This Common Secret: My Journey as an Abortion Doctor by Susan Wicklund Read Free Book Online Page B

protestors became more and more organized and sophisticated. They got better at deciphering my helter-skelter schedule, knew when to expect me at various clinics, called ahead to their collaborators when I left one airport for another. They followed me in cars and communicated by walkie-talkie and cell phone. I felt as if I were in a spy movie, always watching my rearview mirror, looking for the enemy’s face in the crowds.
    Sometimes I’d leave in the dead of night and drive five hours rather than face the airport scene. I never checked baggage. The thought of waiting at a baggage turnstile surrounded by antis was too much.
    At this point, my schedule required daily flights or drives of two hundred miles or more. At least three nights a week I was in a motel room. Most weeks, Sunday was my only day off. Trying to stay one step ahead of the protesters became a game of nerves.
    Within a year of my first visit to the Milwaukee clinic, the protesters were no longer simply circling the entrance and shouting their insults. They had taken to physical blockades, locking themselves together and forming a human barrier. I routinely had to wait outside the building for the police to come, wait while they methodically arrested and removed each person so I could get into the door. It was either that or break through myself— physically break through.
    Some days the antis were sitting on the ground blocking the door, and the clinic staff would push them out of the way by forcing the door open. I would climb over their bodies, actually step right on these people, to get in.
    In several towns, the protesters who were arrested suffered no consequences. The Milwaukee city attorney refused to prosecute them, for example, which meant that they’d have a brief ride down to the police station, be released within minutes, and be back in front of the clinic later the same day. Some were arrested more than a hundred times in one year and never served time or paid a fine.
    It became necessary to vary my routine and even the means by which I came and went from the clinic in Milwaukee. There was a back door to the clinic, rarely used because of the poorly maintained alley. I was given the key, however, and on occasion would enter through it. I typically arrived in a taxi from the airport and would let staff know my approximate arrival time. They would try to watch for me.
    I had also begun writing in a journal on a regular basis in order to process some of the insanity. I would write on airplanes, in motel rooms, in the clinics while waiting for the day to begin, and at home sitting up late at night, when images and stories filled my head, preventing the sleep I was so in need of.
     
    Journal Entry, August 1990:
    Scared. So scared.
    Hard to write.
    Hard to think.
    Heart pounding.
    Tried to avoid protesters in front. Hid in back seat of taxi. Went to back door 10 minutes ago. Two men there. Had just gotten out of cab, keys in one hand and mobile phone in other. Phone set to call front desk. Routine safety measure. Thank God.
    One man grabbed me and slammed me up against a parked van. His face in my face. Screaming at me.
    “YOU KILLER! YOU KILLER!”
    “YOU DESERVE TO DIE.”
    “STOP KILLING BABIES, SUSAN!”
    I struggled. Fought to get free. Would get away from the van by just inches and they would throw me against it. Over and over. Screaming. All three of us. Almost slow motion. I hit SEND on the phone and hoped someone would hear me and figure it out. Felt like no one would ever come. Kept trying to pull away. Lost my voice. Tried and tried but couldn’t scream again. Felt my hips slam into the side of the van again. Heard another voice. Back door was open! Attackers briefly let me go and I ran for it. Staff member grabbed my arm and tried to pull me in. Attacker on other arm. Tug-of-war. Is this really happening? Able to scream again.
    Finally got pulled into a heap on the floor just inside the door. Men took off running. Feel like I’m