Carla Winters, OBGYN, Pediatrician is assigned to me for the birth of my first child. With no insurance, being 45 years too young for Medicare, I am happy to accept government assistance. Barry, my husband, makes a living but not a good one. We intend paying our way and eventually clearing the debt that will soon be ours.
‘Help me! Help me!’ I scream with each contraction. Through the ‘V’ in my spread legs I see Dr. Winters. ‘My god, she is younger than I am.’ ‘Push, push,’ she orders. ‘I am pushing. It hurts.’ During a slight rest I take another look and the doctors horn-rimmed eye glasses are twisted in her surgical mask. I’m worried. I push, breathe, heave and weakly ask, ‘How can you see what you are doing, Doctor?’ ‘All three of us are doing fine, Mrs. Gordon. One more push. Here comes your little girl.’ And there the tiny, red bloody thing is, our daughter. My lights go out!
They come back on when Barry gets a much better job and we can stop watching pennies, watch dollar bills instead. Thanks to our parents, we have the basis of a decent bank account, big enough that I am insisting on giving our Phyllis a birthday party. She’s two going on 5. Phyl walked early, speaks choppy sentences, recognizes simple words like dog, cat but knows nothing about parties. I bought a Mrs. Smith chocolate cake mix that turned out high and light. Pink icing with 4 X sugar and melted butter tops it. I boast. Barry helps blow up a dozen pink balloons and covers the eyes of the children who have to pin the tail on the donkey. Some cry and won’t play. One of them is Phyllis.
Life is good. We are happy, smiling a lot, prospering until I have no choice but to contact Dr. Winters again. Actually, I do have a choice, more than one. I can tell Barry I am going to abort our baby–or–I may just get fat, swollen and tell him I am going to a surgeon because I may have a tumor-or- I can welcome a replay of Phyllis’s birth, bruised knees, dirty diapers -or-I can jump off the Tallahassee Bridge.
My fourth month is almost on top of me. Barry is unaware of my struggle, my slightly bloated belly. Each silent day tortures me. ‘Self, think it out sensibly. Make your decision before it is too late. Rule out your possibilities one by one. Okay, here goes: I hate heights, can’t swim, nobody will rush to save me and I’ll have to try it again or go to the booby hatch. The Tallahassee is forever scratched.
Who can I call? Who do I know who had an abortion? Nobody. Where can I find a doctor who won’t tell Barry? Maybe I can find somebody in a dark alley, hemorrhage and die. Scratch the abortion. No, no, I don’t want any more morning sickness, heart burn, leg cramps. What will I wear for six months? My nice clothes won’t fit and will be even worse after I am over the ordeal. Barry may find a mistress while I’m eating crackers and throwing up. Scratch, scratch. I already smell the dirty Pampers, hear the night cries, warm the bottles, wipe away the upchucked Gerbers; chopped carrots. It is all too gruesome. I can’t come to a conclusion. I sit by the window and cry.
Phyllis toddles in, pulls on my skirt. ‘Mommie, Mommie, cookie, pweeze. Scratch it all. I give Phyllis a cookie and call Dr. Winters for an appointment.
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