A date with the abortionist
Men tend to take abortion lightly; they . . . fail to realize the values involved. . . . Women learn to believe no longer in what men say . . . the one thing they are sure of is this rifled and bleeding womb, these shreds of crimson life, this child that is not there.
–Simone de Beauvoir, feminist leader and advocate of legalized abortion,
in The Second Sex, 1952
Marlee and I drove south on the winding mountain road toward a little town on the state border, not talking much, listening to Little Peggy March sing “I Will Follow Him” on the local AM radio station. I was into my best Gary Cooper/High Noon impersonation—silent, fearless, resolute. And while Marlee would typically be doing her cute, ditzy blonde routine a la Carol Channing, today she was more reflective and even a little clingy.
We’d met at a fraternity party earlier in the school year, and we were a perfect match for the times: I was a hot shot frat boy, campus politico and football player, and she was a really cute and classy sorority girl from New England. It didn’t take long for us to wind up in bed together, but, alas, at some point my trusty condom didn’t do the job for which it was intended. Marlee discovered she was pregnant sometime in April of our sophomore year—1963. We were both 20 with no intention of having a child. So the solution to our dilemma was abortion, even though it was illegal in the U.S. at the time, even though Marlee was Catholic.
I had no idea how to go about finding someone who did this illicit procedure, and we certainly wanted to keep our plans a secret. So I confided in a physician in my hometown and asked if he knew someone who could help. Dr. Farnsworth gave me the name and phone number of a physician in Ringgold, Georgia.
I called the abortionist and made an appointment with his receptionist. Thursday at 2:00 p.m. Bring $100 cash.
I don’t know what was going on in Marlee’s mind as we made our way to Ringgold in my 1960 Studebaker Lark. It was 1963, and guys like me and girls like her typically didn’t share our inner processes. I know that I was nervous, thinking mostly of myself, the predicament I’d gotten into, with little regard for the tiny embryo or for my girlfriend. I did my best to be considerate, however. She was not enthusiastic about the abortion, and I didn’t want her to have a change of heart at the last moment. I just wanted to get this over with and return to the life of a carefree college student.
When we got to the doctor’s office, we parked, went inside and spoke to the nurse in her stiff white uniform, then to the doctor. He did not instill great confidence, this nervous little man who would not look me in the eyes. Nonetheless, we proceeded with our plan.
They took Marlee back. I sat in the waiting room, anxiously flipping through the pages of a well-read March 1962 Reader’s Digest, seeing the words but not comprehending them. As I glanced around the room, I noticed it wasn’t really unhygienic as much as it was drab and disheveled—unorganized magazines, a sweater hanging from a coat rack that looked like it had been there for months and a tile floor well-worn with age. I wondered how many other young couples had made this trek. I knew I never wanted to do it again.
In about 20 minutes Marlee came out a bit pale and unsteady. When her eyes met mine, she wept softly. “Oh, Bruce, they wouldn’t let me see if it was a boy or a girl,” I held her with one arm and with the other handed the nurse five $20 bills . . . in relief and in shame. I helped Marlee to the car.
We didn’t say much to one another on the drive back to campus. Marlee slept, or pretended to, most of the way. I listened to the radio, keeping the volume down, wondering how long it would be before we could have sex again, wondering if my pals would be drinking at the White Horse Tavern that night.
Because of the bleeding that went on for weeks, Marlee’s parents found out about the abortion. She did not return to the university the next fall. They say you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. And that was certainly true in my relationship with Marlee. I saw her once more on an ill-fated trip to Boston. She came into the city to visit. We kissed and talked a little. Then she was gone, this sweet, loveable, beautiful, blonde girl.
Did I have the least bit of remorse for doing what we did at that time? Did I feel any anguish about ending the life of a fetus? Did I have any real concern for Marlee and her emotional state? I don’t recall that I did. I was so naïve, so inexperienced in life, so unsure of myself, so filled with pretense that I remained in my hyper-masculine persona during most of the experience, denying any authentic feelings that might stray into my consciousness. So I get to experience those emotions 40-some-odd years later—the grief, the heartache, the remorse—while wondering how Marlee’s doing. Wondering if her perforated uterus ever healed properly. Wondering if she was able to have kids. Wondering if she ever thinks of me.
Note: This story appeared in the June 2006 issue of Western North Carolina Woman. All of the names (except mine) have been changed to protect the innocent as well as the guilty.
Saturday, August 19th, 2006
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Hey Man,
Attended the 39th annual “Big Eat” sunday and Shannon told me you had this site. It’s like a personal visit. Am ordering your book and will expect the author to sign it personally at some point.
Wonderful catching up with you, and am so glad you souond so happy. Keep on keeping on.
Bev
Comment by Beverly jones — September 6, 2007 @ 10:45 am
Hey, Beverly. Great to hear from you. The 39th Big Eat! Amazing that it’s been going on that long. I’d be glad to autograph a book for you. And I’d like to know more about what’s going on in your life too.
Comment by Bruce — September 18, 2007 @ 5:14 pm