Rain Dance (3 page)

I rose and followed her down the hallway, glad for the sterile environment. The room’s vinyl couch and medical instruments provided a sense of cold detachment. It was all business here, which worked for me.

After a brief wait, Dr. Steele entered. “Good morning, Mrs. Cutter.”

“Stacie please, Doctor.”

He smiled. “What can I do for you today?”

“I’m pregnant and I want an abortion.”

He asked a few medical questions then, “How far along do you think you are?”

“About eight weeks. I just missed my second period.”

He handed me a gown. “Please go into the dressing room and put this on.”

Following a short exam, and discussion about my home pregnancy test, he washed and dried his hands, then helped me off the examination table.

“Get dressed, and I’ll give you a recommendation.”

I put my clothes on and returned to the vinyl couch, its coolness reaching through my jeans.

Dr. Steele handed me a business card. Printed in raised black letters were a doctor’s name and the address of a women’s clinic.

“Dr. Adams is professional and thorough. I’ve known her for years.”

“Where is this clinic?”

Opening the blind, he pointed. “Right there.”

The small brick building across the street had only the number 123 on the glass door. “Why no sign?”

“To try to keep radical pro-lifers from bombing the place. They always seem to find us.”

“Has the clinic been threatened?”

“No.”

I’d never understood what Eve and others in the pro-choice movement feared. Abortion was legal, and although a couple of twisted radicals had attacked clinics, Eve’s team seemed to enjoy lumping all their opposition into the same category. It made no sense to me.

On the sidewalk outside the building stood an older couple holding hands, their gray heads bowed.

“Those two are there Monday through Friday,” Dr. Steele told me.

“They don’t look much like mad bombers.”

“Beware of wolves in sheep’s clothing. Just because it hasn’t happened here yet doesn’t mean it won’t.” He snapped the blind shut.

Handing me a booklet, he said, “Here’s some information you’ll need to prepare for the procedure.”

“Thanks.”

He opened the door and followed me into the hallway. “Have a nice day, Stacie.”

“Thanks. I will. You too.” I walked to the elevators, reaching into my purse for my phone. I punched the speed dial number for my office.

“Hi, Monica. I’m on my way in.”

Walking up to my navy blue Taurus, I remembered the red Mercedes I had taken for a test drive the week before. “Someday!” I declared as I pressed the unlock button.

I got in and shut the door. Reaching for the business card in the side pocket of my purse, I dialed again.

While the phone rang, a tiny nagging doubt assailed me. Instinct suggested,
Maybe you should talk to Mike
.

The receptionist answered. “First Avenue Women’s Clinic.”

“Hi. This is Stacie Cutter. I need an appointment with Dr. Adams.”

“Yes, Stacie, I just spoke with Dr. Steele. We can set up your appointment for Friday morning at nine. Will that work for you?”

The voice of doubt silenced. “Nine on Friday sounds good. Will it be done then or later?”

“Dr. Steele will send your records over later today. The ultrasound and procedure will be done when you get here. Read the materials he gave you, get plenty of rest, and come with an empty stomach. Do you have any other questions?”

“Will I be able to work later on Friday?”

“Most women prefer to take the day off. The decision is up to you. We recommend you don’t drive.”

As I pulled out of the parking ramp, I recognized the perfect timing—Mike would come home on Saturday to only me.

Chapter
2

Jonica

Grieving is hard work.

I wandered around the house for a few days after my appointment with Dr. Steele, unable to think about anything but my sorrow. My body was a restless mass of pins and needles, yet I didn’t want to go anywhere. Every step felt like I was slogging through mud bogs. While tiredness overwhelmed my mind, sleep evaded me.

Friday I decided to get back into my routine. When the alarm rang, I got out of bed instead of pulling the covers over my head. At breakfast, Ben and I munched on toasted English muffins with peanut butter, and drank hot coffee. We laughed and shared nutty-flavored kisses.

After a long hug, Ben went outside to the car. A moment later, he popped his head back in.

“I’ve missed you, Joni.”

I gave him another kiss—the kind with a promise attached. “Hurry home.”

He winked and shut the door.

Doing dishes, I listened to the radio and splashed water on the floor while lip-syncing to “I Am Woman.” When I wiped up the slippery tiles, the song on the radio changed to “Pretty Woman.”

What kind of woman am
I anyway? Pretty empty. I
can’t
even be fruitful and multiply.

The familiar heaviness settled in my chest. I heard my voice say, “What a waste of womanhood.”

I poured another cup of coffee and headed for the window seat in our living room. With my legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, I settled in for a sympathy shower in honor of me. On the way I’d gotten a glimpse of myself in a mirror. I couldn’t miss the dark circles of sadness resting under my swollen eyes.

A Bible verse sparked in my soul. “You formed my inward parts, you covered me in my mother’s womb…I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”

Sudden anger rose in my heart
.
So You knew I wasn’t going to be able to get pregnant? Why God? Why am I so flawed?

“I have a purpose for you,” a
voice whispered to my soul.
“My plans are for you to succeed.”

How? I demanded out loud.

Immediately another scripture flooded into my mind:
“Blessed are those who morn, for they will
be comforted.”

I resisted God’s invitation to solace.
I am not there yet, Lord. The loss is big and so deep. Accepting the death of my dream as Your plan for me is going to take a supernatural act on Your part. I can’t do it.

Tired of thinking about my loss, I got up and dumped out my now cold coffee. Upstairs in my office an unfinished book manuscript waited for me. Perhaps putting some words on paper would help.

Instead, I threw a load of laundry in the dryer, watered the Boston fern on the stair landing, and cleaned the master bathroom. The grandfather clock chimed noon, so I made a tuna sandwich with lots of dill pickles, poured another cup of coffee, and grabbed two chocolate chip cookies.

Setting the lunch tray on the desk, I fired up my computer, read e-mail messages, and devoured my sandwich. Munching on a cookie, I looked around the room. Sunshine danced on the sage green walls and rested on my favorite sculpture: a group of pre-school aged children in bronze, holding hands and running together as if celebrating life. I could almost hear their laughter. I hoped the kids who read my books would race headlong into each day, believing life was meant to be enjoyed.

I’d been like that. I missed her—the little girl who skipped and twirled through her days, dreamed big, and giggled out loud. Lately a silent smirk was the best I had to offer.

Then I thought about her. Stacie. Her face and words hovered in my thoughts.

“God, we are so different.”

I pictured us on two sides of the Grand Canyon. A voice inside me urged,
“Bridge the gap.”

“Oh for crying out loud! Me? How? Why can’t I just spend some time letting my own wound heal? I’m struggling with the fact that everyone will know we can’t have children. It hurts and I’m embarrassed. Your Word says children are a blessing from You. Why don’t we get blessed? God, I’m sick to death of this!” My voice sounded overloud in the empty room.

The words to a childhood jingle skipped across my mind.
Same song . . . same verse . . .
a little bit louder and a little bit worse.

A single beam of sunshine settled on the cross hanging on the wall. I contemplated Jesus. Beaten and ridiculed in public, He carried His cross in front of the crowds. People stood around and watched Him die. Some loved Him and others were there to hurl ridicule at Him. He suffered, and everyone knew. So much for thinking I deserved a private time to grieve.

“Whatever you do, do it heartily as to the Lord, and not to men, knowing
that from the Lord
you will receive the reward of the inheritance;
for you serve the Lord Christ.”

I tried to resist the conviction of those gentle words, but I just couldn’t.

“I want to serve You, Lord, even while I’m grieving. Help me to care about other people right now when my own circumstances threaten to take over my life.”

“Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

“Thankful for infertility? Are You kidding me?” The sound of my voice smashed through the stillness and seemed to bounce back at me, the sharp edges piercing my conscience.

I knew obedience was a choice. I wanted to choose rebellion, but I was already finding the price too high.

I walked down the hall to our bedroom and knelt at the foot of the bed. As I rested my head on the comforter, an even deeper pain came over me—bigger than my sorrow.

Urgency filled my heart for Stacie, and I prayed, “Please bridge the gap between us. I can’t reach out to her on my own, but I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. I don’t know where Stacie is right now, Lord, or what she is facing, but I know You do. Please be with her.”

I wondered about the little one in her womb and distress flooded my soul. Tears once again overflowed. Would they ever stop?

Stacie

No one warned me about the grief.

Wednesday and Thursday I worked overtime and finished the research on my pending projects. Evenings I walked around the house, listless. Unable to get much rest, I outlined the next week’s work.

After tossing and turning most of the night, I got up early on Friday and went for a run. Normally I found each stride exhilarating. The exercise had always cleared my brain, and I loved the feeling of my body moving to its own internal rhythm. Today, instead of feeling energized, my body shook and my stomach rolled. I moved like a robot with metal joints. The ground before me was flat and the air was still.

By the time I reached home sweat poured down my face, yet I was cold all over. I undressed and turned the shower faucet to hot. I lathered, then rinsed in cold water, hoping the shock would shake loose the weird lethargy taking over my limbs and mind.

I pulled on my jeans and one of Mike’s old college sweatshirts, then glanced at the information on my reproductive rights and the instructions given me by Dr. Steele, skipping over the fine print. I regretted not telling anyone about my decision. I brushed my hair and called a cab.

I hurried to a corner several blocks away, where I had asked the dispatcher to send the taxi. I didn’t want the doorman to wonder or speculate with the building personnel why I didn’t drive myself wherever I was going.

The yellow-and-black cab pulled up, and I jumped in. Slamming the door, I told the driver the address. He punched down the meter handle, and we pulled into the flow of traffic. I wished the taxi had tinted windows.

“Five fifty.” The cabbie wiped jelly from his donut off the corner of his mouth.

I handed him a ten. “Keep the change.”

On the sidewalk stood the old couple I had seen from Dr. Steele’s office. They smiled at me, and then bowed their heads. Angered by their presence, I hurried into the building.

“Who do they think they are?” I mumbled not quite to myself.

Inside the foyer I stopped to let the quiet envelop me. I was bewildered by my presence there. I’d always pictured clinics like this one full of teenagers who were sexually active too soon, had been careless, and were way too young to parent a child. I didn’t see married women who’d taken extra precautions to prevent pregnancy needing these services.

Yet, here I was. I realized that abortion had become my newest form of birth control. While I found it offensive, I also accepted it as my truth. Part of being pro-choice meant always having a way out.

As I hesitated, the inner door opened, and a pale young woman exited alone. I watched through the glass doors as she walked outside toward the still praying couple. She said something to them, and they looked up. I saw her shoulders heave as they took her into their arms.

I assumed she had changed her mind. Certainly those two wouldn’t welcome anyone with open arms who chose an abortion.

Turning away, I grabbed the handle of the inner door and pulled. It opened with a gentle whoosh. Warm air washed across my face but my heart seemed to stand frozen in my chest. My breaths were shallow and choppy. I worried I might hyperventilate, so I took a few deep breaths as I walked to the desk.

The room was empty except for the receptionist, who looked up and said, “Good morning!”

“Hello. I’m Stacie Cutter.”

Her nametag, in black capital letters, read “Sandy.” She handed me some papers.

“Sign and return these to me. The nurse will be with you shortly.”

I skimmed the pages and signed the forms—even the one agreeing that I’d been offered other options. No one had bothered to explain any alternatives. I also chose to ignore the part about possible risks. I agreed that I had followed the written instructions given to me, even though I hadn’t read them.

Accepting the clipboard back, Sandy asked, “Do you want us to bill your insurance company, or would you rather write a check?”