The 'clinic'

All that the sign on the door said was 'clinic'. You wouldn't know what it was a clinic of until you walked through.

This afternoon my brother's girlfriend asked whether I could go to the 'clinic' with her. She said she didn't know the way, but I suspect that perhaps she was a little scared to go on her own. Either way it didn't matter to me, so I agreed straight away. And she was grateful.

Sometime ago she had an abortion, as their 'security' measures they took failed (it's only 99.9% safe!). She had to go pick up a statement from the clinic today to prove that she in fact did undergo the procedure (for personal reasons).

It somehow felt strange going through that door. I eyed the colonial style building up and down, and tried to imagine what kind of machinery they have stored inside this elegant three storey maison which looked like all the other residences along the street. Then my mind drifted to images of bloody phoetuses, to death, to life denied... I could not help it but feel sick.

Ironically the clinic was situated on a round-about....maybe those who change their minds can always turn back. Or maybe some people just keep on turning and turning on the roundabout and never make it through the door.

A lady not more than thirty walked out the door just as we were about to enter. Instinctively my eyes glanced at her stomach. My mind wondered what life may be in there...or perhaps what life may have been. Another lady, this one looking much younger, passed us. Uncontrollably I eyed her stomach again, but quickly looked up, to be greeted by two pairs of sad eyes. Could it be...?

We didn't have to wait when we walked in the office. The doctor was already waiting there, along with her assistant. They say your mind influences the way you see the world. The moments I saw the doctor, she looked so haggered and wrinkled. When she spoke to us, even with a smile, she sounded like she was croaking and barely able to get the words out. Her assistant was not much better. I couldn't suppress the thought, but for a very split second the word 'murder' flashed before me.

After a few moments of exchanging pleasantries, the assistance asked my brother's girlfriend to produce an ID to prove that she is indeed that person she claims to be. It's for privacy reasons, since abortion is a very....private matter. It was more a matter of formalities really, as the assistant quickly compared her name and date of birth. Then she looked up at me and said:

"Yeah, it's her alright. I remember the boyfriend was here last time."

My initial reaction was to deny, deny that I had anything to do with this:

"Uh, I'm not the boyfriend..."

But she seemed unconvinced:

"Sure, I remember you were there with her. I recognise the face."

My brother and I are in no way alike. He's bigger, stronger and fatter. I'm thin, scrawny, and taller. He smokes, is loud and extroverted. I'm quiet, often alone, and can't stand the smell of cigarettes. He has a girlfriend. I never did.

"I'm really not the boyfriend,"I said, but feeling embarassed having to defend myself because frankly it didn't really matter much the moment we turned around and walked out that door again, "I'm the boyfriend's brother. His brother."

She didn't seem to hear what I just said, and then went on to talk about something else with the girlfriend and the doctor. I felt a little out of place, a little uncomfortable, but at the same time a bit of me was quietly laughing at the ridiculousness and surrealness of it all.

Soon enough, we turned around and walked out that door.

I know I shouldn't judge people for what they do, and I never thought I was against abortion, would never prevent anyone from doing it. I'm all for free choice, and believe that every woman should have the right to decide what is best for her life and health, regardless of the circumstances. But somehow realising that countless lives were denied in the very building that was surrounding me at that moment seemed a terrifying thought. As I exited the door, I turned around briefly and glanced at the stairs that led to the second floor. Narrow stairs, darkened stairs...stairs that in my overly imaginative mind could very well have been dripping with blood...