Entering a clinic, I would often stop to look back and see how the patients were faring. Many times clinic escorts were available to help the patients get through the protesters, but not always. Without the escorts present, and sometimes even when they were, protesters would rush at a patient on the sidewalk, surrounding her and shouting awful rhetoric. They reminded me of a pack of wolves. You could see their frustration when a woman refused to stop and talk to them, but pushed her way into the clinic instead.
The protestors became more and more organized and sophisticated. They got better at deciphering my helter-skelter schedule, knew when to expect me at various clinics, called ahead to their collaborators when I left one airport for another. They followed me in cars and communicated by walkie-talkie and cell phone. I felt as if I were in a spy movie, always watching my rearview mirror, looking for the enemy’s face in the crowds.
Sometimes I’d leave in the dead of night and drive five hours rather than face the airport scene. I never checked baggage. The thought of waiting at a baggage turnstile surrounded by antis was too much.
At this point, my schedule required daily flights or drives of two hundred miles or more. At least three nights a week I was in a motel room. Most weeks, Sunday was my only day off. Trying to stay one step ahead of the protesters became a game of nerves.
Within a year of my first visit to the Milwaukee clinic, the protesters were no longer simply circling the entrance and shouting their insults. They had taken to physical blockades, locking themselves together and forming a human barrier. I routinely had to wait outside the building for the police to come, wait while they methodically arrested and removed each person so I could get into the door. It was either that or break through myself—physically break through.
Some days the antis were sitting on the ground blocking the door, and the clinic staff would push them out of the way by forcing the door open. I would climb over their bodies, actually step right on these people, to get in.
In several towns, the protesters who were arrested suffered no consequences. The Milwaukee city attorney refused to prosecute them, for example, which meant that they’d have a brief ride down to the police station, be released within minutes, and be back in front of the clinic later the same day. Some were arrested more than a hundred times in one year and never served time or paid a fine.
It became necessary to vary my routine and even the means by which I came and went from the clinic in Milwaukee. There was a back door to the clinic, rarely used because of the poorly maintained alley. I was given the key, however, and on occasion would enter through it. I typically arrived in a taxi from the airport and would let staff know my approximate arrival time. They would try to watch for me.
I had also begun writing in a journal on a regular basis in order to process some of the insanity. I would write on airplanes, in motel rooms, in the clinics while waiting for the day to begin, and at home sitting up late at night, when images and stories filled my head, preventing the sleep I was so in need of.
Journal Entry, August 1990:
Scared. So scared.
Hard to write.
Hard to think.
Heart pounding.
Tried to avoid protesters in front. Hid in back seat of taxi. Went to back door 10 minutes ago. Two men there. Had just gotten out of cab, keys in one hand and mobile phone in other. Phone set to call front desk. Routine safety measure. Thank God.
One man grabbed me and slammed me up against a parked van. His face in my face. Screaming at me.
“YOU KILLER! YOU KILLER!”
“YOU DESERVE TO DIE.”
“STOP KILLING BABIES, SUSAN!”
I struggled. Fought to get free. Would get away from the van by just inches and they would throw me against it. Over and over. Screaming. All three of us. Almost slow motion. I hit SEND on the phone and hoped someone would hear me and figure it out. Felt like no one would ever come. Kept trying to pull away. Lost my voice. Tried and tried but couldn’t scream again. Felt my hips slam into the side of the van again. Heard another voice. Back door was open! Attackers briefly let me go and I ran for it. Staff member grabbed my arm and tried to pull me in. Attacker on other arm. Tug-of-war. Is this really happening? Able to scream again.
Finally got pulled into a heap on the floor just inside the door. Men took off running. Feel like I’m still sitting in a frantic dream. Nightmare. Trying to settle down. Need to gather myself enough to see patients. Need to cry. Can’t stop shaking.
The protesters became enough of a danger and daily hassle that friends and staff suggested I consider using disguises. It seemed like a possible solution, and at least a way of avoiding some of the direct confrontations. I began collecting clothes and hats and scarves completely out of character for me. I practiced making myself up and tried to change my mannerisms like an actress assuming different characters.
Journal Entry, January 27, 1991:
Snowstorm. Just dropped Martha off at the airport here in Fargo. Right now feel like I’m in another world. Bought a wig last night in Duluth. Martha and I knew it was serious stuff, but couldn’t stop giggling. Hair salon salesperson thought we were nuts and showed obvious surprise when I bought a good quality wig.
Conversation at one point as I tried on an auburn, curly haired wig, shoulder length:
Clerk: “That really doesn’t look much like you.”
Me: “Good. That is the idea.”
Clerk to Martha: “Well, she really does look good with hair.”
Martha and I doubled up in laughter. Martha leaning against the wall, tears running down her face. I was sitting on the stool with this long, curly hair over my half-inch-long, straight, gray hair, laughing so hard I was snorting. “Sold,” I half cried. “Got any red lipstick to clash?” But by now I was feeling a terror in my stomach. My tears were out of real fear, not humor.
We left and headed for Fargo. 5 hour drive in good weather. Took us 7 in a blizzard. Sometimes down to 20 mph. So tired.
Then I donned my wig, put on my new make-up and black stretch pants, red shoes, a red polyester blouse and plaid blazer. Drove Martha to the airport dressed like that. Our good-byes are usually teary and so sad. This time we giggled. Why? Because of my ridiculous outfit. And to hide our fear.
I got to the clinic with no staff knowing about the new me. Had prearranged with Jane to have a name on the appointment list so I’d be let in and treated like a patient. Went up the stairs to admitting as instructed, excused myself to the restroom, changed clothes, washed my face and shoved the wig through the pass-door into the lab where urine samples usually go. Freaked out Carol in lab. Explained to staff later and they were OK with it all. Protesters hadn’t a clue when I had come in. That was the only good part. It feels so awful. Why do I have to do this to go to work? WHY? Just to avoid taunts or the threat of having the car I’m in stopped by some screaming fanatics? I can’t stand it when they get so close to me. There is so much hate in their eyes.
People said how smart I must feel to have fooled the protesters. I just feel drained.
I made friends with a man who often flew on the same commuter flight as I did to Appleton every Tuesday. Sometimes we sat together, but our conversations always centered on his life, his work, his family, not on mine. I would always hang back when we got to Appleton, taking extra time to gather my things so I would be the last one off the plane and the other passengers wouldn’t see the circus created by the protesters when I entered the airport.
I sat near him one of the first times I wore a disguise. It was a hideous costume—brightly beaded jean jacket, an auburn wig, polyester pants, and a big purse. I hated the deceit, the fact that I was going to these extremes to avoid the harassment. And now it meant I couldn’t sit and have a pleasant conversation with a friend.
He didn’t recognize me, and at the airport in Appleton I walked out with all the other passengers. The protesters never suspected. I walked right past as they craned their necks, searching the small group of passen
gers. That anonymity was the only thing that made the demeaning effort worth it.
A day later, on the return flight, I sat across the narrow aisle from my friend, undisguised. I had the unmistakable jean jacket folded carefully in my lap so that only the denim showed. We talked as usual, but at one point I dropped something and in bending over, the jacket fell open into the aisle. His eyes moved to the gaudy coat, back to my face.
“That was you,” he said finally. “That was you yesterday. What the hell is going on? Who are you, anyway? What’s the gig? Are you running drugs or something?” He was really angry with me.
I didn’t want to explain. The airplane was my place of refuge and anonymity. What would he think? But he kept interrogating me, unrelenting.
“No, no, it’s nothing like drugs. It’s much simpler. No. It’s much more complicated. I’m a doctor. I do abortions. Every week I fly here to work in a clinic. There are people who try to stop me from doing my work. People who harass me. Haven’t you ever seen the protesters at the airport? They are waiting for me. I have had to resort to disguises because I can’t stand them in my face anymore.”
It all came out at once, in one big gushing confession. We talked the rest of the flight. I told him about my work, my ridiculous schedule, how I got started, the people at the clinics, the confrontations that had become such a torment.
After that, whenever we flew together, he waited for me as we got off the plane; with his arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders, we barreled through the protesters together. He made sure I was safely in a taxi before heading his own way.
For the first time I understood that I had potential allies as well as enemies.
I continued to use whatever means I had to get into the clinics. Disguises, riding in the trunk of a car, sometimes arriving at five in the morning and sleeping in the clinic until the rest of the staff arrived. It was exhausting and frustrating. It felt as if I were letting the protesters dictate the rules of interaction, as if I had stooped to lies and subterfuge. I didn’t want to interact on their terms, sink to their level.
It was the patients who kept me going. Their situations, their needs, their genuine thanks and relief. Without knowing it, they were the ones doing the comforting. They were helping me through situations I could never have imagined.
On the weeks that I drove the 240 miles to Fargo I would stop on the edge of town and call the clinic for a “protester-of-the-day” report. When I called one day, the activity was particularly bad. The clinic director didn’t hesitate in expressing her concern.
“They’re stopping every car,” Jane told me. “If anyone inside looks like you or a patient, they chain themselves to the axle or lie in front of the vehicle.”
I knew the scene only too well. Protesters jumping on cars or lying in the road while someone wormed underneath and locked on to the axle with a bicycle lock or chain. Any open window in the car would have anti-abortion propaganda shoved through it. Flyers would be slapped on car windshields. Frightened occupants would be extremely upset.
“I’m sending two volunteers out in a car to meet you at the mall parking lot,” Jane instructed. “You can hide in the back or under blankets. Just stay in the car if they stop it.”
By the time the volunteers drove up, I’d put on a blond wig and a heavy coat of makeup. I wore a long black jumper, tennis shoes, and sunglasses. My escorts turned in open-mouthed surprise when I approached them and spoke.
“It’s Dr. Wicklund!” one of them exclaimed. “I can’t believe it!”
“I want you to take me to the McDonald’s and drop me off. I don’t want to be seen with anyone they’ll recognize. I’m walking the last two blocks alone.”
They didn’t like my idea at all, but I was adamant. I knew they were worried about going back to the clinic without me and explaining to Jane. I made sure they would tell the main guard in the front of the clinic to watch for me and let me in when I caught his eye.
On my own, without the protection of a car or friends, I walked toward the clinic, all the while fearing that my true identity would be discovered. What would happen if these people actually got their hands on me? I could see the crowd gathered there, one hundred of them, I guessed, maybe more. All people who hated me, whose only objective was to keep me from my work. Under the pious, prayerful guise of religion, they were after control: Control of me. Control of the women coming to the clinic for help. Control of anyone who believed differently than they.
I had to act as if I belonged. At the edge of the crowd I began mingling, trying to fit with their body language, trying to put myself completely into the act. Being among them, brushing shoulders, and hearing their hateful, vicious lies were almost too much.
“Who is that in that car?” one would yell as the next vehicle approached the parking lot. “Stop that car!” The crowd surged toward the target, and I moved right along with them. I heard myself shouting their awful words just to play the part. Slowly I moved with the human waves, closer and closer to the building.
The nearer I got to the front the more frightening it became. How long could I keep it up? Was it the cumulative effect of being in their midst that was taking my breath away? There was sweat running down my face and my back. I knew I had to stay calm and keep acting as if I belonged. They were shouting, frenzied, on the fringe of sanity. Surrounded by them, choked by their energy, I felt claustrophobic, almost physically sick. They knew I was scheduled to arrive at the clinic soon. Any car could be carrying me.
I gained the front sidewalk. All the crowd pressure was at my back. This terrible, righteous, oblivious hatred beat against me, pounded against the building that offered me safety. So close.
Finally, I was at the front lines. I took off my sunglasses as I moved closer to the guard. He was looking right past me. I was right in his face, silently shouting with my eyes, “It’s me! It’s me!” He kept looking around me, over me, searching the crowd. Then his eyes found mine, stopped. Color drained from his face. I nodded. He lifted his outstretched arm and moved slightly to the side, opening up a path that I darted through.
Five steps from one world to another. I gulped in a huge breath. I had been holding my breath for a long time. It was all I could do to stumble up the steps and pound on the door. A staff person recognized me and threw open the door. I never looked back, couldn’t face the vision of what I’d come through.
Once inside I couldn’t go any further. I tore the wig off and collapsed on a flight of stairs. Great, whooping sobs racked my body. Makeup ran in streaks down my face. All the bravado and fortitude I’d summoned to protect myself deserted me, turning to unbelievable relief and fatigue. And I couldn’t stop crying.
Never again. Never again, I kept thinking.
A woman came down the stairs and sat next to me. She had no idea who I was, what I’d been through, but she put her arm around me and rocked, holding me like a child as I sobbed. We sat together, strangers consoling one another.
Two hours later that same woman was on the operating table, one of my patients, and it was my turn to help her through her ordeal. I was struck again with the affirmation that people are by and large good. I realized how important it is to trust that the good energy and kindness you put out will always find its way back to you.
Never again, I kept repeating to myself during the day. Never will I wear disguises again. Never will I hide and sneak around at crazy hours. I will not stoop to their level, play their game. I can’t live with that any longer.
The protesters had been paying attention, however. They interpreted my behavior as a statement of vulnerability and shame. They thought that I would go to any lengths to avoid confrontation. They also discovered that I was a mother with a teenage daughter, a vulnerability they might exploit.
On the morning of October 3, 1991, I woke to the sound of people shouting, “Susan kills babies!” outside our bedroom window. “Susan kills babies!” I heard again. Must be a nightmare, I thought. I’m home. I am not at work. I am in my bed,
right next to Randy. But I was awake. I was in my own bed. This was real. A cold nausea swept through me. Nausea and gut-level fear.
We, the remnant of God-fearing men
and women of the United States of Amerika,
do officially declare war on the entire
child killing industry. . . . Our Most Dread
Sovereign Lord God requires that
whosoever sheds man’s blood, by man
shall his blood be shed.
—EXCERPT FROM MANUAL PUBLISHED BY
THE ARMY OF GOD, AN UNDERGROUND
NETWORK OF DOMESTIC TERRORISTS
DEDICATED TO USING VIOLENCE AS A MEANS
TO END THE PRACTICE OF LEGAL ABORTION
chapter six
I woke Randy and stopped him from turning on the lamp. He sensed the urgency in my voice and groggily began to take in the scene outside.
“Call the police. I’m going to check on Sonja,” I choked out in a whisper.
Terror hammered in my throat. I flew down the stairs to Sonja’s basement bedroom. In those slow-motion ten seconds, horrible scenarios rushed through my head. But she was sleeping soundly, completely oblivious to the obscenity outside. I kissed her, touched her warm face, and backed thankfully out of her room.
Randy met me on the stairs. “Police are on their way,” he said. We started to prowl around the house, avoiding windows. No curtains anywhere, I realized. There had never been any need for them. Our house sat in six acres of woods at the end of a driveway that itself was at the end of a three-mile dead-end road. That isolation had always been a comfort. Curtains and drapes had never occurred to me.
I found the only place without any windows at all. The shower. I sat down in the stall, hugging my knees to my chest, trying to swallow the anger and fear, fighting as hard as I could to hold on to some control.
Just the week before, our nearby town had been leafleted by the anti-abortion fanatics. They had put up “wanted” posters all over town—on cars, on bulletin boards for public announcements, even on the school grounds. There was a picture of my face with the words “Wanted for the Murder of Children.” It had caused quite a stir and a rash of letters to the editor in the local paper, most of them condemning the horrendous tactics. For the past week I had avoided going to town, afraid of people’s reactions.
This Common Secret: My Journey as an Abortion Doctor Page 5
