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The room is too hot and densely crowded.
It is a sea of fallen faces,
Clouded eyes.
I see many colors, many ethnicities
But no well-to-do little white girls.
( they can afford the alternatives )
There are a few men present…
Boys, really.
And they appear stalwart if discomfited
Wearing their hair shirts reluctantly.
People whisper.
A few talk about nothing, just wanting to hear sound.
God, this room is stuffy.
I talk to my daughters' best friend
Who has no family
No Mother to hold and rock her afterwards, has only me.
A girl of about 18 seated facing us pulls up her pink socks
From her pink and white sneakers that she carefully matched to
Her pink hooded sweatshirt top.
She works at looking tough,
talks all bad to Her Girl sitting next to her.
She is so very young.
I hear her discussing her last childbirth
And I find myself involuntarily shocked.
I try to re-wind.
They all go through
That Door
So alone
Delivered into the hands of strangers we can only hope
Are merciful.
They all hesitate when their name is called …
The nurse always has to say it twice, sometimes three times.
Their companions look particularly ill-at-ease
At that moment,
Kind of like
"I'd do this for you if I could",
Feeling Guilt stick its' pointy elbow in their ribs
Making them uncomfortably aware of
The untenable and precarious no-win position
Of the sacrifice-ees.
A middle-aged cop whose rotund belly flops over
Most of his belt
Sits inside the glass-walled nurses' station.
Looking at him, it is doubtful he could get out of his own way
Much less protect this pitiful flock.
I wonder what the staff is being paid to laugh and eat doughnuts.
I loath the their irreverence;
Their raging insensitivity scalds me.
I notice they
Never look out at the Waiting Area
To see the suffering seated neatly row by row
In front of them.
I watch closely to see if any of them
Ever offer a gentle touch or kind hand
To these girls.
For the hours I am there, they do not.
It is the most grotesque of assembly lines;
The girls are taken in shifts.
I am offended by the well-oiled efficiency
And keep-your-distance-clinicality of
This Place.
There are no paintings or drapes or plants
No TV, no amenities,
Just garish red and yellow molded plastic bus station seats
And unpleasant grayish walls that must have been a real color
Long ago.
This, more than any other thing,
Tells me the people who run this place
Care nothing for their cash cows.
The Significant Others
All sit and worry and fidget
Each in our own fashion.
I look at my watch about every seven minutes
Annoyed it is not keeping time faster.
The girls begin their exit from
That Room.
Their faces are all the same:
So pale, streaked with muddy rivulets of mascara ,
Bewildered
Gazes glazed.
Their companions jump up as if shot
Fumbling for tissues
Asking "Are you okay ?"
As if there is an answer.
The girls walk slowly
Bent slightly
Holding abdomen
Empty of what they
Entered That Room
Full of
But not free
Not for a long, long time to come.
They all weep,
Some quietly snuffling, some piteously sobbing out loud.
Every single one cries,
No matter what color, age or persona,
They all exit weeping.
Cheryl Crow is playing on the office muzak
Singing " All I Wanna Do Is Have Some Fun…"
And I feel a scream building in the back of my tightened throat,
Tears inexplicably spilling.
I feel a need to slam doors or kick something
And I don't know who I am so angry with.
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