Inside the Abortion Clinic

Sallie Tisdale describes women from all walks of life as they pass through an abortion clinic.

| November 2016

  • Exam Room
    The exam room at an abortion clinic is a safe place for women from all walks of life.
    Photo by Fotolia/xixinxing
  • Violation Collected Essays
    "Violation: Collected Essays" by Sallie Tisdale is a collection spanning 25 years and topics ranging from obscene phone calls, sex, the human body and abortion.
    Cover courtesy Hawthorne Books

  • Exam Room
  • Violation Collected Essays

Violation: Collected Essays (Hawthorne Books, 2016) by Sallie Tisdale compiles 25 years worth of work from a revered writer into a single volume. Tisdale's work has been described as "thought-provoking and often controversial" by the Library Journal and has been published in magazines ranging from The New Yorker to Esquire. This excerpt tackling abortions was originally published in Harper's Magazine

To find more books that pique our interest, visit the Utne Reader Bookshelf.

We do abortions here; that is all we do. There are weary, grim moments when I think I cannot bear another basin of bloody remains, utter another kind phrase of reassurance. So I leave the procedure room in the back and reach for a new chart. Soon I am talking to an eighteen-year-old woman pregnant for the fourth time. I push up her sleeve to check her blood pressure and find row upon row of needle marks, neat and parallel and discolored. She has been so hungry for her drug for so long that she has taken to using the loose skin of her upper arms; her elbows are already a permanent ruin of bruises. She is surprised to find herself nearly four months pregnant. I suspect she is often surprised, in a mild way, by the blows she is dealt. I prepare myself for another basin, another brief and chafing loss.

“How can you stand it?” Even the clients ask. They see the machine, the strange instruments, the blood, the final stroke that wipes away the promise of pregnancy. Sometimes I see that too: I watch a woman’s swollen abdomen sink to softness in a few stuttering moments and my own belly flip-flops with sorrow. But all it takes for me to catch my breath is another interview, one more story that sounds so much like the last one. There is a numbing sameness lurking in this job: the same questions, the same answers, even the same trembling tone in the voices. The worst is the sameness of human failure, of inadequacy in the face of each day’s dull demands.

In describing this work, I find it difficult to explain how much I enjoy it most of the time. We laugh a lot here, as friends and as professional peers. It’s nice to be with women all day. I like the sudden, transient bonds I forge with some clients: moments when I am in my strength, remembering weakness, and a woman in weakness
reaches out for my strength. What I offer is not power, but solidness, offered almost eagerly. Certain clients waken in me every tender urge I have — others make me wince and bite my tongue. Both challenge me to find a balance. It is a sweet brutality we practice here, a stark and loving dispassion.

I look at abortion as if I am standing on a cliff with a telescope, gazing at some great vista. I can sweep the horizon with both eyes, survey the scene in all its distance and size. Or I can put my eye to the lens and focus on the small details, suddenly so close. In abortion the absolute must always be tempered by the contextual,
because both are real, both valid, both hard. How can we do this? How can we refuse? Each abortion is a measure of our failure to protect, to nourish our own. Each basin I empty is a promise — but a promise broken a long time ago.

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