in my magazine.
"Glory be, it'll be wonderful to get rid of the brat inside me," Dorothy said huskily. "I don't like it when I feel him kick."
I was so shocked by this statement, I found myself blurting, "You can feel him kick? But that must mean you're at least four months along!"
"True enough, toots!" hooted Dorothy. "I'm five months. Didn't have any money for an abortion in the first trimester, so I had to wait 'till now. Too bad, since it's more expensive. But I got the money at last, and they still do them this late. On my last pregnancy I waited almost SIX months! Squeaked in just under Pennsylvania's 24 week deadline." She added this last piece of information with a bit of pride. I stared at her aghast. The idea of having an abortion when you could feel the baby moving was unthinkable.
"Oh, that last abortion was a beauty, it was," said Dorothy. "You know, they usually use suction for abortions under 3 months, which pulls so strong it shreds the baby to pieces and pulls it out in bloody clumps. Then they reach in and scrape out the remaining pieces with a curved tool, kind of like a knife. That's pretty simple. But after 3 months, it gets more interesting."
I suddenly wanted to throw up. Is that what they had done with Jonathon? Suctioned him out like he was a piece of garbage? My stomach started to churn as if I'd just found out I'd been served rat meat at a restaurant.
"You see, a suction won't work when the brat gets too big. They got to reach in and crush his skull like an egg, then pull him out piece by piece if he doesn't come in one yank. But my last baby was so big and I was so far advanced they had to do a special job. They had to pull him partway out--partial birth, they call it--then stab scissors into his little skull to make a hole. Then they stuck a tube into the hole and suctioned out his brains. After that his skull collapsed easy enough, and they were able to pull out the rest of the pieces with no trouble. It was a bit bloody, but aren't they all?"
A girl across from me threw up. The sight of it caused a chain reaction and three others in the reception room joined her. But of course, the primary reason for the reaction was not just the sight of throw up. It was Dorothy's horrific, vivid description. I was so shocked my mind was reeling from the ghastly enormity of what she had said. She'd described the bloody mutilation of a helpless infant as if it was nothing more than scooping out ice cream!
"Hey, what's the matter, toots?" bellowed Dorothy, seeing the horrified look on my face. "It's just a procedure to take out unwanted tissue. No need to get excited. It's perfectly legal and safe. Although last time I felt a pinch. And they had all the little arms and legs and fingers in this bowl not far away where I could see it, and--"
I shot up out of my chair and raced for the door. I was not alone. Half of those in the waiting room apparently decided they'd come back later and bolted to get out as well. There was momentary confusion as nearly ten of us tried to stuff ourselves through the door at once. Behind me I heard the receptionist and a nurse arguing with Dorothy, telling her she was drunk and would have to come back later when she would not upset the other patients.
But it was too late, of course. The other patients were already upset. The ten of us at the door finally made it out, and then went our respective ways. And I have a strong suspicion that at least one of those other girls had a change of heart, and went to term with her baby, forgetting forever about having an abortion.
As for me however, it was too late. I didn't have that blessed option anymore. And now in addition to Mom's words about stopping his heartbeat echoing through my mind, I had Dorothy's rough voice echoing as well. "They usually use suction ... which pulls so strong it shreds the baby to pieces."
April 30
Why am I still writing in this stinking journal? What possible motive could I have to torture myself by continuing this horrible account about how I killed Jonathon? Because that's what I did to him. I killed him. Stone dead. I stopped his heartbeat, and then they suctioned him out ...
But I'm getting off on a tangent again. I have another therapy appointment in two days, and my therapist made me PROMISE I'd get my whole story written by then. Well, I probably won't make it. I can only write so much in here before I become so repulsed and disgusted I have to leave and go do something else. How I wish Oscar hadn't run away! His furry purring always helped cheer me up. But he's gone too, and there's nothing I can do to bring him back, except hope he comes back on his own.
Which is more than Jonathon can do. Nothing will bring him back. No amount of prayers or saying "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it!" or crying or self torture will bring him back. He's gone forever, because of what I did. And oh, how I wish--HOW I WISH--I could go back in time and undo everything, and bring him back. But I can't, of course. You can't change time or your past choices. All you can do is try to forgive and live with them. And sometimes that's pretty hard. In fact, sometimes it's impossible.
I finally went home that evening. Somehow Dorothy's words had galvanized my sense of guilt, so I knew I had to at least try to make amends with Mom and Dad. It was too late to make amends with Jonathon of course.
The minute I walked in the door I heard a kitchen chair scrape back and Dad came running into the front hall. "Kate!" he yelled as he saw me. "Thank goodness you're back!" Then he scooped me up and hugged me like he's never hugged me before. I was so shocked, I didn't know what to do. This was not the reaction I'd expected! I'd thought he was going to blow his top!
I suddenly felt something wet on my shoulder. In amazement, I realized my Dad was crying, his tears spilling onto my jacket. My Dad never cried! Even at Grandma's funeral he'd never shed a tear! But now from the shower that was falling onto my shoulder, it was obvious he'd had a cha
nge of heart.
"Oh, Kate!" he said, pulling back and looking at me intensely. "Thank goodness you came back. I've been so worried about you!" The look in his eye was almost half crazed. Guilt stabbed my heart as I realized what I'd put him through.
"Where's Mom?" I stammered, not knowing what else to say or do. A momentary flash of pain crossed Dad's eyes.
"Upstairs, in bed," he said flatly. "Doc Jenkins is up there now, checking on her." His jaw muscles started to twitch. It was obvious he'd been going through tremendous stress. But rather amazingly, his eyes didn't hold any accusation or anger toward me at all. Just relief that I was there.
And then he unexpectedly hugged me again. "Oh Kate," he said softly in my ear while he squeezed the life out of me. "I never want to lose you. Never again. I wouldn't be able to go on. That would be the end."
Tears were dropping on my shoulder again. Suddenly a few of my own began to drop as well. And then both of us melted in a mutual tear fest that once more reduced me to a blubbering mess. I wasn't sure how much more of this crying business I could take!
But the sight of my Dad crying was what did it. He never cried like this! And emotional as I've been lately, something in the back of my mind told me there was something about this whole
My Name is Kate and I Just Killed My Baby Page 9