Looking for Jane (72)
The buzzer clicks off, and Nancy drums her fingers against the wall beside the door, waiting. The crackly voice returns.
“One-three-five-nine-two-two.”
Nancy consults her clipboard to confirm the code is correct for their two o’clock appointment.
“Come on up,” she says, and buzzes Patricia in.
Nancy will do a brief pre-screening counselling session in the operating room and explain the procedure to the patient before handing her off to Dr. Taylor. The Janes developed this two-step system to help spread out the responsibility so the doctors could focus solely on the medical side of things. Realizing she forgot to bring a pen for Patricia’s intake, Nancy walks back to the kitchen, where Dr. Taylor and Alice are still in conversation.
“Will this always be necessary?” Alice asks.
“The code?” Dr. Taylor asks. “I think so. It’s too—”
“No, not the security. I just mean abortions. Sometimes I think we’ve come so far, and with the pill and the movement and everything, the Birth Control Handbook. But we’re still doing, what, four procedures a week? And that’s just our clinic. I can’t believe there’s still that much of a need.”
Nancy grabs a pen from the jar on the counter as Dr. Taylor looks down into Alice’s kind face. The face she’ll present to her husband tomorrow at her wedding, made-up and polished, full of love and commitment and hope for their future. The face that will calm the nerves of nearly ten thousand aborting women over the course of her forty-two-year career in obstetrics. Because it will never stop.
Dr. Taylor sighs heavily, but manages a weak smile nonetheless. “Yes, Alice. There will always be a need.”
Nancy shakes her head sadly and returns to the front door. A minute or two later, her patient arrives.
“Patricia?” she asks, pen poised over her clipboard.
The woman standing in the doorway is exactly her age, according to the docket in Nancy’s hands. She’s wearing Bermuda shorts and a plaid shirt, dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Nancy introduces herself and Patricia steps over the threshold. Her eyes flicker around the living room. Nancy knows how it looks: a cluster of old chairs, a coffee table, and some out-of-date magazines. It doesn’t matter, though. Almost all the women who pick them up end up flipping through them without absorbing a single word, recipe, or beauty tip. Their eyes slide over the pages while their minds race; some balancing on the precipice of changing their decision, waffling back and forth between yes and no with every robotic turn of the crinkled, glossy pages. Others are far more sure, like Nancy was, and can’t wait for it to be over.
Nancy leads Patricia into the master bedroom and gestures to one of the chairs beside the operating table. It’s not a proper operating table, just a sturdy, fold-up portable table with a thin camping mattress on it, covered in plastic sheets. But it’s the best they can do under these clandestine circumstances.
As Patricia sits down, her eyes flicker over to the tray next to the table, the silver instruments laid out on the blue paper. Her brows pinch together as she lowers her purse to the floor beside her.
“Would you like some water?” Nancy asks, trying to distract her from the sight of the surgical tools. It’s always the first question she poses to her patients. A simple yes or no, non-threatening, and it puts them in control.
Patricia shakes her head no.
“And just to confirm, you’re here of your own volition? We have to ask that of every woman who comes to see us. If you’ve been forced to come here by anyone, we can try to help you in other ways,” Nancy says.
“Yeah. Yeah I’m here because I want to be.”
“Okay, good. And have you ever had this procedure, Patricia?”
Patricia clears her throat and sits up straighter in the chair. “Um, no. No, I haven’t.”
“Okay, so the procedure itself is quite safe. We haven’t yet had any issues or emergencies, and no one has ever gotten a post-op infection on our watch. Our doctor and nurse are highly trained professionals. They do about four of these a week. They’re kind, compassionate women. You’re in good hands here.”
Patricia swallows and leans forward. “Could you tell me how it’s done?”
“Of course, but you should tell me how much detail you want. Some women just want the general idea, and others are more comfortable if they know the specifics, so they can know exactly what to expect.”
“I’d like to hear it step-by-step. If that’s okay.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. So, the doctor will first examine your uterus using a speculum—the same kind they use for PAP tests. She’ll then inject some medication into your cervix to numb the area, and stretch it out a bit,” Nancy continues, eyeing Patricia closely. This is sometimes where she starts to lose a patient; some people have no idea what they’re about to hear, and it’s where even the most determined woman’s resolve can start to splinter. “She’ll insert a tube, and then—”
A piercing screech issues from somewhere on Patricia’s body. Like the shrill tone of a poorly tuned violin, the sound hovers in the air, vibrates, then dissipates in a whistle.
The two women freeze in tableau.
“What…?” Nancy trails off.
Patricia fumbles around with her shirt, lifting it to reveal a small black box with wires strapped to her midsection. “Shit,” she whispers. There’s a soft click as she flicks a switch.