Mad Hope (18 page)

Okay, getting sleepy. More later. Why does lying in bed make me so tired?
–
New Country

New Country: They have done studies that show that unwanted children grow up to be criminals, miscreants, molesters and general fuck-ups. They clog our prison systems; they come into this world unloved, wreak havoc and go out the same way they came in, in a cloud of ambivalence and shame. Do not feel bad about the work you did. Even on a purely practical level, you did the world a favour, saved us all some tax dollars and prevented a small societal seam from bursting.
–
Straight Shooter

Straight Shooter: I feel sorry for you. Your soul has fled your body, left you all scooped out and sad. What brash arrogance you show, what blatant disregard for human family. It has been proven in numerous studies that in fact the enormous guilt women feel after aborting a precious baby later leads to child neglect and abuse. If you would like more information, you are welcome to join me at a meeting with my brothers and sisters in Love.
–
A Concerned Citizen

Um,
WADR
, since when do we care about the opinions of one ‘Concerned Citizen' (ahem, and
WTF
Christian Mom?) with a whole pile of Bibles to thump? When I was fifteen I had an abortion.
BFD
. Some shithead took advantage when I'd had one too many swigs of peach schnapps. My mom came with me to the clinic, and afterwards we went for Swiss Chalet. I remember how I cried a little into the special sauce and my mom pretended not to see except she passed me an extra serviette. We never told my dad though. New Country, you're a hero in my books.
–
Craving City

Ladies, I swear on my pile of Bibles (I really do have a pile, different editions and such ... ) that Concerned Citizen is not me. Really, truly. I mean, I don't approve exactly of, you know, the A-word, but I would never be so mean. That is totally not God's way. Please believe me.
–
Christian Mom!

Hi y'all! Thank you for your responses, but I feel like I ran out of steam before I reached the end of my story, and being bedridden makes me obsessed with finishing things … And because I am here, in this unofficial waiting room, on the brink of something, and I consider y'all my family of sorts – my sweet bodiless friends, with nothing to talk about but your bodies – I feel the need to confess. Once we reached the clinic, I would lead my charge up the stairs and help to check her in. She never looked at me and I never thought this rude. I did get the occasional clinger, whose grip on my arm became claw-like during our approach and whose weepiness I could feel without having to look at her. I allowed this like a man, giving several brisk, open-palmed pats to the back. I was stoic and strong until later I found myself trembling in the parking lot lighting up a cigarette – at least a pack a day during those months. After the procedure was complete, sometimes I was asked to escort the woman from the clinic to her car. The women, as they left, shook off my gallant overtures. They were spent and miserable, or relieved and giddy, but felt they should walk alone with the weight of their decision. I was paid very well for the job and there was only one time when I felt I could be in real danger. I remember the day so well, more vividly even than my wedding day. Is that strange? I think it is strange.

The particulars are all shiny in my mind's eye. It's bizarre I know, but I hold on to those details so tightly. I turn them around to look at them so much that sometimes I think I must change them just by holding them. But here it is, as I remember it: it was an overcast day, and it had rained earlier, a sudden downpour that sent the protestors scurrying to find shelter under a few earnestly planted municipal trees and shop awnings. I was glad to feel the rain; it cleared the way and gave me the opportunity to create an oasis under my big green umbrella. I had perfected the angle that kept us both dry, tilted slightly forward, positioned a foot or so above my companion's head. We were moving forward up the path, keeping a steady pace. She was tall, this client, and it was a challenge keeping the umbrella steady and in place. There were signs the sun might break through the clouds, and I knew this type of light was not a good sign for us. If the protestors were not too soggy they would be more riled up than ever – the sight of light struggling through dark clouds made them bold. I was just about to take the umbrella down so that we could move more quickly when I noticed a young woman break from the crowd and stand underneath a nearby tree. The woman was petite and brunette with corkscrew ringlets that brushed her shoulders – she was like a cherub carved into the top of a church pew. Her eyes were blue and blank. Her certainty made her so beautiful, which is why, I guess, I didn't think of her as a threat.

It wasn't until she was right next to us that I realized her intent. She had a switchblade clutched in one hand, flipped open and at the ready. It glinted like something from a 1950s musical – the moment felt all macho and melodious. I nearly laughed, but then I felt my woman tense and heard her sharp intake of breath. The world slowed down. The sun was still struggling in the sky. I wondered then if I was prepared to die for her, for this, for an idea of freedom and future that gives humans so much agency. I decided I was not, but neither could I allow the cherub to run and slash unchecked. It was too ridiculous. I shoved my woman behind me and squared my shoulders directly in front of my attacker. Then I punched the cherub, quickly and efficiently, in the nose. Odd, but I was thinking of sharks – how best to disorient one if it ever becomes overly aggressive while you are snorkelling in the tropics.

I broke her nose. The tears and the blood mingled on her lovely cheeks and she staggered away. My charge dusted herself off, took my arm again and pulled me towards the clinic. Thanks, she muttered, once I had seated her. No prob, I said. I never saw either of those women again.

And now here I am, leaking blood, confessing to strangers, already tallying all the moments in my life that might have been.
–
NC

NC
: Wings here. Thank you for choosing us to hold your story. To allow these shadowy corners access to the light is perhaps the most meaningful gift we can give each other. I say this with true feeling and conviction and – I hope – courage. You have inspired me to share my own story, you see. The fact is, I could have been one of your companions on your walks from sidewalk to doorstep, from relative innocence to murky knowingness. When I was twenty-three years old, I opted to end a pregnancy. I will not say it was a difficult decision at the time – you could say I saw no other option.

I had been travelling for eight months, backpacking for a few weeks with a childhood friend and then for various segments of time with other friends, who came to seem to me – in clouds of hash smoke, on train station platforms, in the lounges of youth hostels, on stone benches in public squares, sprawled on the grass that surrounded famous monuments – as friends I had known forever, as my soul's true companions.

When, back home in Toronto, I first began to feel queasy, I assumed I had brought back a souvenir, an opportunistic worm or virus simply playing its own role in my body's ecosystem. But then I was Late and Later, and I began to think about all the times in the last six weeks I had allowed myself to be seduced by the wave of sensation that meant I could gather another human into me. When I peed on that wand and saw that crucifix, it did seem to me just another short-term burden to bear. I had to get rid of it. And if I had not? I don't know. I think I might have married my cousin's ex. He had a wrinkle on his forehead that made him seem kind, and he listened to me when I drank too much Gato Negro. But he was not what I needed. I knew that then, and I know it now. I wish I could say I mourned the loss of life but I could not, not when all I knew of my own past, present and future was the result of my own arrogant spirit tentacling out to touch as much of the world as I could ... Sometimes I think I should be asking someone or something forgiveness, but instead I am overcome by a gut-wrenching gratitude. Who is it I'm thanking? I'm not sure. I'm still not sure.
–
Wings

Holy crap, Wings! Why don't you give it up and write a novel already?
–
Straight Shooter

Oh Wings! Thank you so much for sharing. I knew that bristly exterior was hiding something mushy and vulnerable. You don't have to respond to this note – I just wanted you to know I understand and I forgive you for your earlier cranky posts.
–
Spiral

Spiral: I definitely was not asking
your
forgiveness. And I still think you've been sniffing too much incense.
–
Wings

Hi Everybody! Sheila K. here. I've been reading your entries like crazy – when I get home from work or running errands I sometimes have to stop myself from running first to the computer before stopping to pee – and believe me, I really have to pee! I guess I just felt like I had to put my two cents in as far as this whole debate or discussion is concerned. I know there are as many opinions out there as there are birds in the sky, but I feel like maybe I'm different. You see, I don't have a Bible to my name, never mind one I'd like to thump, but I also don't believe abortion is right. I'm not sure I've always felt this way; in fact I don't think I had an opinion, or at least not a fully formed one until very recently. I wonder sometimes if it was the birth of my first child that changed my outlook, but somehow I don't think so. I think instead it is a brand of certainty that comes with maturation, a commitment to a set of views that, when I was younger, I might have attributed to the stubborn rigidity of middle age, but that I now see as a kind of bravery. It's just that I believe that something, once started, should be carried through to the end. Maybe it's because everything in our lives has become so easily disposable. And I think – no, not
this
, you should not be allowed to do
this
. And I understand, I do, that there are issues of freedom, of gender, of a person's parameters being curtailed by others, of desperation and back alleys. But are we not an innovative, creative species that adapts, that finds ways to manage the unexpected? Should we not persist in filling gaps where gaps exist, evolve to take care of what we have created? What I'm trying to say is there must be more than one way to tidy our own chaos, no?
–
Sheila K

Sheila: I hear you! I try to respect a person's choice, I really do, but I don't think any woman who's ever endured
IVF
– all that poking and prodding and waiting and wondering – would ever choose to end a pregnancy. It just seems like squandered opportunity, something wanton and wasteful.
–
Spiral

POST REDACTED BY FORUM MASTER

What does ‘redacted' mean? It sounds kind of French.
–
Straight Shooter

Who is the Forum Master? I didn't know we had a Forum Master.
–
Spiral

I think it might be God.
–
Craving City

It's so weird to think of God using a computer!
–
Christian Mom!

Why would God bother censoring us, anyway? When has he ever cared about women's whinging?
–
Straight Shooter

Ah, the ghost in the machine. It's actually the perfect place for god to hang out, isn't it?
–
Wings

I lost the baby.
–
NC

Oh, New Country, what happened?
What happened?
–
Spiral

Apparently my cervix is incompetent – along with my tear ducts. I know I should cry. I should be crying, right? Instead I just feel like someone has stuffed dry straw into the hole where my heart is and I wish like crazy for a word that might burn it up, make me feel something, anything. That so much liquid could gush from me, that my little one could escape me on a tidal wave of blood, and I could be left feeling so arid and artificial ... This can't be what it means to be human.
–
NC

My heart goes out to you, New Country. And Jesus SEES you, He really does. He understands your anguish and loves you and feels your repentance even if you've not yet recognized it. My God is not a punishing God, but there are reasons, there is sense and order in this world, a plan, a structure of sorts that emerges if we take a moment to understand the scaffolding of our lives. It was SINFUL work that you did, helping abortionists to commit abominations. But you are beginning to understand now and that is what is IMPORTANT. You know all too well, I'm sure, considering your CONDITION, that what we carry in our wombs as women is NOT GARBAGE. You know, I am certain, that what stirs within you is LIFE. By eleven weeks a fetus is waking, sleeping, eating, DREAMING. Dreaming of a life outside his mother, but bathed in the light of mother's love, of God's love. Please be strong and understand that although you have made terrible mistakes, there is room for you here in the fold, that we will enfold you and keep you and your baby from harm.
–
On the Side of the Innocents

Holy mackerel! Who is this nutjob? ‘On the Side of the Inno­cents'? A bit unwieldy as a handle, no? I know we try to respect diversity of opinion here, but I have one word for you, New Country: ignore.
–
Spiral

To ignore the word of God is to court disaster.
But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.
The souls you helped banish are with Jesus now. You will not be so lucky. There is a table reserved in a restaurant called Hades for you and your devil spawn. A special place reserved.
–
Concerned Christian