Don’t Worry, Sweetie
Smog covers the roads of downtown Los Angeles at 6:45am. “Thanks for letting us bum a ride,” Christian mumbles to his brother. “No problem. What are you even doing here this early?” I quickly chime before Christian says anything stupid. “Uh, I have a doctor appointment and I was him here. Thanks again!” My Dad drove me up from San Diego thinking I was spending the day with my boyfriend in LA. I shuffle Christian to the small clinic behind us. I say faintly, “Nobody knows we are here.” I hope they never know. “Huh?” He mumbles. “Nevermind,” I say as I roll my eyes.
In the rush of everyday life, I don’t think many people stop to imagine what really happens behind the doors of an abortion clinic—the fear, the silence, and the small moments of unexpected kindness. At sixteen, I am facing one of the hardest experiences of my life, and the world outside keeps me moving as if nothing has changed. My world will never be the same.
The heavy feeling of the clinic hits you before you even open the door. The waiting room is lined with outdated, stiff chairs that have those plastic covers you see at your grandma’s house. The brown carpet is worn thin, with holes that carry years of footsteps, and every couple of feet it exposes the cement underneath. The clinic looks like a scene from a sitcom, but nobody is laughing. The silence is painful. Each person clutches the arm of their plus one, as do I. We walk to the receptionist and Christian is holding my arm, blacked out, reeking of alcohol.
He should be holding me. Why isn’t he comforting me? I continue to keep him propped up and hope they don’t notice as he slouches down onto my left shoulder. A whiff of his cologne hits my nose as I bend down to readjust my arm. The smell of that classic 90s cologne still sits on his oily and unwashed olive skin. The citrus, woodsy, and amber notes of the green Curve cologne has been my favorite since I was in middle school. He can barely walk on his own and his weight is pulling me down, making the moment feel heavier.
When my arm starts to give out, I drop Christian onto the clinic chair and quickly sit beside him. He is still asleep. I cannot stop staring at him. He has a way of always looking handsome, even while lying there blacked out, with unkempt facial hair, and messy hair. Those perfectly brown wavy curls with sun-kissed blonde tip highlights at the top of his hair. You can’t see his green eyes that matched mine, but I know they are beautiful. Everyone thinks we are siblings. It doesn’t help that we also have the same birthmark on the same arm. It is now 7:00am and this is the condition he is still in after a night of partying, still in his tank top and mud-stained pants. A day when I need him the most and he doesn’t care, again. He told me it was my fault. We were here anyway and I forced him to come.
“Ugghh!” Christian moans from the fetal position in the clinic chair. The square plastic covered chair he is sitting in looks like it came right out of the 1980s and is sticking to his sweaty arms as he slumps over. I think back to last April: we were celebrating our nine-month anniversary together and we showed up to school together in matching t-shirts that read “I love my girlfriend” and “I love my boyfriend.” We were so perfect. I didn’t think we would ever end up here. I sit quietly waiting to be called, and his feet kick my leg as he moves around. His tattooed arm reaches over and I see the music note that is tattooed on his wrist. My fingers gently hover over it, trying to find a still moment in the chaos. I still love him, even in this mess. But I am sixteen and he is now needing to be checked into rehab. I can’t do this anymore.
Suddenly, anxiety starts to take over and I can hear every heartbeat, every breath, and every hair move. Silence is broken abruptly, “Jennifer?” I leave Christian and head into the unknown. It’s time. No going back now.
Twenty minutes pass. “It’s over,” the nurse says quietly as she wipes my sweaty bangs from my forehead. The sound of my own retching still echoes as I look at the vomit on my hand; the clinic room is cold, bright, and my body trembles. I almost manage to vomit into the extra-large outdoor-style trash can, but it all came out like it was a movie—extremely aggressive with force and all over. Cramping has started; I grab my abdomen in pain and yell for the nurse who was with me during the entire procedure. “I need help!” I cry. “I just projectile vomited everywhere and I can’t move. The pain is too much!” The nurse grabs my arms and lifts me up and holds me close to her chest. The smell of her perfume is light. It doesn’t bother my nose like most do. Her skin is soft and hairless, and her warm body is hugging me. I try to wrap my arm around her neck and accidentally get her hair stuck in my fingers. I am stiff, lifeless, and useless. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I am here. I am going to get you some crackers and juice. You will be okay,” she reassures me. Don’t worry, sweetie, I repeat in my head.
That is what she said the entire time during the procedure. Sixteen years old, with nobody to hold my hand, no mother to tell me it’ll be okay, no sober boyfriend to rub my head, and this woman who I have never met before decides to stay with me the entire time. Her soft hands on my head, rubbing my bangs back and repeating, “Don’t worry, sweetie,” while I scream in agony in her face. My sweaty palm grips her hand so tight, I thinkI am going to break her fingers. Her calm, beautiful hazel eyes tell me to hold tighter, and tighter. Scream louder, louder. “Don’t worry, Sweetie. You won’t hurt me. Squeeze harder. I am here,” she says. Within minutes, the loud suctioning and pain of my insides is done. “You will feel cramping and pain today. The medication will help, sweetie,” she explains.
Lifting my legs up and around, the loud crinkling sound of the paper on the clinic table annoys me. Everything is loud. I can feel everything physically and emotionally. Behind swollen red eyes, tears start to fall. What have I done?
Medication clatters in my left hand and an ultrasound of what was once my unborn fetus in my right. I count the tiles on the floor as I walk out. Each step is one step closer to having to face him, to face life and the real world. My stomach is on fire, my armpits leaking sweat, my uterus bleeding and now I have added “baby murderer” to my resume. My wet hands touch the cold hard metal doorknob, and it’s over. One, two, three… Deep breath. Christian is still there, with drool on his face, still in that same damn chair. I can see the palm trees of his arm tattoo sticking out as he is still holding his legs in the fetal position. What am I walking into? What life will I live now?
With the ultrasound in hand, I nudge Christian to wake up and show him, and let him know it is done. It is over. He doesn’t say a word and starts walking to the door. I hear the door of the back rooms open behind me, its creaking so loud, and everyone looks back, as do I. It’s her, the nurse…again. I cannot even remember her name. Oh no, what does she want? “Did I forget something?” I say to her quietly. “Come here,” she replies. I hurry over to get this over with, the public embarrassment and the pain combined is sending my senses into overdrive. She grabs my hand and I see her hazel eyes again staring back at me and she whispers, “I want you to know, you did the right thing. I am so proud of you. You have a long life ahead of you. Enjoy school, go to college, and have fun. You will do amazing things, sweetie.”
As I walk out of the clinic, her voice still repeats in my head—Don’t worry, sweetie. The words will follow me through the rest of my youth, through the guilt, through this city I cannot stand to be in anymore. She is giving me permission to be human again and not just comfort. Nobody in that room, not even Christian, is seeing me for who I am in this moment. Today, I have been scared, young, and trying to survive. But she did see me. And now, when I think about this day, I won’t just remember the intense pain, or the guilt. I will remember her hands, her hazel eyes, and the way her soft voice gave me kindness that cut through all the noise. In a world that moves too fast and judges too easily, I hope people can slow down long enough to offer someone else what she gave me in my darkest moment. Every human deserves understanding, compassion, and the reminder that we are all just trying to be okay.