Authors: Christine Duval
“Before we begin, do you have any questions?”
“I was wondering how long I’ll be laid up once this starts.”
“Today and tomorrow you’ll be fine. On Wednesday, you’ll take a second pill about the same time as now, and then cramping and bleeding will follow. The worst of it goes on for four to five hours. You might feel dizzy. So we recommend you have a friend with you if you can. By the next day, you may be well enough to return to classes or you may not. You might need to take a day off.”
“Is there anything else I need to do?”
“Along with the pill, I’m also giving you a prescription for antibiotics that you should begin tonight and continue to take until you finish them all. We’ll need to see you back here in two weeks to make sure that you’ve completely aborted.”
Aborted.
As if you can just expel and walk away. Perhaps a better word would be abandoned. I abandoned my pregnancy. Yes. Abandoned. I was stupid, and then I abandoned.
“Laurel?” Karen interrupts my thoughts. “Do you have any other questions?”
“No. I think I understand.”
Karen hands me a pill package and a prescription. “If you experience any unusual symptoms, don’t hesitate to call us. We have nurses and doctors available 24/7. I’m going to give you some privacy. When you’re ready, the first pill is here. Once you take it, there is no turning back. You can’t take one and not the other. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll see you back here in two weeks.”
Karen closes the door, and suddenly it is me and a small pill that may as well be as big as an elephant. She was right. I was conflicted. I still am. But I’m trying to gather all the strength I can from the practical part of my brain. A few pills and I’m done. By Friday, I’ll be feeling pretty good. I can focus on having a life at Colman, maybe something with Mike. This will be behind me, and no one needs to know. It all seems so easy.
But then why am I still sitting here? If it were easy, I’d be out the door already. I shift my weight, and the paper on the exam table crackles.
I put my hand on my stomach and think about the sound of that heart beating on Friday, so strong it filled up this sterile room. With all the loss I’ve had to deal with over the last eight years, all the hearts of people I have loved that have stopped beating, do I want to be responsible for stopping another one?
I feel the blood thrumming in my ear. Forget about having any semblance of a life. I can kiss the whole Mike thing good-bye…and school? What could I give this kid? Besides he’d probably end up resenting me like I resent my father.
I grab the pill from the cup and let it sit in the palm of my hand. It’s probably not much smaller than the embryo inside me. A cartoon image comes into my head of two miniscule objects battling against each other in a boxing ring.
Which one is it going to be?
***
“Karen,” I say from the doorway of her office.
She looks up from her desk, where she’s writing something in a file.
“Is everything all right?”
I hand her the pills and the prescription. “I need the name of a doctor.”
She sits back in her chair and bites on her pen, not saying anything.
“I can’t do it.”
“Okay.”
“I mean, I know it would make my life easier, and I am probably making a huge mistake. But I just can’t do it.”
“That’s okay.”
“So what do I do now?”
“You gather your resources. You’re going to need all the support you can find.”
A wave of dizziness sends the room spinning, so I sit down on the edge of a chair.
“There are organizations that help young women in your situation. I know of one in Seneca Falls, and there’s another one in Rochester. You’d need a car or someone to give you a ride.” She begins jotting down names and phone numbers on a piece of paper.
“That’s not a problem.”
Karen continues, “They’ll help with anything you need – someone to talk to, birthing classes, baby clothes, anything.”
She hands me the paper, then pulls out something from the drawer. “You’ll also have to begin prenatal care with an obstetrician. Here is a list of names. Many women prefer to pick the hospital where they’d like to deliver first and then find a doctor affiliated with that hospital.”
My head pounds.
Pick the hospital where I’d like to deliver?
I manage to squeak out a, “Which one do you like?”
“Well, Rochester Hospital has an excellent reputation for its maternity care. They also offer a prenatal clinic for mothers who can’t pay or can’t pay in full. Basically, they won’t turn anyone away because of lack of insurance.” Karen looks me straight in the eye when she says this. “You said you have some issues with your father, and I’d hate to see you avoid prenatal care because you don’t know how to tell him.”
I bite my lip.
Too hard
. The taste of blood fills my mouth.
“If adoption is something you think you might consider, there are a few agencies in the area as well.”
“I don’t know if I could do that.”
She hands me a list of adoption agencies, their addresses and phone numbers. “Just in case.” And closes the file drawer. “The resources are there. It is up to you to seek them out. In the meantime, take the vitamins, and schedule your first prenatal visit.”
“Okay.”
“Parenting is a rewarding choice, but it is not an easy one. You need to be prepared for the challenges ahead.” She watches while I look through the information. Then she pushes the chair from her desk and stands. “I have another appointment. Call if you need anything, okay?”
The workload at Colman is so heavy sometimes I feel like the freshmen are all walking zombies. Two weeks have passed since my fateful decision, and I’ve had no choice but to bury myself in schoolwork, which is a good thing.
Mike and I have hardly seen each other: we had breakfast once in the cafeteria last week; he walked me to a class the other day; there’ve been a couple phone calls and texts. It’s fine because I don’t want to talk about what is going on, and since that’s all that’s on my mind, I have nothing to say.
Plus, he’s feeling the pressure. As fun as he can be, he’s also super competitive, like most people at this school. He didn’t do well on his econ test, and it was bad. He only passed because the professor curved it. He’s used to getting As and is here on an academic scholarship that he can’t afford to lose. So he’s taking things more seriously these days. I’m glad because I don’t have to keep coming up with excuses why I don’t want to see him.
I called every doctor on Karen’s list that was associated with Rochester Hospital and found an obstetrician nearby who doesn’t charge too much for a prenatal visit. It seems like a good choice because it’s far enough away that I don’t have to worry I’ll run into anyone when I go but not as far as the one-hour trek to downtown Rochester.
The receptionist said I’ll need to see him once a month initially and later in the pregnancy the visits will become more frequent. The cost for an office visit is $125. I should be able to cover my appointments until I figure out a way to tell my father.
I blow off Legal Ethics for my first OB appointment because the doctor has a 10:45 opening. I’ve already missed three classes, which is the maximum you’re supposed to be allowed in a semester, but Prof. Thompson is so old, I don’t think he’s noticed. He rarely takes attendance, and based on how he writes on the chalkboard – literally putting whole sentences on top of one another – it seems like his eyesight is going too.
Regardless, Monday is the last day that I can drop the course without his written permission, and I am seriously considering it now because I’m about 300 pages behind in the reading.
The receptionist has me fill out half an hour’s worth of paperwork although I leave the insurance information blank. When I hand it back to her, I lie. “I don’t have insurance. I’m going to pay out of pocket.”
She takes the clipboard from me with raised eyebrows. “That could get expensive.”
“I have enough to cover the visits.” I take out the envelope with $500 in it that I still have from two weeks ago and count out $125.
She looks surprised at the cash, as if she’s never seen it before, and I suddenly feel like the mob boss’s daughter.
“Do you need a receipt?” she finally asks.
I’m tempted to tell her I don’t want to leave a paper trail.
She handwrites one in perfect cursive on a yellow piece of stationary with the doctor’s name on top. “You can take a seat, and Dr. Adler will be with you soon.”
My stomach feels like there is a brick stuck in it. I try to suppress the feeling and pick up a magazine called
Pregnancy Today
. Articles about dressing in style while pregnant, celebrity pregnancies, eating for two, prenatal yoga and setting up a savings plan for a child fill the pages between ads for baby formula, maternity bras and diapers. Towards the back of the magazine is an interview with a woman in her twenties who is juggling going back to college with having a baby.
She tells the interviewer, “Pregnancy is the best time to be in college. The flexible schedule affords ease with making doctor appointments and taking prenatal classes. The key is to not overdo it. After the baby is here, I’ll continue with my studies and be that much more ahead because I didn’t wait.”
Okay then…
“Laurel,” a nurse calls from the doorway, “we’re ready for you.”
The nurse takes a urine sample, my blood pressure, pulse and weighs me. I’ve gained five pounds already. I wince.
Next, she calculates my due date. “That puts baby’s projected arrival at May 4
th
.”
“May 4
th
?”
“Are you surprised?”
“No. It’s just…my last day of finals is May 3rd.”
“Oh? Well, babies rarely come on their actual due dates, so don’t put too much stock in that date. It’s just an estimate.”
She hands me a gown. “Everything off from the waist down. It ties in the front. The doctor will be in soon.”
I undress as told and put the gown on. It covers better than the cheap paper sheet at the clinic, thankfully. Looking around the room, the walls are a testament to what they do here. Two are covered with photographs of babies, notes of thanks, birth announcements. Did this doctor deliver all these kids?
Knock. Knock.
A thin, lofty man, who looks like he’s about my father’s age, stands in the doorway. He’s mostly bald and wears those glasses that don’t have any rims so they kind of disappear on his face. “May I come in?”
I sit up straighter, and he shakes my hand. “I’m Dr. Adler.”
“Laurel Harris.”
He opens up the chart the nurse has created for me, which at this point only has one page in it. “So you are nine weeks pregnant, which puts you at a due date of May 4
th
.”
“That’s what she said.”
“And you are eighteen years old, correct?”
“Yes.”
“You are a young mother.” He says this non-judgmentally, more matter of fact. “Are you a student?”
“At Colman.”
He closes the chart. “Welcome to the practice. We’re happy you’ve chosen us. Today, I’m going to do a simple exam, and then we’ll do an ultrasound. Sound good?”
“I guess.”
“Great.”
After an internal exam, he wheels the ultrasound machine over, gels up my stomach, and moves the probe around. I watch the screen, and soon we’re both looking at the bean.
“There.” He smiles. He turns up the volume, and the room fills with the sound of the baby’s beating heart. It seems stronger than it did two weeks ago, or maybe it’s just my imagination.
“It’s perfect,” he says.
Perfect
. There’s that word again.
“Would you like a picture?”
“Can you do that?”
“Of course.” He presses a button and out prints a grainy black-and-white photo. “To show your friends.”
I know I shouldn’t need a picture to prove it, but holding it in my hands does make it seem more real.
Dr. Adler’s office is masculine creature comforts meets feminine anatomy. Posters of the female reproductive system and three dimensional models of various body parts decorate the room complemented by a black leather couch, mahogany desk and chair.
I sit as instructed by the nurse and wait. He doesn’t keep me there long.
“So,” he says as he closes the door and takes a seat, “I am happy to say that everything health-wise with you and the baby is looking good. As long as you continue with a healthy lifestyle and come for regular visits, things should go smoothly.”
“Okay.”
“I would like to talk to you about your situation, however. Although you are not the first teenager to come to my practice, you are the first Colman student.”
And why doesn’t that surprise me?
“I am very aware of how rigorous the academics are over there. I went there myself.”
“You did?”
“It is a wonderful school but let’s face it, there aren’t a lot of pregnant students walking around campus or many resources, if any at all, if you’re pregnant. So I’m curious how you’re planning on doing this.”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“There is a young mothers’ pregnancy support group affiliated with the hospital if you are interested. It’s a bit far from Colman, but there isn’t a lot in Milton, so you might have to travel for some services. It’s only once a month.”
He hands me a card with a woman’s name on it. “Alison Kelly is the nurse who heads up the group. Give her a call if you are interested.”
“I will.”
“Now, my second question is about your insurance.”
I feel my face getting warm.
“The receptionist told me that you don’t have insurance, but I find it difficult to believe a Colman student doesn’t have insurance.”
“Well, it’s my father’s insurance, and I don’t want to use it.”
“Because you haven’t told him you’re pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“Eventually you’re going to tell him, though, aren’t you?”
I don’t answer.
“Laurel, if you’re having a baby, he’s going to find out.”
“I know. I’m just not ready yet. I’d like to continue to pay out of pocket.”