Chapter 19 Road Less Traveled
When I arrive on Monday morning, there are two escorts already outside who seem to be doing just fine.
I head to my temporary desk, which is basically a supply closet, and sort through my emails.
There’s one from a local college we partner with on sexual health education, asking us to table at a fair in April, the week after Easter.
Another is from a business owner down the street, and at first I’m worried—the businesses near us suffer from their proximity, since the protesters turn customers away.
But they’re also largely run by South Asian immigrants who show us kindness.
Sure enough, it’s a sweet email, asking if we’re all right and offering parking spaces to our patients if needed.
I set an alarm on my phone to remind myself to personally walk over and thank them after work.
My inbox also has a lovely little shooting threat that made it through my spam filter.
I forward it to security, and I’m about to read it more closely to see if there’s anything in it that may relate to Asmodeus when in walks Aaron.
“Are you all right? You look…” He trails off when he realizes there’s no good way to finish that sentence.
“I look what?” I ask, my tone sharper than he probably deserves.
“Tired?”
“Are you telling me that with everything going on, you’re sleeping well?” I ask.
“I’m a resident,” he answers, as though it explains anything.
We stand in awkward silence for a few moments before he says, “I had a quick break between patients and wanted to make sure you’re doing okay. And I was thinking… I would love to catch up with you sometime.”
“Aren’t we caught up?” I ask.
“I meant over dinner?” When he sees my face, he backtracks, “Or maybe coffee? As colleagues?”
There’s very little I want to do less, but I haven’t forgotten my previous suspicions about him and I probably shouldn’t close the door on an investigative opportunity.
“Maybe sometime,” I say, and then before he can do something awkward like follow up with a date or time my phone starts ringing.
I put a smile on my face before I start talking.
“Hi, Dr. Levy. Problem in the clinic?” Aaron takes this as his cue to rush off, presumably to attend to whatever duties he was shirking.
“It’s been a morning,” she says with a sigh.
“It’s nine forty-five. Want me to run out and grab you a coffee?” She would never ask me to do it, but Dr. Levy is critical to this clinic’s survival, and I would do literally anything for her.
“No, I need you to come down to room five. The patient said it was fine to share information with another employee.” Although this is obvious, and we are all beholden by HIPAA, Dr. Levy puts lots of checkpoints in place to make sure we’re never violating patient autonomy.
I feel sick thinking about whether I’m going to be able to protect her in return.
“The social worker’s kids are home sick, and I think there’s something off. ”
“Abuse?” I ask. It’s important to be as prepared as possible.
“No…” Dr. Levy draws out the word. “Never say never. I wouldn’t rule it out. But more like, she doesn’t seem to actually want the abortion. Obviously I’ll give it to her if that’s what she wants, but if she’s being coerced somehow…”
Sometimes we get people in here who desperately want a baby, but their boss or their landlord or someone else with power over them has told them they must get an abortion.
Not infrequently, we perform the procedure, because at the end of the day, they’re making an informed choice from an array of shitty options.
However, we’ve developed enough contacts with pro bono attorneys and various counseling and placement services that sometimes we can present alternatives.
I pass through the waiting room and see a patient crying.
Diane is speaking to them in low, soothing tones and locks eyes with me as I pass.
She makes an eye movement that I understand to mean the protesters did something heinous.
I double my pace. I used to have these fantasies when I first started that someone—maybe even me—would give a rousing speech about the protesters’ hypocrisy and they’d finally see the truth.
It’s embarrassing to even admit that to myself now.
Jesus Christ himself could come down and tell them he thought abortion was acceptable and they would crucify him all over again.
I knock on the door of room 5 and hear a voice say, “Come in.” The curtain is drawn around the exam table.
“May I pull the curtain?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I draw it back and sit down. There’s a South Asian woman sitting on the edge of the examination table, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. “If you’re more comfortable, I can close the curtain,” I offer. “Whatever works for you.”
“Are you another doctor?” she asks. Her voice is shaking. She has a strong accent.
“No, actually. My name is Nisha. I work in community relations here at the clinic. Dr. Levy asked me to come talk to you because she thought you might want more information before choosing your treatment.” It’s important not to phrase it as offering anything, because people can feel defensive.
“I’m Divya,” she says with a small smile.
“Nice to meet you, Divya. Now, I want you to know that you don’t have to talk to me.
Dr. Levy will still treat you no matter what.
I’m just trying to make sure you have as much time and information as possible.
If you want to send me out, there will be no hard feelings.
Your medical treatment isn’t contingent on it. ”
“That’s okay.” Divya fidgets a little. “I’m happy to talk to you.”
“Great. Well, Dr. Levy mentioned you came here because you’re thinking about an abortion, is that right?”
“Yes.” I can tell by her demeanor that she has more to say, and so I smile and nod for her to continue.
“I want the baby!” she bursts out. “I wish I didn’t have to get an abortion.
I’m not irresponsible.” I wish I could tell her that responsibility doesn’t matter to us, but I know she’s only trying to cope; it’s not my place to correct her.
“It sounds like this is a really hard decision for you.” Divya nods, then raises her head to look at me. I see a glint around her neck, a gold chain with black beads. “Is that a mangalsutra?”
“Yes!” She pulls it out from under her patient robe, and I see it’s a traditional two-bowl pendant.
“It’s beautiful.”
“My husband picked it out,” she says. Her smile is still soft and real. “We want a baby so badly. He doesn’t know I’m pregnant. He doesn’t know I’m here.” She drops the mangalsutra, her cheeks coloring.
“Do you feel safe with your husband?” I ask. It’s a delicate question, but I have to ask.
She nods firmly. “Yes, of course. I don’t want to break his heart. He would be so sad, and I love him. I can’t do that to him.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“But I have to get the abortion,” she says. “I can’t lose my job. We’re barely making it as it is.”
“Can you tell me more?” I ask her. Just telling her that it’s illegal to fire someone for being pregnant is not helpful, since employers still do it all the time. When you’re a minimum wage worker, as Divya might be, pretty much anything goes. Nobody has the time or money to sue.
“I work not far from here, serving food in one of the shops on Devon. Last month, my friend got fired for being pregnant, as soon as she started showing. It was for poor performance, they said, but it wasn’t true.
She was the hardest worker, even though the smells were so hard for her.
But our boss, she said that as soon as the girls start having babies, they’re unreliable.
And nobody else will hire me, how I sound.
I have tried. I was a nurse in India. But I don’t have papers. My visa expired, and…”
“It’s illegal to discriminate against anybody on the basis of pregnancy,” I tell her, speaking slowly and thinking as quickly as I can.
I run through my mental list of the job placement agencies we’ve used before, but they struggle to place immigrants, especially undocumented ones.
“But even if that’s the case, if an employer is fine with breaking the law and has a lot of power, there’s not a lot you can do. ”
She frowns. “I know this. That is why I am here.”
“Can you wait one moment?” I ask her. “I want to help you find another job, but I need to speak with your doctor first.”
Divya nods. “I like you,” she says. “It is nice to see a face like yours.”
I smile at her, then draw the curtain and step outside. I’m searching for Dr. Levy when Aaron walks by.
“How is she?” he asks. “Dr. Levy briefed me.”
I step into room 3, two doors down, and he follows. “She thinks she’s going to get fired for being pregnant, and she’s undocumented.”
“I see.” His face gives nothing away.
“How far along is she?”
“Only five weeks,” Aaron says. “She was very proactive. Many people don’t even know they’re pregnant at five weeks.”
“Do you think she could wait for her abortion?” I ask. “Without risking worsening side effects?”
“Like I said, she came in early, so she has three weeks, maybe a month, and the medication would be just as effective. After that, it would be harder on her body—still safe, but if time off work is a concern…”
“That’s not a lot of time, but maybe…” I feel like I’m giving her false hope and prolonging the inevitable.
But we have some pro bono immigration and employment lawyer connections, and we could ask some friendlier businesses to see if they’re hiring—I have to at least try, especially because she has more time than most patients.
“You could explore options, at least. And we can set up an appointment in three weeks, so that she’s all set if the leads don’t pan out.” There’s an odd expression on his face.
“What is it?”
“The patients who come to your clinic… it’s naive, I know, but I didn’t think that much about how nonmedical issues would impact pregnancies until I started here.”
“Better late than never,” I say. “You’re here now.”
I feel like a snake oil salesman when I offer Divya the option to wait so she can try to work with a lawyer to sort out her situation and find another job.
Even though I repeat three times that there’s no guarantee, she immediately and enthusiastically agrees, thanking me over and over.
It’s hard to tell if the pit in my stomach is because I feel like I’m leading her on or because I’m about to face the music.