Behind his mask, the doctor seemed to smile. His eyes crinkled. “No.”
They placed her feet in stirrups. An odd position for removing a growth from her stomach. A sheet was draped over her knees.
Wordlessly, they stimulated labor. A saline solution started the movement. Pitocin, to keep labor going, was delivered intravenously. They called it “pit drip.” As dilation began the volume was increased.
When dilation approached four centimeters, an epidural anesthetic—Bupivicaine mixed with Sentanyl, a solution more than ten times stronger than morphine—was inserted in the spine, blocking pain from the abdomen down.
From that point on, all went smoothly. The only real problem was the baby’s head: It was too large to pass through the birth canal.
The surgical team was ready. If this had been a delivery instead of an abortion, and this anomaly had arisen, at this point they would have performed a cesarean section. As it was, this baby was destined to be destroyed in any case.
So a procedure termed “collapsing the cranium” or “compressing the head” was used.
Once the head was crushed, the rest of the body emerged easily.
It was over.
A nurse gathered the small body into her arms and turned to cross to the other side of the room.
In that flickering second, Barbara saw what had come from her body. With that gift that some children have, she was able to identify precisely what she saw. Every detail was etched in her mind and stored in her memory.
Everything was so well formed. The tiny hand with five stubby, perfectly curled fingers. The small, curved shoulders. But most of all, the head. Like a favorite doll that had fallen from the dresser to smash its head against the floor.
But this wasn’t a doll. This was a baby who had been living inside her. Now it was dead. She didn’t have to ask; the battered little head said it all.
Strange. The doll had fallen while Daddy had been doing things to her. His foot had hit the dresser and the doll had come down. Daddy was responsible for that. Daddy was responsible for this.
Mommy played a part—at least in the deception. Mommy had lied to her. Maybe she was just trying to shield her from this tragedy. But she would never again be able to trust her mother. Never.
Babs felt so alone. More alone than ever before.
Twelve was terribly early to be on one’s own. But she felt strong. Extraordinarily strong for one so young. How many girls her age coming from an ostensibly stable home had been pregnant and had an abortion? None that she knew of. And, in effect, raped by her own father?
The doctor, mask dangling from his neck, appeared in her line of vision. “So, how do you feel?”
“Okay.” She tried a brave smile, but it was weak. At least she was doing well holding back her tears.
“Everything went well.”
She nodded.
“Just rest. We’ll take you to the recovery room. Then after a little while, you’ll be taken back to your room and you can see your mother. I’ll go give her the good news.” He left the room.
Good news? What was good about this news? Maybe that she hadn’t died—at least not in the sense of physical death. Something had died in this room this morning—something in addition to the baby. Something inside Barbara.
Trust.
No one close to her could be trusted. Not her father. Not her mother. Not the doctor.
Barbara had no way of telling how long she lay in the recovery room. But after some period a cheerful attendant wheeled her to the elevator and took her to her room, where her mother, now beaming, greeted her. “I’ve talked to the doctor, darling. Everything is going to be fine.”
Barbara fixed her eyes on her mother’s. This was rare if not unique in their relationship. Claire felt a shiver.
“I know,” Barbara said.
Claire didn’t need to ask.
In that instant, Barbara resolved that, whatever else happened, she would not follow in her mother’s path.
The Present
Barbara was only a little more than six weeks overdue. This afternoon, all possible doubt and hope had crumbled in the face of the lab report.
Just a couple of hours ago she’d been sitting in the leather chair in the ob/gyn’s office. The doctor half stood, half sat, in front of her, one buttock on his desk, his left toe barely touching the floor. His right leg dangled in a small, lazy circle.
“I don’t know whether to sympathize with you, or congratulate you, Barbara.” He fiddled with his stethoscope, a habit she found irritating. “Unless you’ve changed your mind, I know this is not a planned pregnancy.”
She stared at him stonily. Her mood grew darker by the minute. “Do I remind you of the Happy Homemaker?” She made no attempt to mask her bitterness. “Of course I didn’t change my mind. I was relying on you and the modern miracles of medical science. Some miracle!”
“Now, now. I’ve told you over and over there aren’t any miracles. Not even any sure bets … with the exception of total abstinence.”
“Do I look like a vestal virgin?”
“That would be a loss. But seriously, we’ve been all over this. After I worked everything out for you, you decided on a diaphragm—which we fitted. That plus a spermicidal jelly held out the best hope for you.
“But nothing is foolproof. A diaphragm can slip, particularly if you’re highly active. Jelly can miss any number of sperm. A condom can tear or perforate, or even overflow. IUDs have been known to coexist with a fetus. And you wouldn’t hear of rhythm.
“The most reliable method of birth control—outside of abstinence—is the Pill. But that’s contraindicated because of your diabetes.
“Okay, so you took a chance and you lost. You’re not the only woman for whom birth control didn’t work.”
Her mood, already sullen, was deteriorating. “Something tells me that if men were the ones who got pregnant, we’d have long since found the ‘miracle’ of perfectly dependable birth control.”
Silence.
“Barbara,” he said finally, “the next logical item of business is what you want to do about this. You’re early in the first trimester—”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know as well as I …” The unfinished sentence hung in the air. He didn’t use the “A” word.
“I suppose,” she said, “you’re suggesting an abortion.”
“I’m not suggesting anything. What you do about this is up to you.”
She stood and began to pace. “I don’t know …. I just don’t know ….”
“That surprises me.”
“You thought I’d jump at an abortion.”
“It’s early enough so there would be comparatively little danger. I doubt that you have any moral or religious reservations about it. And since you haven’t changed your mind, I assume you want neither a pregnancy nor a child. So …”
“So?”
“Why the hesitation?”
“I’ve got to think about it. I need more time. I’ve been thinking about it practically constantly ever since that missed period. But”—she shook her head—“now that I know for sure … well, this is a bigger decision for me than you imagine. There are too many complications. I need more time.”
“Well, don’t take too long. Either we have to end this pregnancy soon, or we begin preparing you to be a mother.”
Requiem for Moses Page 30
