The GI Bride

by Simantel, Iris Jones

  The situation was making me ill. I couldn’t eat or sleep and often couldn’t stop crying. I lost weight that I could ill afford to lose and I had gone back to taking scalding hot baths every few hours. Now worried about my mental state, there was just one more thing I could try. I made an appointment to see my old friend Dr Edward Crown.

  When Dr Crown saw the state I was in, he leaned back in his chair and asked me to tell him everything. I must have rambled and cried for ages, and he listened patiently as I poured out all that had been happening over the past few years. When he thought I had finished, he calmly leaned forward, picked up the telephone and dialled a number he obviously knew by heart. He spoke briefly to someone and then hung up. I hadn’t heard what he’d said to the other person, as he was an extremely soft-spoken man; it was often difficult to hear him when he was speaking directly to me. He wrote a name and number on a piece of paper and handed it to me, telling me to call this person as soon as possible. He said the man was an attorney who would take care of me, and that I shouldn’t worry about anything, except looking after the children and myself. Before I left his office, he pulled me into his arms, the way a loving parent might, and gave me the kind of hug that tells you someone cares about you very much. I looked up into his face and realized we both had tears in our eyes. I had just experienced a goodness that I had almost forgotten existed.

  I called Roy Golson, the attorney, and made an appointment to see him. I told no one what I was doing. I didn’t feel I could trust anyone to keep it from Palmer. He seemed to have an uncanny way of finding things out but this was one thing I could not afford to have sabotaged.

  Mr Golson listened to the story of my life with Palmer and rolled his eyes. He knew we were in for an uphill battle and I don’t think he was at all happy about handling the case. I never did find out the connection between him and Dr Crown but it must have been a strong one to make him agree to open such a can of worms.

  20: Another Divorce and the Aftermath

  The first thing that Attorney Golson did after taking on my divorce case was to secure a court order to get Palmer out of our apartment. It was essentially an eviction notice, and if he did not leave, he would be in contempt of court and subject to arrest. Mr Golson and the judge advised me to stay away for a while to avoid any possible repercussions once the shock hit him. The children and I went to my brother’s house for a few days.

  On receiving the court order, Palmer instructed an attorney to fight it. His attorney, who happened to be one of his drinking partners, had no idea of the magnitude of the circumstances involved, or of Palmer’s previous arrests. Apparently, it took him little time to tell Palmer that he must obey the court, that he had no recourse. And so the battle began, and a battle it was.

  Palmer moved out and I had no idea where he was staying. He constantly harassed me with phone calls, and even though I had my phone number changed to an unlisted one, he soon had it. I complained to the telephone company, and again changed my number, but within a day, he had the new one and the ranting calls started again. He would laugh and tell me repeatedly that I was wasting my time, reminding me that he had connections everywhere, even in the phone company. That was when he started stalking me. He seemed to know every move I made, everywhere I went, and with whom. He took great pleasure in calling me and giving me a run-down of my activities. He was also calling our friends, trying to turn them against me and spreading untrue rumours about me. I wasn’t worried about that because everyone knew they were untrue. Fortunately, he did not find out about the friends who had Mob connections or I’m sure he would have tried doing something to discredit me in that regard. Perhaps he did know but was clever enough not to mess with those people. I often wondered what might have happened if he had tried to make trouble for me in my innocent friendship with them. I suspect they would not have tolerated his behaviour and I’m sure just a warning from them or their attorneys would have frightened him into silence but, thank God, that never happened.

  Mr Golson kept me posted of all the happenings and more than once told me how lucky I was that Dr Crown was a friend because he would never have taken my case if he had felt he had a choice in the matter. Apparently Palmer was now busy trying to dig up dirt on Mr Golson, who was constantly receiving calls and letters from him, warning that he would not stop until he got him disbarred. He did, in fact, file a perjury claim against Mr Golson, but the court threw it out.

  When the divorce case finally got to court, we went before Judge Fred Slater, who was an African American. That added to Palmer’s anger, as he was extremely prejudiced. Having a black judge, I know, was the ultimate insult to him. Repeatedly, the case was held up by Palmer’s delaying tactics, one of them being an effort to get the judge kicked off the bench. He accused me, my witnesses, my lawyer and the judge of perjury, filing charges against us all. He also filed a petition demanding a change of venue, claiming that Judge Slater was biased, but in the end, he not only ran out of lawyer friends, who were all sick of him, but angered the judge almost to the point of being counter-sued. I don’t know how he managed to stay out of jail throughout the whole fiasco but at last I was granted the divorce, full custody of Robin and child support payments. Palmer received a warning from the court that he could lose his visitation rights with his daughter if he displayed any drunken or abusive behaviour anywhere near us.

  While all of this had been going on, I had placed an ad in the newspaper for a roommate to share the apartment and expenses. I thought the children and I could share one bedroom and we could let the other. The only serious response I got was from a woman with two children who convinced me that we could make it work by putting two sets of bunk beds in the children’s bedroom and that she and I could share the other. I met her and the children and they seemed pleasant enough. Deborah had a good job at the Chicago Rehabilitation Hospital but, having recently lost her husband to cancer, was in a temporary financial bind because of all the medical bills. She begged me to give it a try. She claimed to be a gourmet cook and offered to make all of our meals; she also said how much she loved housekeeping and that she would be happy to take on that responsibility as well. I thought this was too good to be true and arranged for them to move in. Before I’d met Deborah I’d asked her if she had a lot of furniture as I didn’t have room for very much.

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘After my husband died, I sold everything. But I do have a record player and a standalone bar.’

  ‘Wow, you sound like a portable party,’ I told her. ‘I can certainly make space for that.’

  I was finally free of a situation that I’d thought would never end. Palmer was ordered to pay all court costs while I waited anxiously for the bill from my attorney, but it never came. I don’t know if Dr Crown paid it, or if Mr Golson had taken my case as a favour to him. I could only give thanks daily and wonder why someone had been so kind to me. Today, when I think about Dr Crown, tears well in my eyes and my heart is full; I owe so much to him and I still tell people about the angel who saved me.

  The whole process of getting Palmer out of my life seemed to take years but it was only a few months, and all that time there had been a growing fear that it was not over. The secret I had been keeping, and hoping was not true, was that I might be pregnant. I thought back to the last time Palmer and I had had sex, if you could call it that. He had attacked and viciously raped me. I thought of his low sperm count and how difficult it had been for me to get pregnant with Robin. I couldn’t be pregnant, I told myself, but the queasiness I was experiencing each morning worried me. Holding on to the hope that it was just nerves, I finally confided in a friend.

  ‘Of course you’re not pregnant. After all the stress you’ve been un
der, I’m not surprised you feel sick. Don’t forget that you’ve had to take medicine before for your nervous stomach,’ she assured me. I’m not sure that either of us believed what she said, but neither could we bear the thought that that one last night of drunken abuse could end up with a baby.

  To put my mind at rest, I went to my family doctor and had a pregnancy test. Waiting for the result was a nightmare but getting the news that the test was positive was the cruellest blow of all. Hadn’t I suffered enough? If Palmer found out he would be back in my life and I would never be able to get him out of it. Once more, I thought about killing myself but again I realized that I could never do that to my children or my family. In desperation, I called Dr Crown to see if he or anyone he knew would perform an abortion but he told me that that was the one thing he couldn’t help me with and sadly wished me luck. And so began the next painful episode in my mess of a life.

  I began checking with everyone I thought I could trust to see if they knew of anyone who had ever had an abortion or if they knew anyone or anything that might lead to finding someone. There was no way I could have the baby. I tried scalding hot baths and douches, I took massive doses of laxatives. All any of it ever did was make me sick. I did get one lead on someone who might help and went to see an elderly doctor who had an office in an old Polish neighbourhood of Chicago. She spoke in broken English and seemed nervous. When she learned how far along my pregnancy was, she said she would not be able to help me. She had been my last hope. After leaving her office, I sat in my car for what seemed hours, bawling my eyes out, all the time thinking, Why me, God, why me?

  The thought entered my mind that we should go to England, but how could I ever get enough money to pay for three airfares? What would my family say anyway, about taking in a family of three, or what would be four? The situation was impossible. Then, when I was at the lowest point of my despair, I received a phone call from a close friend. She told me she had talked to someone she worked with who had taken his girlfriend, on more than one occasion, to have unwanted pregnancies terminated. She had the phone number of the doctor, plus special instructions for calling him, and I prayed that this would not be another brick wall.

  The call had to be made from a public telephone. Then he would call back, perhaps after checking the number, all of which I thought was odd but I suppose in the days of illegal abortion they had to be careful. When I talked to the man, he told me I needed to have three hundred dollars in cash and that I had to phone him again on the day of the procedure from a different public phone. Then I would be given an address. It was a great relief to learn I could bring someone with me as I had heard that I might have to go alone to cut down the risk to the abortionist of exposure. My friend agreed to accompany me.

  I borrowed the three hundred dollars from friends and the big day finally arrived. Paralysed with fear we set off for the mystery rendezvous. I felt like a low-life criminal. I kept thinking this must be a nightmare and hoping I would soon wake up. The previous night, I had lain in bed thinking and wondering. How had I arrived at this terrible point in my life? Wasn’t it only yesterday I had boarded a ship with my GI husband, headed for a new and wonderful life in America? What had gone wrong? Was I being punished for something?

  We made the call from a public telephone, as directed, and received the address of the clinic. It was in a slum area on the south side of Chicago; we knew the area to be one of the so-called black ghettos. My teeth were chattering and I was trembling with fear, but glad that I wasn’t alone. We found the address, which was a large commercial-type building. We’d been told it was a clinic but there was no sign outside to indicate such. Filled with dread, we pushed open the door and went in. There was a hand-lettered sign on a bulletin board in the hallway, which read, ‘Health Center’. The building was old, dark and dirty inside, with paint peeling off the walls. The entrance-hall floor was marble, and a flight of marble stairs with wrought-iron railings and banisters led up to a second floor, which disappeared into the darkness. I remember wondering why there were no lights on.

  As we stood there looking around, an upstairs light flicked on and a nice-looking man of about forty called to us. ‘Please come up,’ he said. ‘I’ll be ready for you soon.’

  ‘Here we go,’ said my companion. ‘Just hang on for a little while longer.’

  I managed a weak smile but I was shaking uncontrollably as we climbed the long, curved stairway. If she hadn’t been holding my arm tightly, I’m sure I would have either run away or collapsed.

  The young man ushered us into a small office, invited us to sit down and introduced himself as the doctor. I glanced around, hoping to see some evidence of his professional status but there was none. At that juncture, I knew I was at the point of no return and had accepted my fate.

  ‘Do you have the money?’ he asked.

  I rummaged in my handbag, produced the envelope containing the fee and handed it to him.

  ‘Please excuse me for a moment,’ he said, and left the room.

  ‘He’s gone to count the money,’ my friend whispered.

  ‘Probably,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, shit, what if he doesn’t come back? What if we’ve been ripped off?’ she said.

  Before I could respond, he reappeared. Phew, I thought.

  He sat behind his desk and explained, ‘I use two different methods for the terminations I perform, but I need to examine you before I know which method will be best for you. The first would be what is called a D and C. That’s where we dilate the cervix slightly and use an instrument to scrape the inside of the uterus. The other way, if your pregnancy is too far advanced, is to pack the uterus with an irritant, which then causes you to have a miscarriage. Either way is completely safe, but the latter takes longer to come to completion.’

  It all sounded terrible and confusing to me, but I said nothing and just nodded my understanding.

  He told my friend to wait in his office then took me into an examination room, told me to take off my pants and lie on the table. Again, as much to take my mind off what was happening as anything, I scanned the walls for medical diplomas and saw none. There was no covering on the worn, cracked-leather examination table. He did not give me a gown to put on, or cover me with a sheet, and it was freezing cold. With a gloved hand, he shoved my legs apart and examined me.

  ‘Hmm,’ he muttered. ‘You’re much further along than I’d hoped.’ My heart lurched and I was afraid he was going to tell me that he couldn’t help me, but he did not. He sat me up and explained the only method available to us at this point was the packing he had described earlier.

  ‘Do you still want to go ahead?’ he asked. I nodded, yes, and lay down again, still shaking.

  ‘Take deep breaths and try to relax,’ he said, but I could not.

  He began by dilating the cervix, using a series of gradually larger instruments. He had warned me that there would be pain but I had not anticipated how excruciating it would be. He gave me a wad of bandage to bite down on so that I would make no noise. Tears streamed down my face into my ears and I was screaming into the sodden wad in my mouth. At last, when the cervix was open enough, he started inserting what felt like yards of what I hoped was sterile gauze bandage. As he worked, he explained that this would set up an irritation that would cause a miscarriage. He reiterated that this had been the only option left open to me. When I thought I could take the pain no longer, he said he had finished. He removed the instruments, and then, leaving a length of the bandage taped to the inside of my thigh, he told me I could get up. When I tried to stand, everything went black. I felt myself sway and knew I was going to pass out. He grabbed me by the arm and steered me into a chair, where I sat,
cradling my stomach, while he gave me instructions for what to do after I got home.

  He explained that I should start having contractions in about twelve hours. When that happened, and when I was sure they were strong and regular, I should gently begin pulling the gauze bandage out, but definitely no sooner. He said it would be bloody and to do it over the toilet, adding that the miscarriage would occur shortly after that and then it would be all over.

  He walked me back into his office and I heard myself groan as the world spun and a blanket of black wafted over me. Hanging on to the edge of his desk, I willed myself to remain conscious, then sat on the closest chair.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Drink this straight down. It will steady your nerves and raise your blood pressure.’ He handed me a shot of whiskey.

  I took one sip, but the smell of it made me heave, and I vomited all over his filthy carpet.

  Just then, my friend came back into the office; she had been outside smoking. She looked at me with sad eyes, and put her arms around me. Self-loathing choked me and I was filled with disgust at what I’d just been subjected to. I was also disgusted at the law that drove women to such extreme and dangerous procedures. I was shaking violently from head to foot and heard the doctor tell my friend that I was probably in shock.