The gentle sound of Musaak combined with lack of sleep and the Valium tablet I had 
taken from the charge nurse was finally working to relax me.  As I took off my clothing 
and put on the hospital issue gown, my mind and eyes drifted over the room.  Artwork in 
subdued hues decorated the walls, landscapes and nondescript pastoral scenes painted by 
starving artists, framed in stained wood, tasteful and bland.   The polished tile floor was 
cold beneath my sock-clad feet.  Lying down,  I noticed the clean counters, the glass jars 
of cotton balls and Band-Aids and long wooden-handled Q-tips, the stainless steel sink, 
the red container on the wall for used needles.  Pine-Sol and a barely-there 
unpleasantness assaulted my nose.  The black vinyl exam table with its shiny, silver 
stirrups was like some medieval torture device; I decided not to think about later when I 
would have to use them.   Everything was neat and orderly; everything had its own place.  
Cotton here, used needles there, a patient's legs here and here.  Stop it!  This is not 
helping.  Oh god, where is she?  Why is this taking so long?  The longer the doctor took 
to come, the more I began worry.  What if the Valium wears off before she finishes?  I 
don't think that I can go through with this if she doesn't come soon.  Hurry, please hurry.  

As if she could hear my thoughts, the doctor came in, trailing nurses like dogs on a leash.  
The cool sterility of the office contrasted with the bright scrubs of the nurses -- blue, pink 
and yellow.  Baby colors.  A wave of something I didn't quite understand washed over 
me, and I was so busy wallowing in it that I only half heard what the doctor said to me.  I 
nodded my head, and she moved to the end of the table.  The nurses helped me to 
position my legs in the stirrups. 

Asking one final question, the doctor's voice was soft and soothing.  "Kate, are you sure 
this is what you want?"

Nodding my head, I closed my eyes and said, "Yes."

At first, nothing happened.  The doctor inserted the speculum, and I felt a vague tugging 
sensation, and a slight pinch.  I opened my eyes briefly, looked in the doctor's direction, 
saw a huge needle, and closed my eyes again.  I could hear an odd noise, and the doctor's 
comments about her progress.  The nurse who was assisting her told me that I was doing 
fine, and the nurse at my head smiled down at me and whispered, "Not long now, dear."  

Then the pain started, and it felt like I was being turned inside out.  My first instinct was 
to get away; anywhere would do, as long as there wasn't this terrible spike of heat in my 
gut.  As soon as I felt that pain, I knew that this was a terrible mistake.  I tried to wiggle 
away, but the nurses told me to hold still, and pressed me into the table.  

"Kate, we don't want to hurt you.  Lie still and it will be over soon."  A cool hand passed 
over my forehead and through my hair.  "Shhhh...it will be over soon, and then you can 
rest." 

Reaching up, I squeezed her hand and looked into her eyes.   "I don't want this -- can't you 
stop it?  I need to stop this, please..."  

"Once the procedure is started, we can't stop.  If we stop now, there will be 
complications.  I'm sorry.  Calm down...shhh."

Looking up, I could see that she really was sorry, but that it wouldn't change anything.  
And so, I lay on the table, and tried to hold still while the doctor finished, and looked up 
into her eyes, eyes that reflected my own pain and unhappiness. 


The clinic's policy was that all patients had to stay in the recovery room for a minimum 
of two hours.  I was there for three.  I cried the whole time, silent tears that sluiced away my conviction that I had done the right thing.  Michael was supposed to come in, to sit 
with me, but the receptionist said that he had left a little while after I went in for the 
procedure, and that he hadn't returned.  The last thing he had said to me was, "Don't 
worry, I'll be here when you finish." He pressed a soft kiss on my forehead, and assured 
me, "We're doing the right thing."  A counselor came in to see me, and told me that what 
I was feeling was a normal reaction.  He said that doubts and guilt were only a part of the 
emotions that I would be experiencing, and that if I needed to talk, about anything, 
counseling services were included in the cost of the procedure.  I didn't answer him.  

As soon as I was able to stand, I went to the restroom, where I dressed and combed my 
hair.  I splashed some cold water onto my face, and shakily made my way to the 
pharmacy to turn over the slips that the nurse had pressed into my hands. On my way I 
looked for Michael, but didn't see him.  As I waited for the pharmacist to call out the 
number on the triangle shaped scrap of paper, I called home.  No answer.   

Where is he?  There's a reasonable explanation for this, there has to be, otherwise he 
would be here.  He's probably outside.  I exited the building into the hot July sun, and 
looked for Michael but only saw protestors and empty cars.  I decided to take the bus, so 
I had to walk past the pro-lifers, and listen to their diatribe about murder and Christian 
values and burning in hell.  Some part of me felt like I deserved their contempt and 
hatred; it was this part of me that forced my eyes to the pictures of bloody and barely 
recognizable bits of baby they had pasted onto sandwich boards; it was this part of me 
that had been running an internal monologue -- wrong, you were wrong, this was wrong -
- for the last three hours.   Another look at the photos made my stomach turn, and I 
doubled over and dropped to the pavement, retching.  

Dry heaves.  I hadn't eaten for two days, and I dry heaved for a good five minutes before I 
could control the rolling in my stomach enough to get up and continue on to the curb.  No 
one moved to help me.  The pro-lifers shouted comments about God's retribution upon 
sinners, and the clinic staff were all inside, behind their solid walls with  no windows, 
and they didn't know that I needed help.  Somehow I managed to make it to the bus stop, 
and from there up three narrow flights of stairs, to our apartment.

Michael was inside.  Sitting on the couch, staring at nothing.  He didn't even blink when I 
slammed the door and dropped my backpack on the floor.  He turned his head to look at 
me, and I suddenly had the urge to slap him.  His calm Asian face and black eyes were 
irritating me in a way that they never had before, and I had to get away from him before I 
did something drastic.  I slipped down the hall, and into our room.  I shut the door and 
turned the key in the lock.  For many long minutes, I just stood there, against the door, 
staring at the dust motes dancing in a patch of sunlight that fell across the bed and 
listening to the silence of the rooms.  After a long time, the silence was broken by the 
sound of Michael's even paces coming down the hall. 

"Kate?" So quietly that I wasn't even sure that he had spoken, Michael called to me.  

I leaned against the door, holding my breath, not answering him.  The thunk of his head 
as it hit the door at my back startled me, and again I heard my name, this time in the 
plaintive tones of reproach.  After many minutes of stillness, he turned, and walked back 
to the living room.

For a week, our life went on in a silent dance of avoidance.  We settled into a routine that 
allowed for as little contact as possible -- separate meals; a careful juggling of grooming 
habits, so that we didn't occupy the bathroom together; I slept in the bedroom, Michael 
on the couch.  I half expected that he would come in, and sleep with me that first night, 
but he didn't and my feelings were too hurt to even go and ask for that bit of warmth from 
him.  Silence seemed to be the only thing we had in common...silence, and the weight of 
a decision.


Bam-bam-bam!  I awoke to a loud pounding. Looking at the clock, I saw that it was 2:00 
a.m.  Who on earth would be banging on the door at two o'clock in the morning?  Tying 
the robe of my belt, I padded down the hall to see who it was.

When whoever it was began to pound again, I shouted that I was coming.  I looked at the 
couch to see if this lunatic had awakened Michael, and noted with some surprise that he 
wasn't there.

"Kate...Kate, come on and open the door.  I forgot my key."

Michael.  

"Kate?"

A week's worth of quiet acceptance vanished in that instant, and I ripped open the door to 
face him.  Before he could step forward and into the doorway, I was out into the hall, 
kicking and scratching and slapping him, and crying and screaming at him all at once.  
He just stood there, letting me hit him, not defending himself, not trying to stop me.  As 
suddenly as it began, my loss of control ended.  I just stood there, looking into his dark 
eyes.  He opened his arms, and I pushed forward into his embrace.  I slid to the floor, 
pulling him with me.  For what seemed like forever we just sat there, in the outer 
hallway, and said nothing.   

"Why did you leave me like that?"

His breath was hot against my hair, and the sharp tang of alcohol assaulted my senses as 
he answered, "I don't know."

"You don't know?  What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean I don't know...what do you want from me, Kate?"

Pushing away from him, I said, "I needed you, and you weren't there for me... I need for 
you to tell me that this is okay.  I need to know why you left me."  

"I--" 

"I needed you.  Did you think of that when you left?  Or were you only thinking of 
yourself and of how you would feel when this was over?" 

"Kate...I'm sorry.  I can't change what I did -- I can only apologize, and ask you to give 
me another chance."

I didn't know what to say at that point, so I told him that I needed time to think, and I 
went inside and back to bed.  After a few minutes, I heard Michael come in, and lock the 
front door.  A few more minutes passed before his footsteps sounded in the hall, and he 
entered our room.  The covers were thrown back, and the bed dipped as he sat on the 
edge and undressed.  When he was finished, he turned onto his side, pulled up the covers 
and closed his eyes.  For a long time, I just stared at him, thinking about what he had 
said.  Eventually I drifted off, and dreaming of a baby that would never be.  

end