This Common Secret: My Journey as an Abortion Doctor by Susan Wicklund Page A
Authors: Susan Wicklund
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friend, undisguised. I had the unmistakable jean jacket folded carefully in my lap so that only the denim showed. We talked as usual, but at one point I dropped something and in bending over, the jacket fell open into the aisle. His eyes moved to the gaudy coat, back to my face.
“That was you,” he said finally. “That was you yesterday. What the hell is going on? Who are you, anyway? What’s the gig? Are you running drugs or something?” He was really angry with me.
I didn’t want to explain. The airplane was my place of refuge and anonymity. What would he think? But he kept interrogating me, unrelenting.
“No, no, it’s nothing like drugs. It’s much simpler. No. It’s much more complicated. I’m a doctor. I do abortions. Every week I fly here to work in a clinic. There are people who try to stop me from doing my work. People who harass me. Haven’t you ever seen the protesters at the airport? They are waiting for me. I have had to resort to disguises because I can’t stand them in my face anymore.”
It all came out at once, in one big gushing confession. We talked the rest of the flight. I told him about my work, my ridiculous schedule, how I got started, the people at the clinics, the confrontations that had become such a torment.
After that, whenever we flew together, he waited for me as we got off the plane; with his arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders, we barreled through the protesters together. He made sure I was safely in a taxi before heading his own way.
For the first time I understood that I had potential allies as well as enemies.
I continued to use whatever means I had to get into the clinics. Disguises, riding in the trunk of a car, sometimes arriving at five in the morning and sleeping in the clinic until the rest of the staff arrived. It was exhausting and frustrating. It felt as if I were letting the protesters dictate the rules of interaction, as if I had stooped to lies and subterfuge. I didn’t want to interact on their terms, sink to their level.
It was the patients who kept me going. Their situations, their needs, their genuine thanks and relief. Without knowing it, they were the ones doing the comforting. They were helping me through situations I could never have imagined.
On the weeks that I drove the 240 miles to Fargo I would stop on the edge of town and call the clinic for a “protester-of-the-day” report. When I called one day, the activity was particularly bad. The clinic director didn’t hesitate in expressing her concern.
“They’re stopping every car,” Jane told me. “If anyone inside looks like you or a patient, they chain themselves to the axle or lie in front of the vehicle.”
I knew the scene only too well. Protesters jumping on cars or lying in the road while someone wormed underneath and locked on to the axle with a bicycle lock or chain. Any open window in the car would have anti-abortion propaganda shoved through it. Flyers would be slapped on car windshields. Frightened occupants would be extremely upset.
“I’m sending two volunteers out in a car to meet you at the mall parking lot,” Jane instructed. “You can hide in the back or under blankets. Just stay in the car if they stop it.”
By the time the volunteers drove up, I’d put on a blond wig and a heavy coat of makeup. I wore a long black jumper, tennis shoes, and sunglasses. My escorts turned in open-mouthed surprise when I approached them and spoke.
“It’s Dr. Wicklund!” one of them exclaimed. “I can’t believe it!”
“I want you to take me to the McDonald’s and drop me off. I don’t want to be seen with anyone they’ll recognize. I’m walking the last two blocks alone.”
They didn’t like my idea at all, but I was adamant. I knew they were worried about going back to the clinic without me and explaining to Jane. I made sure they would tell the main guard in the front of the clinic to watch for me and let me in when I caught his eye.
On my own, without the
“That was you,” he said finally. “That was you yesterday. What the hell is going on? Who are you, anyway? What’s the gig? Are you running drugs or something?” He was really angry with me.
I didn’t want to explain. The airplane was my place of refuge and anonymity. What would he think? But he kept interrogating me, unrelenting.
“No, no, it’s nothing like drugs. It’s much simpler. No. It’s much more complicated. I’m a doctor. I do abortions. Every week I fly here to work in a clinic. There are people who try to stop me from doing my work. People who harass me. Haven’t you ever seen the protesters at the airport? They are waiting for me. I have had to resort to disguises because I can’t stand them in my face anymore.”
It all came out at once, in one big gushing confession. We talked the rest of the flight. I told him about my work, my ridiculous schedule, how I got started, the people at the clinics, the confrontations that had become such a torment.
After that, whenever we flew together, he waited for me as we got off the plane; with his arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders, we barreled through the protesters together. He made sure I was safely in a taxi before heading his own way.
For the first time I understood that I had potential allies as well as enemies.
I continued to use whatever means I had to get into the clinics. Disguises, riding in the trunk of a car, sometimes arriving at five in the morning and sleeping in the clinic until the rest of the staff arrived. It was exhausting and frustrating. It felt as if I were letting the protesters dictate the rules of interaction, as if I had stooped to lies and subterfuge. I didn’t want to interact on their terms, sink to their level.
It was the patients who kept me going. Their situations, their needs, their genuine thanks and relief. Without knowing it, they were the ones doing the comforting. They were helping me through situations I could never have imagined.
On the weeks that I drove the 240 miles to Fargo I would stop on the edge of town and call the clinic for a “protester-of-the-day” report. When I called one day, the activity was particularly bad. The clinic director didn’t hesitate in expressing her concern.
“They’re stopping every car,” Jane told me. “If anyone inside looks like you or a patient, they chain themselves to the axle or lie in front of the vehicle.”
I knew the scene only too well. Protesters jumping on cars or lying in the road while someone wormed underneath and locked on to the axle with a bicycle lock or chain. Any open window in the car would have anti-abortion propaganda shoved through it. Flyers would be slapped on car windshields. Frightened occupants would be extremely upset.
“I’m sending two volunteers out in a car to meet you at the mall parking lot,” Jane instructed. “You can hide in the back or under blankets. Just stay in the car if they stop it.”
By the time the volunteers drove up, I’d put on a blond wig and a heavy coat of makeup. I wore a long black jumper, tennis shoes, and sunglasses. My escorts turned in open-mouthed surprise when I approached them and spoke.
“It’s Dr. Wicklund!” one of them exclaimed. “I can’t believe it!”
“I want you to take me to the McDonald’s and drop me off. I don’t want to be seen with anyone they’ll recognize. I’m walking the last two blocks alone.”
They didn’t like my idea at all, but I was adamant. I knew they were worried about going back to the clinic without me and explaining to Jane. I made sure they would tell the main guard in the front of the clinic to watch for me and let me in when I caught his eye.
On my own, without the
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