Authors: Abby Johnson,Cindy Lambert
Tags: #Non-Fiction, #Inspirational, #Biography, #Religion
Chapter Fourteen
The Wrong Side of the Fence
It had now been one full week since my participation in the ultrasound-guided abortion. My weekend would be devoted to job hunting, spurred on all the more by yesterday’s reprimand. But that job hunt was hampered by my reluctance to call around to friends and associates. I didn’t want word to get back to Planned Parenthood. I filled out more online applications and scouted medical and counseling clinics, but by Sunday night I was feeling pretty defeated. My anxiety was growing. One week left. My last day at the clinic would be Friday the ninth, job or no job. Doug and I needed to take a hard look at our finances and brace ourselves for a major loss of income.
I crawled into bed Sunday night feeling like a failure. Guilt was infiltrating my every thought. My sense of God’s forgiveness from the previous Sunday morning had faded. God had no obligation to rescue me from my dilemma, I reasoned. I’d brought this all on myself, and I deserved to suffer for my sins. From my first days at Planned Parenthood, I’d told myself I was there to
decrease
the number of abortions. Now, the absurdity of that logic—or lack of logic—screamed at me. Not only had I been a leader in abortion efforts here in Texas, lobbying at the capitol, repeating clever talking points to the media, and running an abortion clinic, I’d even aborted two of my own children. I felt like my sins were calling out to me, telling me how worthless I was. I worried about the fact that I still had no emotion about my own abortions, not even since the ultrasound-guided abortion. There was something wrong there, like a hard shell wrapped around the memory of those events that could not be penetrated, just sitting in the pit of my soul like an anchor, holding me down.
What is wrong with me?
I drifted into a fitful sleep.
I awoke early Monday morning, October 5, with a feeling of weighty pressure sitting on my chest. I dreaded the thought of going to the office.
Doug did his best to cheer me up. “Let’s just trust God, Abby. He’s in this with us. You’re looking for another job, leaving the clinic—making the right decision for the right reasons.”
“But Planned Parenthood is all I’ve known for eight years! And other than the abortions, I love what I do, and I’m good at it. I love counseling women, educating them, getting them tested, running the clinic, motivating the staff, training the volunteers. But more than anything, I’ve always believed I’m making a difference in the world for good. Where do I go from here? And what are we going to do if I can’t find another job soon? What about the house? Our expenses? What if this ruins us?”
“Don’t try to solve our entire future in one day. We can’t. Just focus on making right decisions for right reasons today. God will show us the way.”
I didn’t believe him. But I appreciated his encouragement, even if it was optimistic naiveté. That was just so Doug. I kissed him and left for work.
I approached the Planned Parenthood fence and drove through the open gate. It felt as if darkness were descending on me as I entered. Dread—that’s what I was feeling.
Even though I’m now appalled at what happens inside this fence, I’m crossing through it as if everything is fine. But it’s not fine.
This is a death house. A prison. And I’ve been both prison guard and prisoner.
The powerful thought shook me.
Get a grip, girl
.
Don’t get dramatic. I’ll get another job. I’ll be gone by Friday. I can hold out until then.
But when I checked my e-mail, my pep talk evaporated, replaced by intense frustration. Another e-mail from Cheryl reiterating that I needed to get my clinic’s abortion revenue up.
She’s relentless,
I thought.
I guess the reprimand in my file has given her even more power over me.
My stomach turned flip-flops as I reread the e-mail.
Enough. I closed my e-mail program and got up from my desk. It didn’t help. At every turn all morning, the darkness was more evident. I looked into the waiting room and saw clients with sad lives waiting their turn for our help, and wondered if each of them was simply a dollar sign, a source of revenue, to this organization. A wave of nausea swept over me. I’d been a pawn in a game. Duped. Used. I reviewed the budget numbers and felt the flames of anger licking at me. The words I’d been hearing over the past few months replayed in my mind.
Nonprofit is a tax status, not a business status. Revenue per patient must increase. Abortion quotas have been raised. You’ve got to find a way to get your abortion numbers up. Get your priorities straight. We are building the largest Planned Parenthood center in the country, where we’ll be able to perform late-term abortions. Increase the number of days each week for medication abortions and direct women toward that option. Beam me up, Scotty.
I was having a hard time keeping it together. The images of the ultrasound-guided abortion kept replaying in my mind. Finally, tears that had been welling up—long overdue—spilled down my cheeks. I rushed back into my office and closed the door. I sat down at my desk and looked out the window. A client who’d just left the building was walking toward her car carrying a little brown bag.
Today is an abortion day too!
The thought struck me like a slap in the face.
It’s Monday. We’re dispensing RU-486 abortions all day. Why was I thinking I had to be gone by Saturday? We’re taking lives
today
, and I’m still a part of it. I’m still here!
I scanned my desk, filled with an impulse to pack it up immediately, and then my eyes fell on the small card from Elizabeth. For two years, that two-by-three-inch card with the soft pink tulip and handwritten note had been sitting on my desk in my little note holder.
Of all the cards I’ve received over the years
, I wondered,
why has that one remained front and center?
“The L
ORD
has done great things for us and we are filled with JOY.” Psalm 126:3
I am praying for you, Abby!
~ Elizabeth
I looked back out the window. There were two Coalition for Life volunteers standing on the other side of the fence, side by side, praying over this place. Praying. Simply praying.
I could hear Elizabeth’s voice in my head, “We are here to help you. Let us help you.” I’d heard them all say those same words a thousand times to every volunteer, every client, every staff worker, and to me. In that moment light broke through the darkness and I saw with such simple clarity.
I am on the wrong side of the fence.
I am on the wrong side of the fence!
I knew what I had to do.
They’ll think I’m crazy, God—but if that’s what I need to do, okay!
I didn’t hesitate for a second. Tears were pouring down my face, and my heart was hammering. I grabbed my purse, opened my office door, and charged straight toward the back door of the clinic on the way to my car.
Megan saw me and called, “Are you okay?” She’d seen my face, my tears. I could hear her concern. But I couldn’t stop.
“I just need to go. I’ll be back,” I called over my shoulder. I pushed the door open and jumped into my car. I didn’t know who all had seen me, but clearly I hadn’t made a quiet getaway.
“They’ll think I’m a kook. They’ll think I have lost my mind,” I said as I started the car. “But I don’t care.” Tears blinded me; I had to wipe them away so I could see to back out of my parking place. But nothing would stop me now.
If I turned left, I’d be there in three seconds.
Better not go directly there. I don’t want to cause a scene if anyone sees me driving straight to the Coalition house.
So I pulled out of the driveway onto 29th Street, drove about a half mile, then pulled into a parking lot to turn around, and headed back toward the Coalition for Life house. I pulled into their parking lot as close to the back door as I could.
What should I do? If I go barging in there they’ll panic, thinking I’m on the attack.
Sobs shook my whole body.
I’ll call them and ask if I can come in.
I fumbled for my BlackBerry. I knew their number was 846-BVCL (for Brazos Valley Coalition for Life), but on my BlackBerry keypad, the letters aren’t displayed next to the numbers as they are on a touch-tone phone. I couldn’t figure out which letters would go with which number. Flustered, crying out loud, I tried through my tears to look up their Web site on my browser to find their number. Finally, I found it and dialed.
A young, sweet voice answered, “Coalition for Life. How may I help you?”
I was crying hysterically, and my words sounded choked. “This is Abby Johnson from Planned Parenthood.”
A pause. Silence. And then I could hear caution in her voice. “Well, hi, Abby. I know who you are.”
She must have been wondering what on earth was going on, because I was crying so hard I could barely get the words out. “I’d like to come in and talk to you guys. I’m out here in your parking lot. Can I come in your back door? I don’t want anyone to see me.”
Again a pause, and then, “Can you hold on just a moment?” I almost laughed in spite of myself because I could imagine the shock on her face.
What must she be thinking?
When she came back on the line, her voice had gone really steady, like she was talking somebody down off a ledge. “Abby, this is Heather. I’m gonna open this back door now. You can come in.”
I bolted out of the car and stood at the back door, looking over my shoulder as if I were being stalked. I heard her unlock it and realized they must have the same kinds of security issues we did at the clinic. But they didn’t have a six-foot perimeter fence with security cameras. Their place looked approachable rather than being fenced off like a prison. The building was a ranch house, probably built in the early 1950s.
The back door opened into a small sitting room. Standing just a few feet away were Heather and Bobby. They looked terrified, as if I had a bomb strapped to me. They simply stared with a deer-in-headlights look, totally still, while I stood there, body shaking with sobs, dressed in black clinic scrubs, mascara running down my face—just a mess. An absolute mess.
“I want out,” I blurted, “I want out. I just can’t do this anymore.” More sobs wracked my body. I had no idea what I’d really come to say and no idea what I’d say next. The only thing I knew for sure, and I was now very sure of it, was that I had been on the wrong side of the fence and had to get to the right side.
Their jaws dropped. They looked at me, then at each other, dumbfounded at seeing the director of the clinic their organization had been protesting for twelve years standing before them, sobbing, undone. Totally undone.
Then Heather stepped forward, put her hand tenderly on my back in a gentle caress, and whispered, “Here, Abby, come sit on the couch.” Her simple kindness unleashed more sobs from deep within—a place so deep I didn’t even know it was there. And yet I did know. A dam deep inside of me had broken, and a torrent of guilt, grief, pain, remorse, shame, secrets, and fear was bursting out of me with every sob. It was a horrible, wonderful, frightening, cleansing gush of raw emotion. As I sat down, I noticed that Karen, another young volunteer, had entered the room too. All three looked at each other and me with puzzled expressions:
Is this a scam? Has something happened? Someone died? Some terrible accident? What’s going on? Is this for real?
I didn’t blame them. What else would they think?
I didn’t see Shawn, and oddly, I was sorry he wasn’t there.
What’s that about?
I wondered.
Karen sat down beside me on the small couch, her long, wavy brown hair spilling over her shoulders as she leaned toward me. She was petite, with deep brown eyes and dimples, and she looked like the picture of wholesome innocence. I’d seen her many times at the fence. Her eyes were filled with compassion.
Heather offered me a box of tissues and then lowered herself into a chair across from me. She, too, was petite, with long, straight blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes, now huge with an expression of bewildered wonder. I remembered shooing her out of the flowers by the fence one day when she’d been talking to one of my clients and how she’d shrunk back from me when I’d reprimanded her for it. I was pretty sure that Elizabeth, the one who’d given me the card on my desk, had trained Heather as a volunteer counselor about two years ago.
Bobby went to the kitchen and got me a glass of water while I blew my nose and wiped my tears, hopelessly smearing my already running mascara. Then he sat down on the floor directly across from me. He had always exuded a friendly, clean-cut, affable persona that had appealed to volunteers on both sides of the fence. He had short dark hair, dark brown eyes, and a square jaw. I felt like he was sizing me up, trying to figure out if this was all a ruse of some sort. The room wasn’t more than eight feet across; I realized that it must be their counseling room, where they bring women looking for help—some of them women who’d first come to Planned Parenthood but had been drawn, instead, to the fence counselors by offers of help. It was homey and comfortable in soft earth-tone shades, and I felt myself relax a little. I took some deep breaths that still rattled with involuntary weeping, though it seemed to be quieting now, and took a few sips of water, trying to regain my composure. Then Bobby broke the silence.
“So tell us what’s been going on, Abby.” He said it so gently, with such kindness, that I started crying again.
But between the sobs, the words began pouring out of me. “I know what I’ve been doing is wrong. I mean, I didn’t used to think it was wrong, but now I do. About a week ago I had to help with an ultrasound-guided abortion, and I saw the whole thing—this perfect little body and how the baby tried to get away and then violently twisted, and I saw the body crumple, just crumple, the little spine just sucked away and . . . ”