The Post I Wasn’t Going To Write

Every four weeks, my liberal value system is tested when I visit my OB/GYN for my monthly prenatal appointment.

Women of every age and varying states of fertility sit on one side of the hushed, tasteful waiting room of this private practice. Older women, clearly in menopause, with short sleeves in the middle of February and neat, graying hair. Women like me, who may or may not be pregnant. Women who are simply there for a quick annual exam and a pap smear.

Then there is the other side.

Near the door to the surgical center.

Women with red-rimmed eyes. Women laughing nervously with a friend. Young women, clearly college students, with their mothers. Women still slender, dressed in jeans and trendy tops or big baggy sweatshirts.

These women are waiting for an abortion.

My doctor is, I believe, the only physician in my area who performs abortions, with the exception of Planned Parenthood.

I did not know this when I joined her practice, hearing only that she was the best in the area. Our crappy insurance allows me to get charged an arm and a leg by any doctor I wish, and so I wished to have the best.

The knowledge that she is also a well-known reproductive rights advocate would never have swayed my decision to enroll as a patient. In fact, I am pleased to know that there is a place for women in need, a place for women who made a painful decision and deserve an excellent physician to guide them through the process of terminating their pregnancy.

But.

Sitting on the opposite side of the room during my last appointment, the phone rang. The terribly rude and indiscrete receptionist loudly questioned the caller for all of us to hear.

“When was your last period?” Pause. “That makes you about six weeks.” Pause. “The surgery is outpatient. If you take the pill, that is something you can do at home.” Pause. “Four-hundred dollars.” Pause. “That is six hundred.”

With each staccato sentence, I felt my hand creep ever nearer my small belly. She booked an appointment for the caller, and as she hung up I found myself staring at her, mouth agape and palm pressed against my womb.

My gaze strayed to the other side of the room, where one woman sat, alone and looking anywhere but at me or the receptionist.

She has a baby in her belly, I thought. Like my baby.

My heart lurched a little.

Judge her I did not; I understand that every circumstance is different. I understand there are reasons – good ones, valid ones – that women terminate pregnancy. I cannot understand, but can certainly imagine, what an agonizing decision it must be to take such a step.

And I fully, with every fiber of my being, support the right of all women to have control over their bodies. Being free to make the right choice for you – no matter how personally painful it is for the woman or how difficult it is for someone else to understand – is a basic human right.

Should anyone or any institution threaten that right even slightly, I will stand up with my sisters and declare it fundamental. I will fight to maintain this right.

But.

I have never been confronted so intimately with the knowledge that in the waiting room, there is a baby. And later, there is not.

Being human, and, specifically, being a woman, is sometimes uncomfortable. Sometimes we have to look in the face of our beliefs, the personification of those beliefs in their living, breathing form, and we are forced to review our value systems and evaluate how we really feel about certain core issues.

This is a true test.

My values remain intact. And because I, too, am human and therefore flawed, so does my unease.