Ending Life

I clutched the large phone book in my shaking, sweaty hands. My heart was racing, my breathing shallow. I clumsily dialed the number printed boldly on the yellow page. “Thank you for calling the Women’s Center. How may I help you?” greeted the receptionist. I closed my eyes as hot tears stung my cheeks. “I’d like to make an appointment,” I said. “We have an opening on February 14th,” she offered.

Valentine’s Day, I thought.

I woke up early that morning, having slept little the night before. I was told to wear loose, comfortable clothing. Did I deserve to be comfortable? I put on worn-out grey sweat pants and an oversize flannel shirt. I chose to wear slippers with a hard rubber sole so I wouldn’t have to bend over to tie my shoes afterward. I put my hair back in a ponytail. I did not put make-up on. I did not look like me.

My sister picked me up. My mother walked me out to the car. I could see the regret and devastation in her eyes. Most of all, I saw the look of a Mother’s love and concern, the look that said, “I will be here for you when it’s over.” My sister got behind the wheel and started the engine. I put on my seatbelt. Now I think about safety, I thought. The drive was eerily peaceful. The same route I’d taken to work every day, only somehow it was different. I’d have to find a different route from now on.

We pulled into the parking lot. I took a nervous breath. I was scared. I got out of the car, my legs wobbly. “Are you alright?” asked my sister. “Fine,” I said. We walked into the office. I checked in at the desk, looking around at the others who were waiting. I wondered if they could they tell why I was there.

The waiting room walls were dressed in dollar store artwork with spotted glass and brassy frames. The dark brown paneling matched the commercial grade carpet plagued with snags and bald spots. I sat down in the ancient black vinyl chairs with duck tape covering their damaged state.

I looked at my feet, unable to make eye contact with anyone. I was ashamed. I picked up a magazine. I couldn’t concentrate on the article, which went into great detail about the best hairstyle for any face shape. I was screaming inside.

The nurse called my name. It was time. I could leave, I thought.

I followed the nurse to a room where she handed me a long, fat white pill. Valium, it said, in microscopic black letters. I took it with a tiny plastic cup of water. I felt it stick to the back of my throat. It left a bad taste in my mouth. I took off my clothes and put on a stiff blue paper gown. I started to shake uncontrollably. I was so cold. I was so scared. I can’t do this, I thought.

The nurse came to get me. I followed her down the hall. She led me into another room. Inside was a reclining table with stirrups at the end, pointing towards the ceiling. At the foot of the bed was a large human vacuum, still soiled with someone else’s blood. The wall looked like an artist had taken a paint brush and splattered red paint all over it. There were many before me.

I lay on the table and put my feet in the stirrups. The doctor came in. He introduced himself and shook my clammy hand. He gave me a shot in a horrible place. “You need to relax your muscles,” he said. I started to cry. He turned on the machine. It made an evil roar as it came to life. The doctor put the vacuum inside me. I screamed a loud, gut-wrenching scream. Life was being sucked from deep within me. I lowered my hands to try and push the vacuum out of my body. The pain was horrific. The nurse restrained my hands and held them away from my stomach. The doctor encouraged me to be quiet. “We don’t want to scare the other patients,” he prodded. I thought I would die. Then it was over. What had I done?

My whole body shook as the impact of my actions set in. The nurse who restrained my hands was now across the room, rearranging supplies for the next procedure. With her back to me, she commented, “Don’t dwell on what happened here today. Think of your future.” I cried harder, not able to accept that there would be a life waiting to be lived on the other side of the door. Did I deserve a happy life?

The doctor left the room almost immediately after the killing machine was turned off. I was angry at him for leaving, not looking me in the eye before he made his escape. How convenient it must be to inflict such pain on a young woman and then walk away. In that moment, I blamed him, raged at him for my loss.

The nurse, after handing me a prescription for something that would stop the bleeding, told me to take my time getting dressed. She said she would be back to check on me in fifteen minutes. I couldn’t stay, I had leave. I sat up slowly, not sure how I was supposed to feel. Cramps were slicing me from the inside out. I needed to leave this place of death and torture quickly.

As I put my feet on the ground, my head felt hazy, drugged. It was in that moment the Valium kicked in. Finally, I thought. The Valium waited too long. I stumble to where my clothes were folded neatly and stacked. I hurriedly dressed, then opened the door and ran down the hall.

Making my way to the waiting room, I found my sister. She looked up at me in shock as I yelled, “Get me out of here!” She jumped to her feet and cradled my right arm, as if I was an elderly woman being escorted across the street. Feeling weak and fragile, I allowed her to lead. Reaching the flight of stairs that separated the office from the parking lot, I stopped. I sat on the stairs and grieved. “Oh my God,” I pleaded, “Oh my God.”

The ride home was physically depleting. I tried my best to find a comfortable position; certain parts of my body not making contact with the seat. My sister attempted to avoid the scatter of pot holes as she drove. We didn’t talk, there was nothing to say. In my head, in my own voice, I heard, “Murderer!” The voice grew louder as the drive continued. Finally, we arrived home.

My mother must have heard the car pulling into the driveway as she was out the front door in a flash. My sister, after turning the car off and making her way out, came over to my side and helped me stand. My mother moved her aside and reached for her baby girl. I was engulfed, loved, comforted. “Mommy,” I sobbed.