This Common Secret: My Journey as an Abortion Doctor by Susan Wicklund Page B

protection of a car or friends, I walked toward the clinic, all the while fearing that my true identity would be discovered. What would happen if these people actually got their hands on me? I could see the crowd gathered there, one hundred of them, I guessed, maybe more. All people who hated me, whose only objective was to keep me from my work. Under the pious, prayerful guise of religion, they were after control: Control of me. Control of the women coming to the clinic for help. Control of anyone who believed differently than they.
    I had to act as if I belonged. At the edge of the crowd I began mingling, trying to fit with their body language, trying to put myself completely into the act. Being among them, brushing shoulders, and hearing their hateful, vicious lies were almost too much.
    “Who is that in that car?” one would yell as the next vehicle approached the parking lot. “Stop that car!” The crowd surged toward the target, and I moved right along with them. I heard myself shouting their awful words just to play the part. Slowly I moved with the human waves, closer and closer to the building.
    The nearer I got to the front the more frightening it became. How long could I keep it up? Was it the cumulative effect of being in their midst that was taking my breath away? There was sweat running down my face and my back. I knew I had to stay calm and keep acting as if I belonged. They were shouting, frenzied, on the fringe of sanity. Surrounded by them, choked by their energy, I felt claustrophobic, almost physically sick. They knew I was scheduled to arrive at the clinic soon. Any car could be carrying me.
    I gained the front sidewalk. All the crowd pressure was at my back. This terrible, righteous, oblivious hatred beat against me, pounded against the building that offered me safety. So close.
    Finally, I was at the front lines. I took off my sunglasses as I moved closer to the guard. He was looking right past me. I was right in his face, silently shouting with my eyes, “It’s me! It’s me!” He kept looking around me, over me, searching the crowd. Then his eyes found mine, stopped. Color drained from his face. I nodded. He lifted his outstretched arm and moved slightly to the side, opening up a path that I darted through.
    Five steps from one world to another. I gulped in a huge breath. I had been holding my breath for a long time. It was all I could do to stumble up the steps and pound on the door. A staff person recognized me and threw open the door. I never looked back, couldn’t face the vision of what I’d come through.
    Once inside I couldn’t go any further. I tore the wig off and collapsed on a flight of stairs. Great, whooping sobs racked my body. Makeup ran in streaks down my face. All the bravado and fortitude I’d summoned to protect myself deserted me, turning to unbelievable relief and fatigue. And I couldn’t stop crying.
    Never again. Never again, I kept thinking.
    A woman came down the stairs and sat next to me. She had no idea who I was, what I’d been through, but she put her arm around me and rocked, holding me like a child as I sobbed. We sat together, strangers consoling one another.
    Two hours later that same woman was on the operating table, one of my patients, and it was my turn to help her through her ordeal. I was struck again with the affirmation that people are by and large good. I realized how important it is to trust that the good energy and kindness you put out will always find its way back to you.
    Never again, I kept repeating to myself during the day. Never will I wear disguises again. Never will I hide and sneak around at crazy hours. I will not stoop to their level, play their game. I can’t live with that any longer.
    The protesters had been paying attention, however. They interpreted my behavior as a statement of vulnerability and shame. They thought that I would go to any lengths to avoid confrontation. They also discovered that I was a mother with a teenage