Authors: Abby Johnson,Cindy Lambert
Tags: #Non-Fiction, #Inspirational, #Biography, #Religion
Chapter One
The Ultrasound
Cheryl poked her head into my office. “Abby, they need an extra person back in the exam room. Are you free?”
I looked up from my paperwork, surprised. “Sure.”
Though I’d been with Planned Parenthood for eight years, I had never been called into the exam room to help the medical team during an abortion, and I had no idea why I was needed now. Nurse-practitioners were the ones who assisted in abortions, not the other clinic staff. As director of this clinic in Bryan, Texas, I was able to fill in for any position in a pinch, except, of course, for doctors or nurses performing medical procedures. I had, on a few occasions, agreed at a patient’s request to stay with her and even hold her hand during the procedure, but only when I’d been the counselor who’d worked with her during intake and counseling. That was not the case today. So why did they need me?
Today’s visiting abortionist had been here at the Bryan clinic only two or three times before. He had a private abortion practice about 100 miles away. When I’d talked with him about the job several weeks before, he had explained that at his own facility he did only ultrasound-guided abortions—the abortion procedure with the least risk of complications for the woman. Because this method allows the doctor to see exactly what is going on inside the uterus, there is less chance of perforating the uterine wall, one of the risks of abortion. I respected that about him. The more that could be done to keep women safe and healthy, the better, as far as I was concerned. However, I’d explained to him that this practice wasn’t the protocol at our clinic. He understood and said he’d follow our typical procedures, though we agreed he’d be free to use ultrasound if he felt a particular situation warranted it.
To my knowledge, we’d never done ultrasound-guided abortions at our facility. We did abortions only every other Saturday, and the assigned goal from our Planned Parenthood affiliate was to perform twenty-five to thirty-five procedures on those days. We liked to wrap them up by around 2:00 p.m. Our typical procedure took about ten minutes, but an ultrasound added about five minutes, and when you’re trying to schedule up to thirty-five abortions in a day, those extra minutes add up.
I felt a moment’s reluctance outside the exam room. I never liked entering this room during an abortion procedure—never welcomed what happened behind this door. But since we all had to be ready at any time to pitch in and get the job done, I pushed the door open and stepped in.
The patient was already sedated, still conscious but groggy, the doctor’s brilliant light beaming down on her. She was in position, the instruments were laid out neatly on the tray next to the doctor, and the nurse-practitioner was positioning the ultrasound machine next to the operating table.
“I’m going to perform an ultrasound-guided abortion on this patient. I need you to hold the ultrasound probe,” the doctor explained.
As I took the ultrasound probe in hand and adjusted the settings on the machine, I argued with myself,
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to take part in an abortion.
No, wrong attitude—I needed to psych myself up for this task. I took a deep breath and tried to tune in to the music from the radio playing softly in the background.
It’s a good learning experience—I’ve never seen an ultrasound-guided abortion before,
I told myself.
Maybe this will help me when I counsel women. I’ll learn firsthand about this safer procedure. Besides, it will be over in just a few minutes.
I could not have imagined how the next ten minutes would shake the foundation of my values and change the course of my life.
I had occasionally performed diagnostic ultrasounds for clients before. It was one of the services we offered to confirm pregnancies and estimate how far along they were. The familiarity of preparing for an ultrasound soothed my uneasiness at being in this room. I applied the lubricant to the patient’s belly, then maneuvered the ultrasound probe until her uterus was displayed on the screen and adjusted the probe’s position to capture the image of the fetus.
I was expecting to see what I had seen in past ultrasounds. Usually, depending on how far along the pregnancy was and how the fetus was turned, I’d first see a leg, or the head, or some partial image of the torso, and would need to maneuver a bit to get the best possible image. But this time, the image was complete. I could see the entire, perfect profile of a baby.
Just like Grace at twelve weeks,
I thought, surprised, remembering my very first peek at my daughter, three years before, snuggled securely inside my womb. The image now before me looked the same, only clearer, sharper. The detail startled me. I could clearly see the profile of the head, both arms, legs, and even tiny fingers and toes. Perfect.
And just that quickly, the flutter of the warm memory of Grace was replaced with a surge of anxiety.
What am I about to see?
My stomach tightened
. I don’t want to watch what is about to happen.
I suppose that sounds odd coming from a professional who’d been running a Planned Parenthood clinic for two years, counseling women in crisis, scheduling abortions, reviewing the clinic’s monthly budget reports, hiring and training staff. But odd or not, the simple fact is, I had never been interested in promoting abortion. I’d come to Planned Parenthood eight years before, believing that its purpose was primarily to prevent unwanted pregnancies, thereby reducing the number of abortions. That had certainly been
my
goal. And I believed that Planned Parenthood saved lives—the lives of women who, without the services provided by this organization, might resort to some back-alley butcher. All of this sped through my mind as I carefully held the probe in place.
“Thirteen weeks,” I heard the nurse say after taking measurements to determine the fetus’s age.
“Okay,” the doctor said, looking at me, “just hold the probe in place during the procedure so I can see what I’m doing.”
The cool air of the exam room left me feeling chilled. My eyes still glued to the image of this perfectly formed baby, I watched as a new image entered the video screen. The cannula—a straw-shaped instrument attached to the end of the suction tube—had been inserted into the uterus and was nearing the baby’s side. It looked like an invader on the screen, out of place. Wrong. It just looked wrong.
My heart sped up. Time slowed. I didn’t want to look, but I didn’t want to stop looking either. I couldn’t
not
watch. I was horrified, but fascinated at the same time, like a gawker slowing as he drives past some horrific automobile wreck—not wanting to see a mangled body, but looking all the same.
My eyes flew to the patient’s face; tears flowed from the corners of her eyes. I could see she was in pain. The nurse dabbed the woman’s face with a tissue.
“Just breathe,” the nurse gently coached her. “Breathe.”
“It’s almost over,” I whispered. I wanted to stay focused on her, but my eyes shot back to the image on the screen.
At first, the baby didn’t seem aware of the cannula. It gently probed the baby’s side, and for a quick second I felt relief.
Of course,
I thought.
The fetus doesn’t feel pain.
I had reassured countless women of this as I’d been taught by Planned Parenthood
. The fetal tissue feels nothing as it is removed. Get a grip, Abby. This is a simple, quick medical procedure.
My head was working hard to control my responses, but I couldn’t shake an inner disquiet that was quickly mounting to horror as I watched the screen.
The next movement was the sudden jerk of a tiny foot as the baby started kicking, as if trying to move away from the probing invader. As the cannula pressed in, the baby began struggling to turn and twist away. It seemed clear to me that the fetus could feel the cannula and did not like the feeling. And then the doctor’s voice broke through, startling me.
“Beam me up, Scotty,” he said lightheartedly to the nurse. He was telling her to turn on the suction—in an abortion the suction isn’t turned on until the doctor feels he has the cannula in exactly the right place.
I had a sudden urge to yell, “Stop!” To shake the woman and say, “Look at what is happening to your baby! Wake up! Hurry! Stop them!”
But even as I thought those words, I looked at my own hand holding the probe. I was one of “them” performing this act. My eyes shot back to the screen again. The cannula was already being rotated by the doctor, and now I could see the tiny body violently twisting with it. For the briefest moment it looked as if the baby were being wrung like a dishcloth, twirled and squeezed. And then the little body crumpled and began disappearing into the cannula before my eyes. The last thing I saw was the tiny, perfectly formed backbone sucked into the tube, and then everything was gone. And the uterus was empty. Totally empty.
I was frozen in disbelief. Without realizing it, I let go of the probe. It slipped off the patient’s tummy and slid onto her leg. I could feel my heart pounding—pounding so hard my neck throbbed. I tried to get a deep breath but couldn’t seem to breathe in or out. I still stared at the screen, even though it was black now because I’d lost the image. But nothing was registering to me. I felt too stunned and shaken to move. I was aware of the doctor and nurse casually chatting as they worked, but it sounded distant, like vague background noise, hard to hear over the pounding of my own blood in my ears.
The image of the tiny body, mangled and sucked away, was replaying in my mind, and with it the image of Grace’s first ultrasound—how she’d been about the same size. And I could hear in my memory one of the many arguments I’d had with my husband, Doug, about abortion.
“When you were pregnant with Grace, it wasn’t a fetus; it was a baby,” Doug had said. And now it hit me like a lightning bolt:
He was right! What was in this woman’s womb just a moment ago was alive. It wasn’t just tissue, just cells. That was a human baby—fighting for life! A battle that was lost in the blink of an eye. What I have told people for years, what I’ve believed and taught and defended, is a lie.
Suddenly I felt the eyes of the doctor and nurse on me. It shook me out of my thoughts. I noticed the probe lying on the woman’s leg and fumbled to get it back into place. But my hands were shaking now.
“Abby, are you okay?” the doctor asked. The nurse’s eyes searched my face with concern.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” I still didn’t have the probe correctly positioned, and now I was worried because the doctor couldn’t see inside the uterus. My right hand held the probe, and my left hand rested gingerly on the woman’s warm belly. I glanced at her face—more tears and a grimace of pain. I moved the probe until I’d recaptured the image of her now-empty uterus. My eyes traveled back to my hands. I looked at them as if they weren’t even my own.
How much damage have these hands done over the past eight years? How many lives have been taken because of them? Not just because of my hands, but because of my words. What if I’d known the truth, and what if I’d told all those women?
What if?
I had believed a lie! I had blindly promoted the “company line” for so long. Why? Why hadn’t I searched out the truth for myself? Why had I closed my ears to the arguments I’d heard? Oh, dear God, what had I done?
My hand was still on the patient’s belly, and I had the sense that I had just taken something away from her with that hand. I’d robbed her. And my hand started to
hurt
—I felt an actual physical pain. And right there, standing beside the table, my hand on the weeping woman’s belly, this thought came from deep within me:
Never again! Never again.
I went into autopilot. As the nurse cleaned up the woman, I put away the ultrasound machine, then gently roused the patient, who was limp and groggy. I helped her sit up, coaxed her into a wheelchair, and took her to the recovery room. I tucked a light blanket around her. Like so many patients I’d seen before, she continued to cry, in obvious emotional and physical pain. I did my best to make her more comfortable.
Ten minutes, maybe fifteen at most, had passed since Cheryl had asked me to go help in the exam room. And in those few minutes, everything had changed. Drastically. The image of that tiny baby twisting and struggling kept replaying in my mind. And the patient. I felt so guilty. I’d taken something precious from her, and she didn’t even know it.
How had it come to this? How had I let this happen? I had invested myself, my heart, my career in Planned Parenthood because I cared about women in crisis. And now I faced a crisis of my own.
Looking back now on that late September day of 2009, I realize how wise God is for not revealing our future to us. Had I known then the firestorm I was about to endure, I might not have had the courage to move forward. As it was, since I didn’t know, I wasn’t yet looking for courage. I was, however, looking to understand how I found myself in this place—living a lie, spreading a lie, and hurting the very women I so wanted to help.
And I desperately needed to know what to do next.
This is my story.
Chapter Two
The Volunteer Fair
I stepped into my junior year at Texas A&M the way most college kids do, I suppose. Knowing I’d made it past the halfway point toward my degree, I shifted my focus toward how and where I would make my mark on the world.
As freshmen, we head into college with high hopes, big dreams, and no small amount of naiveté. At least I had. We plan our majors, take classes, build skills, and worry about assignments, tests, and how to fit in among the thousands of students who seem to already belong in the university world. We approach the world with wide-eyed wonder, open to new directions and eager to make a difference.
By the time our junior year rolls around, we feel like experts at college life, but the big question looming before us grows bigger by the day:
How will I ever make the leap from school to career?
So it’s no surprise that college campuses are the ideal recruiting grounds for all kinds of organizations, especially nonprofits looking for volunteers. Texas A&M was no exception. Every semester there was a volunteer opportunities fair at the student center.
Funny. Seems like with the Big Question hanging over my head, I’d have paid attention to the posters about the upcoming fall volunteer fair. But I hadn’t. The only thing on my mind that warm September afternoon in 2001 was that I was hungry and wanted to grab lunch and relax before my next class, so I headed toward the cafeteria through the student center Flag Room. I never dreamed I was about to discover a cause that would ignite my passion and pave the way to a career I would love for nearly a decade.
I admit, when I think back to this day, that I find myself wishing I could speak some wisdom to the gullible, impressionable girl I was. But we can’t undo the past, and as mystifying as it is to me now, I clearly see the good intentions that lured me into the organization I would one day flee, and I can still hear the truth woven into the deceptions. And not just the deception I was about to encounter in the Flag Room—also the self-deception that I’d been living, the secret I’d been hiding.
How is it that I made the wrong choices for what seemed to be all the right reasons?
This is the question I am forced to examine on
this
side of the fateful ultrasound-guided abortion. Why did it take me so long—a full eight years—before I could see that, good reasons or not, I’d made the wrong choices? Until I can articulate that answer, how will I grow wise enough to learn from my mistakes? And how can I possibly offer any light to others, whether they’re in the pro-life or the prochoice camp, or are in crisis looking for help? Many of the friends and colleagues working alongside me in the clinic over those years were there for the same reasons—good and noble reasons—that I was. Right reasons, wrong choices.
Since the volunteer fair was held twice every year, the scene of display tables, volunteers, signage, and crowds was no big surprise. The Flag Room at the student center, nicknamed by some the “living room” of A&M, is pretty much the heart of the Aggieland campus, always speckled maroon thanks to the masses of spirit wear–clad students gathering, lingering, eating, laughing, studying, or dozing among the easy chairs, couches, and tables. I always loved the energy of the place—that feeling of being part of history and tradition at Texas’s first public institution of higher learning, dating back to 1876. This day, thanks to the fair, the usual hum of hundreds of conversations, accompanied by the ever-present playing of the grand piano in the corner, was magnified to the point of raucous noise. Electricity was in the air. I liked it.
I was in no rush, so I readjusted my sling backpack filled with books and took my time weaving my way through the maze of displays. The nonprofit organizations had tables strewn throughout the room, most manned with recruiters. I was wandering from table to table, picking up pamphlets and reading a few signs, when a table decorated in hot pink caught my attention. It was covered with lots of giveaways—pens, pencils, highlighters, rulers, fingernail files, and hot-pink water bottles. The woman at the table looked friendly and approachable, but still professional and kind of classy. She was fiftyish and slender with stylish blonde hair. I stepped closer and eyed her assortment of pamphlets about services offered by Planned Parenthood.
“Howdy. Are you familiar with Planned Parenthood?” she asked.
I smiled at her use of
howdy
. Here at Texas A&M we considered it our signature welcome. It sounded natural coming from her, so I figured she was a small-town Texan like me.
“Not really. I mean, I’ve heard of it, but that’s about all. So what is it? What do you do?”
“We believe that every community really needs a clinic women can turn to when they find themselves in trouble or needing help. We help women who are facing a crisis.”
I liked the sound of that. I was like a magnet for people in crisis. Doug, a friend of mine, always teased me about it. “Abby,” he’d say, “you collect strays like some people collect stamps.” Strays. His word for people needing a shoulder to cry on, a word of encouragement, a lift to get back in the saddle. But he always smiled when he said it. Like he could talk! While I was an undergrad studying to become a counselor, he was working on his degree in special education. That was one of the things that drew us into friendship. We shared a heart for helping people.
“So what kinds of volunteers are you looking for? What would they do?” I asked.
She told me Planned Parenthood had lots of opportunities. Some volunteers escorted women from their cars into the clinic; others helped with paperwork and filing at their offices. She said Planned Parenthood wanted volunteers who knew how to make women feel cared for, who were compassionate and good with people.
“Our clinics are
so
important to the safety of women,” she added. “They can get free birth control there, and abortions if they need them.”
My stomach tightened a bit. “Well, I’m not really sure how I feel about abortion. I mean—my family is pro-life and everything, and I guess I’ve always been pro-life too.” I was hoping she couldn’t see through me to the inner discomfort she’d just unleashed.
“Oh, I understand.” She nodded in seeming approval. I relaxed a bit.
Whew
—so she wasn’t going to launch into a pro-life versus prochoice debate.
If she had, I wouldn’t have been able to hold my own. The truth was, I’d never carefully thought through the issues and arguments on both sides. In fact, I’d made it a point to avoid discussions of abortion. But I knew this: I didn’t like the thought of appearing to be pro-abortion, no matter what. I love babies and family, and I wanted to be thought of as someone who was pro-family. I found myself vaguely aware of a flicker of inner conflict threatening to rouse itself, but I managed to push it back down and squelch it.
“Our goal at Planned Parenthood is to make abortion rare. Women need to know their options so they can avoid unwanted pregnancy, don’t you think?” She was nodding as if she knew we agreed on this.
1
I felt my eyebrows lift in surprise. I repeated her words, “Your goal is to make abortions rare? How do you mean?”
She explained that Planned Parenthood was the leader in providing community education about birth control. Just imagine, she said, how many abortions could be avoided with only simple information. Because Planned Parenthood made birth control available to women, thousands and thousands of abortions
weren’t required.
But when women really did need an abortion, she said, the organization’s clinics were vital to their safety.
“Caring for women in crisis is what we are all about,” she said. “As a volunteer, you’d see that firsthand.”
I could sense her sincerity. I liked her! I could see how much she cared about women. I liked the sound of such a good cause. She could tell.
She pointed out that Planned Parenthood provided not only birth control but annual exams, testing and treatment for sexually transmitted diseases, breast and cervical exams, and sex education. “We are actually the most trusted provider of reproductive health care for women in southeast Texas,” she concluded. I was listening carefully. She knew she had me.
“Women have come so far over the years, haven’t we? Can you believe that only eighty years ago, we didn’t even have the right to vote? And we’ve had to fight hard for equal pay for equal work and women’s rights. But it’s pretty unbelievable that even in this day and age, some people want to tell a woman what she can and can’t do to take care of her own body.”
I nodded. I agreed with equal rights for women. She was making sense to me.
“You said your volunteers escort women into the clinics,” I said. “What do you mean? Why do they need escorts?”
She explained that some pretty aggressive anti-choice protesters came to the clinic to use scare tactics to keep women from getting the help they needed. Sometimes they surrounded the clinics and shouted ugly insults at clients, trying to scare them away and shame them. Volunteer escorts met the women at their cars, treated them with calm kindness and reassurance, and walked them into the clinic.
“Our volunteers make a huge difference to these women, especially since so many of them are already scared and confused.”
I remembered a day when I’d felt such fear and confusion myself, but I didn’t linger on the thought. Instead, I imagined how scary it would be to walk past an angry crowd alone. I’d never attended any kind of protest—I didn’t even
know
anyone who had been in a protest. It sounded threatening and alien.
“Does this really happen often enough to need a volunteer staff?” I asked. “I mean, are there really that many people who protest?”
“Oh yes, I’m afraid so.” The protesters wanted to take away a woman’s right to have an abortion, she said. If abortion were illegal, what would happen to women in crisis pregnancies? Their only choice would be to turn to places that were dangerous to them. And they would wind up injured, damaged, or even dying.
She looked at me with incredulity. “Can you imagine, in this day and age, healthy women like you dying because they can’t get access to a safe, proven, legal medical procedure?”
Well, that’s just barbaric,
I thought, shocked.
I can’t imagine that at all. Women shouldn’t have to die when there is a safe medical procedure already available! Who’d want to force that on women? Why would they want us to go backward, to take away the right to medical help? While I’ve been avoiding the issues of abortion’s pros and cons, I’ve had my head buried in the sand!
Our eyes met, and we both shook our heads in disbelief at the thought of it. Her compassion really captured me—this woman and I were so alike. We both cared about people. Compassion had always been a driving force in my life, part of my identity. It’s what had driven me to major in psychology, and it was the very reason I wanted to become a therapist. I really wanted to help hurting people. I was glad I’d met this woman.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Abby. I’m a junior, working on a bachelor’s in psychology.”
She held out her hand and we shared a warm handshake. “I’m Jill, and I work in community services for Planned Parenthood.” She was just the kind of professional woman I wanted to be. So poised and well-spoken, but still really friendly and kind of small town. I knew I’d like to work with other women like this. If I volunteered, would I get to work with her?
“It’s really great to meet you, Abby,” Jill said. “So—that’s what we are about, and we need volunteers to help because our budget is extremely limited. Many of our services are either free or below cost for our clients. Tell me a little about yourself.”
I told her that I loved talking with people and was always drawn to people in crisis. She laughed with me as I told her of Doug’s chiding me for my strays. She nodded understandingly as I spelled out my plans to earn a master’s in psychology and become a therapist. When I said I was from Rockdale, a small town in Texas, I found out that I’d been right—she was a down-home Texas girl like me. She asked about my family, so I talked about my mom and dad, and how close we were, and my brother who was nine years older than me, whom I didn’t get to see too often. She was easy to talk to, and I felt like I had a new friend.
“Abby, you know what I admire about you? You really know where you’re headed.” I’d be surprised at the number of women who didn’t have a clue, she told me. Many women who came to Planned Parenthood’s clinics didn’t even know their options on how to prevent pregnancy. Or they couldn’t afford birth control. Planned Parenthood provided sexual education and free or low-cost birth control, not just to young single girls, but to married women, especially from low-income areas, who couldn’t make ends meet as it was.
Because Planned Parenthood was there, she told me, because they listened without judging, shaming, or condemning, women came to their clinics when they needed help. Where else could they go for that?
“It’s heartbreaking,” she said, shaking her head, “how a few angry protesters can inflict so much shame on these women. And not just over abortion—even over birth control.”
“What do you mean?” I was confused. Who would protest against birth control? I’d never heard of such a thing. I was totally unprepared for Jill’s next revelation.
“Here’s the sad truth, Abby. The same people who want to stop abortions don’t believe in birth control.” She told me the pro-lifers not only had no interest in preventing pregnancies, they also wanted to outlaw abortions, forcing women to choose between greater poverty with unwanted babies they couldn’t care for or dangerous back-alley butchers.
I imagine I was standing there with my mouth hanging open, trying to figure out why anybody would want that—would want to deny birth control to women, then force them to go somewhere unsafe for an abortion just because they couldn’t afford to have another baby. It made no sense. These people claimed to be
against
abortion—so how could they also be against the things that prevent pregnancy and against a woman’s right to medical help?