This Common Secret: My Journey as an Abortion Doctor by Susan Wicklund
Authors: Susan Wicklund
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still sitting in a frantic dream. Nightmare. Trying to settle down. Need to gather myself enough to see patients. Need to cry. Can’t stop shaking.
The protesters became enough of a danger and daily hassle that friends and staff suggested I consider using disguises. It seemed like a possible solution, and at least a way of avoiding some of the direct confrontations. I began collecting clothes and hats and scarves completely out of character for me. I practiced making myself up and tried to change my mannerisms like an actress assuming different characters.
Journal Entry, January 27, 1991:
Snowstorm. Just dropped Martha off at the airport here in Fargo. Right now feel like I’m in another world. Bought a wig last night in Duluth. Martha and I knew it was serious stuff, but couldn’t stop giggling. Hair salon salesperson thought we were nuts and showed obvious surprise when I bought a good quality wig.
Conversation at one point as I tried on an auburn, curly haired wig, shoulder length:
Clerk: “That really doesn’t look much like you.”
Me: “Good. That is the idea.”
Clerk to Martha: “Well, she really does look good with hair.”
Martha and I doubled up in laughter. Martha leaning against the wall, tears running down her face. I was sitting on the stool with this long, curly hair over my half-inch-long, straight, gray hair, laughing so hard I was snorting. “Sold,” I half cried. “Got any red lipstick to clash?” But by now I was feeling a terror in my stomach. My tears were out of real fear, not humor.
We left and headed for Fargo. 5 hour drive in good weather. Took us 7 in a blizzard. Sometimes down to 20 mph. So tired.
Then I donned my wig, put on my new make-up and black stretch pants, red shoes, a red polyester blouse and plaid blazer. Drove Martha to the airport dressed like that. Our good-byes are usually teary and so sad. This time we giggled. Why? Because of my ridiculous outfit. And to hide our fear.
I got to the clinic with no staff knowing about the new me. Had prearranged with Jane to have a name on the appointment list so I’d be let in and treated like a patient. Went up the stairs to admitting as instructed, excused myself to the restroom, changed clothes, washed my face and shoved the wig through the pass-door into the lab where urine samples usually go. Freaked out Carol in lab. Explained to staff later and they were OK with it all. Protesters hadn’t a clue when I had come in. That was the only good part. It feels so awful. Why do I have to do this to go to work? WHY? Just to avoid taunts or the threat of having the car I’m in stopped by some screaming fanatics? I can’t stand it when they get so close to me. There is so much hate in their eyes.
People said how smart I must feel to have fooled the protesters. I just feel drained.
I made friends with a man who often flew on the same commuter flight as I did to Appleton every Tuesday. Sometimes we sat together, but our conversations always centered on his life, his work, his family, not on mine. I would always hang back when we got to Appleton, taking extra time to gather my things so I would be the last one off the plane and the other passengers wouldn’t see the circus created by the protesters when I entered the airport.
I sat near him one of the first times I wore a disguise. It was a hideous costume—brightly beaded jean jacket, an auburn wig, polyester pants, and a big purse. I hated the deceit, the fact that I was going to these extremes to avoid the harassment. And now it meant I couldn’t sit and have a pleasant conversation with a friend.
He didn’t recognize me, and at the airport in Appleton I walked out with all the other passengers. The protesters never suspected. I walked right past as they craned their necks, searching the small group of passengers. That anonymity was the only thing that made the demeaning effort worth it.
A day later, on the return flight, I sat across the narrow aisle from my
The protesters became enough of a danger and daily hassle that friends and staff suggested I consider using disguises. It seemed like a possible solution, and at least a way of avoiding some of the direct confrontations. I began collecting clothes and hats and scarves completely out of character for me. I practiced making myself up and tried to change my mannerisms like an actress assuming different characters.
Journal Entry, January 27, 1991:
Snowstorm. Just dropped Martha off at the airport here in Fargo. Right now feel like I’m in another world. Bought a wig last night in Duluth. Martha and I knew it was serious stuff, but couldn’t stop giggling. Hair salon salesperson thought we were nuts and showed obvious surprise when I bought a good quality wig.
Conversation at one point as I tried on an auburn, curly haired wig, shoulder length:
Clerk: “That really doesn’t look much like you.”
Me: “Good. That is the idea.”
Clerk to Martha: “Well, she really does look good with hair.”
Martha and I doubled up in laughter. Martha leaning against the wall, tears running down her face. I was sitting on the stool with this long, curly hair over my half-inch-long, straight, gray hair, laughing so hard I was snorting. “Sold,” I half cried. “Got any red lipstick to clash?” But by now I was feeling a terror in my stomach. My tears were out of real fear, not humor.
We left and headed for Fargo. 5 hour drive in good weather. Took us 7 in a blizzard. Sometimes down to 20 mph. So tired.
Then I donned my wig, put on my new make-up and black stretch pants, red shoes, a red polyester blouse and plaid blazer. Drove Martha to the airport dressed like that. Our good-byes are usually teary and so sad. This time we giggled. Why? Because of my ridiculous outfit. And to hide our fear.
I got to the clinic with no staff knowing about the new me. Had prearranged with Jane to have a name on the appointment list so I’d be let in and treated like a patient. Went up the stairs to admitting as instructed, excused myself to the restroom, changed clothes, washed my face and shoved the wig through the pass-door into the lab where urine samples usually go. Freaked out Carol in lab. Explained to staff later and they were OK with it all. Protesters hadn’t a clue when I had come in. That was the only good part. It feels so awful. Why do I have to do this to go to work? WHY? Just to avoid taunts or the threat of having the car I’m in stopped by some screaming fanatics? I can’t stand it when they get so close to me. There is so much hate in their eyes.
People said how smart I must feel to have fooled the protesters. I just feel drained.
I made friends with a man who often flew on the same commuter flight as I did to Appleton every Tuesday. Sometimes we sat together, but our conversations always centered on his life, his work, his family, not on mine. I would always hang back when we got to Appleton, taking extra time to gather my things so I would be the last one off the plane and the other passengers wouldn’t see the circus created by the protesters when I entered the airport.
I sat near him one of the first times I wore a disguise. It was a hideous costume—brightly beaded jean jacket, an auburn wig, polyester pants, and a big purse. I hated the deceit, the fact that I was going to these extremes to avoid the harassment. And now it meant I couldn’t sit and have a pleasant conversation with a friend.
He didn’t recognize me, and at the airport in Appleton I walked out with all the other passengers. The protesters never suspected. I walked right past as they craned their necks, searching the small group of passengers. That anonymity was the only thing that made the demeaning effort worth it.
A day later, on the return flight, I sat across the narrow aisle from my
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