What To Wear to a Friend’s Abortion 

In the summer of 1985, my friend Eve phoned to ask if I would please accompany her to get an abortion. “You’re the only one I could call.” She sounded tired. 

We were both twenty-three and the country was a mere twelve years out from Roe vs. Wade. I hadn’t heard from Eve in a few months, not since she’d written to say she got the summertime camp counselor job she’d wanted. 

We’d seen each other practically every day of our senior year of high school, but now we lived fifty miles apart, our slim connection maintained only through the occasional letter. So I was surprised she called. Surely by now she’d met people she was closer to. But, of course she’d called me. In the drab mill town I lived in for my last two years of high school, I was the first feminist my classmates had encountered. Everyone knew a feminist could be counted on to accompany a sister to her abortion.

“It’s this Friday.” Eve paused.

“Sure, of course I’ll come.” I tried to sound confident, like there was no question.

“You know that sandwich shop across from campus on 26th? There’s an empty lot beside it. We could meet there.”

“Sure,” I said again.

We spoke a few minutes more. I wanted her to know it had been okay to call, that there was nothing wrong with needing an abortion. But to say such things felt more intimate than our friendship warranted. 

Instead I said, “Maybe afterwards, we can get lunch at Nearly Normal.” We were getting together anyway. Wouldn’t bracingly healthy food be just the thing for a woman after her abortion?

After we hung up, I started planning how to make the right impression. Twelve years of legal abortion hadn’t significantly impacted the mainstream view of the kind of woman who sought an abortion. I wanted the clinic receptionist and the medical professionals to see that Eve was a decent person with a decent friend. I’d wear a blouse rather than a t-shirt. Instead of my tattered, dingy backpack, I’d bring a clean, nondescript purse my grandmother had inexplicably given me. And I’d buy the pants I’d been saving for; new jeans screamed respectability.

The prospect of Eve doing this without someone by her side horrified me; I was only marginally less horrified that I was the person going with her. Anxiety fluttered at my throat when I thought of going. I calmed myself by envisioning how the day would go. Eve would need me for an hour to drive to the clinic and check in; an hour (or more?) for the procedure itself; another hour for lunch. By my calculations, if we met at 9:30, I’d get in my car and return to my life absolutely no later than 3:00.

On the drive to meet Eve, the cloud cover cast a weak light that softened the corners of buildings. Cool air blew through the windows. When I pulled into the lot, Eve stepped down from a Ford Suburban with the camp logo blazoned across the side. She wore jeans and a red shirt with a front ruffle that wouldn’t have been out of place at a barn dance. Seeing it nearly broke my heart.

I got out of my car and stood awkwardly as Eve locked the Suburban and stashed the keys in her backpack. She looked at me, a small smile on her face. “Thanks for coming.”

“Sure.” I smiled back. “Where to?” 

I drove slowly as she navigated. I’d thought about the moments Eve and I would share over the course of this day, but I hadn’t thought of this moment in particular, the moment where we saw each other for the first time in almost a year on our way to an unsettling medical procedure. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Would a question about her parents be welcome? Maybe she didn’t want to think about her parents on the day of her abortion. Maybe I should ask what happened, who the guy was, but this also felt fraught. I settled on, “How has camp been?”

“Good. It’s been really good.” She turned to look out her window. “Nice. Mostly.” 

I blurted, “Is – he from the camp?”

Eve nodded. “He is.” A confirmation, not an opening. “How’s your job?” 

“Fine, fine. I like books, so a bookstore’s a great place for me.”

Eve pointed at a bland cinder-block office sprawled beyond an almost-empty lot, and I pulled in and parked. I’d imagined a woman-centered health clinic staffed by caring and competent nurse practitioners, maybe located in a brightly-colored, rambling Victorian with a bevy of female doctors. Instead, a sign read, “Paul Boyle, OB/GYN.” 

My heart thumped as we walked inside and the weight of Medical Authority settled over me. The waiting room’s walls and popcorn ceiling were a cool white, with matching blue-on-blue paintings facing each other across the room, a generic ocean scene. Chrome and orange naugahyde-covered benches lined the walls. I looked for clues that this practice was sympathetic to the women’s health movement but saw only pamphlets on childbirth and racks of women’s magazines – Redbook, and Family Circle. Not a single Ms. in sight.

Eve’s face was taut. I gestured toward an available bench and went to sit while she talked to the receptionist. She sat beside me, a clipboard in hand. I flipped through a Woman’s Day featuring the oblique glance and shy smile of Princess Diana. Eve filled out and signed the forms then returned the clipboard to the receptionist. I set the magazine aside. She looked sideways at me and I gave her a half smile meant to reassure.

A nurse opened the inside door and said, “Eve Clemens?” She wore beige scrubs and sneakers. A delicate gold cross glinted at her neck. We both stood.

“She’s coming with me,” Eve told the nurse. 

The woman nodded. “I’m Nurse Graham.” Her lips pressed together in a narrow line. As we followed her to the exam room, she moved quickly, then slowly, as if she felt inclined to run far ahead and had to keep remembering not to leave us behind.

A white metal box the size of a milk crate sat on a wheeled cart, like the ones my grade school teachers had rolled out for slideshows. Two lengths of rubber tubing snaked out of the top of the box beside a gauge. Two round indentations were fitted with glass bottles. The room reeked of Pine-Sol. Nurse Graham made a wide arc around the cart, as if it were radioactive. I shivered in the chill air.

Eve handed me her backpack and I leaned it against the wall, then sat in the only chair.  The paper under Eve’s legs crackled when she perched on the exam table. A folded patient gown lay on the headrest behind her. In addition to the exam table, chair, and metal box, the room held a small sink above a cupboard, a lab stool on wheels, a tall gooseneck floor lamp, and a wastebasket. It felt crowded with just our three bodies, and I wondered how the doctor would find enough elbow room once he was here, too.

Nurse Graham reached for the blood pressure cuff but it slipped from her hands and fell to the floor. She bent to pick it up with an exasperated huff then inclined her head toward Eve. In a tight, clipped voice she instructed, “I need to take your blood pressure, then you can put the gown on.” Eve pushed her sleeve up. Nurse Graham slid the cuff on and secured it, then positioned her stethoscope at the inside of Eve’s elbow. She stared at the pressure gauge and squeezed the bulb to inflate the cuff. Once she got a reading, she wrote it on Eve’s form, laid the clipboard on the counter by the sink, and tore the cuff off. Her hands visibly shook. She returned the cuff to its holder and lingered there with her back to Eve, clearly avoiding looking her in the face.

“What’s wrong?” Eve asked.

Nurse Graham lifted her head and stared at the wall. “This is hard for me.” 

I froze. It was one thing to know some people opposed abortions; it was another altogether to find such a person providing care for one. 

“Hard for you?” I’d never heard Eve sound so contemptuous – or so brave. “Then why are you here?”

“I asked not to be!” Nurse Graham began to cry and fled the room. 

Eve and I looked at each other. In all the scenarios I’d imagined, this one hadn’t occurred to me. 

We sat quietly and I wondered if I should do something, if I should already have done something? Then Eve set her jaw, hopped off the table, and opened the door. 

“What’s going on?” a woman asked from the hallway.

“I don’t want her in here.” 

The other woman responded with something I couldn’t hear and Eve came back inside, closing the door. She seemed barely able to settle, and rather than sit on the table again, she looked at the Garfield calendar above the sink. July’s Garfield wore a small blue sweater hiked up over his protruding belly, a satiated smile on his face. Eve stood in front of the calendar a long time. I usually thought of her as soft and pillowy, but the Eve I saw now emerged sturdy and strong. 

I jumped at a knock on the door. An older woman in forest-green scrubs and white nurse shoes poked her head in. “Go ahead and get your gown on. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

“I can leave while you change,” I told Eve. 

She shook her head. “It’s okay.” I turned away and heard Eve take off her shoes, unzip her jeans, then cloth whispered against skin as she removed each item of clothing. “Okay.” I turned. Her jeans, underpants, socks, bra, and ruffled red blouse made a neat pile on top of her backpack.  

Eve sat on the exam table again, naked under the flimsy and faded gown. I looked down at my own clothes, my new jeans, Clark sandals, the blue cotton blouse I’d ironed that morning. It felt wrong to be fully clothed.

The doctor wore glasses and a lab coat, and had the salt-and-pepper hair of a man near sixty. He moved like an athlete and seemed distracted, or maybe annoyed. A second nurse followed him carrying a small metal tray of instruments which she set on the counter. She picked up the clipboard Nurse Graham had left and studied it. The doctor looked at me.

“I’m staying,” I said, a little puffed up as if he’d confronted me. If Eve could be brave maybe I could, too.

He turned to Eve. “I’m Dr. Boyle. Let’s get started. Swing your legs to the side please.” Eve hesitated a beat, then did as he asked. He reached into an opening under the tabletop and pulled out the stirrups, locking each in place. I moved my chair beside the exam table and turned to face Eve rather than the doctor. Eve scooted her butt to the end of the table, putting her feet in the stirrups. The lab stool’s wheels rattled as the doctor rolled toward Eve. He turned on the gooseneck light with a loud click. 

I reached for Eve and found that both our hands were clammy. Still, I hoped to comfort her, and at the same time give the doctor and nurse the right impression: Eve had friends; she had promise. 

“My sisters live in different states now,” I began. “They’re both in relationships. Their guys are okay. Stacy’s told me he liked Bob Marley because his music is so happy. That’s a good sign, right?” 

Talking about men in this way, as boyfriends, suddenly felt off. Maybe Eve didn’t want to hear about boyfriends. Weren’t they why we were here in the first place?

Instead, I told Eve about my bookstore customers. Red-lipsticked Lee who always wore denim from head to toe – even a denim hat. And Marc, who talked to me about Mary Daly, Marge Piercy, and Joanna Russ. I didn’t mention that I had a crush on Marc. 

Dr. Boyle addressed his nurse as they moved through the procedure. She stood behind his left shoulder and he angled his body toward her, asking her for the speculum, the syringe, the dilating rods. He didn’t explain to Eve what any of these things were or prepare her for how they might feel. He spoke to her only once to say, “Hold still!” when she flinched. 

“That hurt,” Eve answered. 

Eve’s right knee splayed toward me and gently leaned against my shoulder. The doctor rolled the metal box over and turned it on. Our Bodies, Ourselves, the decade’s essential women’s health handbook, had described abortion accurately and straightforwardly. Even so, I was unnerved to be in a room while one was happening. The pump hissed softly. “Like strong menstrual cramps” is how I’d heard an abortion’s sensations described. Eve stared at the ceiling, closing her eyes now and then. She squeezed my hand whenever the suction sounded less airy and more moist, as something caught and was sucked through. 

How long did an abortion last anyway? Eve panted. I turned toward the doctor enough to indicate my question was for him, but not so much that I’d risk seeing something unsettling. “How much longer?”

“Just a few more minutes.”

I turned back to Eve. “I had my wallet stolen at the bookstore. I walked to the back just as this jumpy teen came out of the staff room. I asked, ‘Can I help you with something?’ Unbelievable! He was stealing from me and meanwhile I couldn’t get out of customer service mode.” I chattered like an autumn-addled squirrel, filling the space with my agitation.

Eve made a rueful face to show she’d heard. 

The nurse turned off the machine and moved it into the far corner. Dr. Boyle rolled away from the exam table. His latex gloves snapped as he turned them inside-out. “You can get dressed. Nurse Parsons will get you a pad and some instructions. Expect some bleeding for a while, and some cramping.” Eve let go of my hand and raised up on her elbows. “We recommend you stay here as long as you need until you feel up to leaving. Phone me later if you have any questions or concerns. All right?” 

He placed his hands on his knees, then pushed to stand once Eve nodded. The sharp scent of antiseptic soap blossomed into the room while he washed his hands, and then he left.

Eve pushed against the stirrups to sit back on the table then lifted her feet out. The nurse opened a drawer under the sink and brought out a blue sheet of paper, a medication blister pack, and two maxi pads. She slid one pad and the blister pack into a small paper sack. “Recommendations and troubleshooting,” she said, holding the paper out to Eve. “Take whatever medication you would normally take for cramps if they’re bad. No aspirin, though. The cramping shouldn’t last long. The course of antibiotics is in the bag; you can start them any time.” She offered the pad. “You’ll want one of these. The sheet should answer your questions.” 

I put on my jacket to hide the damp patches under my arms. 

“If you swing your knees aside I can get those out of your way.” The nurse nodded toward the stirrups. Eve moved, and a smear of bright blood appeared on the paper where she’d been sitting. 

“How long do I have to stay?” Eve asked.  

“As long as you want.”

“But there’s no minimum?” 

“You’re free to go whenever you want.” The nurse paused. “Anything else?” Eve shook her head. “Okay then,” and the nurse left, too.

“Let’s get out of here.” Eve slid off the table and moved stiffly to her clothes. She stepped into her underpants, unwrapped the pad, and affixed it.

“Are you sure you don’t want to rest a little?”

Eve stared at me, her eyes unblinking. Staying would be anything but restful. We retraced our steps out of the exam room and through the waiting room. No one spoke to us. 

Outside, the overcast remained, but the day had warmed and I slipped out of my jacket. At the car, Eve placed the handout on the dashboard and put the paper bag in her backpack. The car had heated up in the sun and I started to roll the window down but Eve said, “Could you please not? I’m cold.”

“Sure. Of course. Here, let’s put this over your legs.” I spread my jacket across her lap. Her eyes were closed but she nodded her thanks. “Let’s get you some food.” I started the car and we left the parking lot. Eve sighed. Relief suffused me as I turned onto the street.

The owners of Nearly Normal had converted a rambling house across from campus into one of Oregon’s first vegetarian restaurants. Eve briefly opened her eyes and stared at the building. “I’d rather not go in.” 

“No problem. I’ll bring it out. What would you like?” I studied her face while she gave her order, trying to discern whether she felt ill, or maybe sad. 

Once inside, I looked longingly at the restaurant’s interior: the natural-wood booths, spider plants in every conceivable spot, and framed stained-glass hangings of bearded iris, grape clusters, and birds on the wing. I would have loved to sit inside with Eve and really talk about what she’d been through and how she was feeling. Instead, I ordered my favorite barbecued tempeh sandwich, and, for Eve, fries and a garden burger. 

Her eyes were still closed when I got back, and she startled when I opened the door. I handed her the box of food. She opened the lid, then looked at me. “Was there ketchup?”

“Oh, sorry. I’ll be right back.”

Eve squeezed several packets of ketchup into the lid of her container and ate one fry at a time, chewing each bite thoroughly before starting on the next. I slid my seat back so I could hold the box in my lap, then dug into my sandwich. Barbecue sauce oozed down my hands. I licked the larger globs off before they dripped. 

Eve closed her box without touching her burger. “I think I’ll rest a while.” Her eyes closed.

I sat in the driver’s seat, hands coated in pungent sauce, my fingernails edged with a warm brown the color of maple syrup. I wore my lunch while Eve’s body got used to the idea that it wasn’t pregnant any more.

Scruffy young men in hemp sandals, and fresh-faced women wearing tie-dyed sundresses, crossed the street from campus and filtered into the restaurant. They got to go inside and sit down. I wished I could join them, sit in a booth and discuss literature or politics. Time had been different in college, expansive and animated with meaning. I longed for those days. But that wasn’t my life any longer. 

I finished my sandwich and placed the box gently on the dash. I wiped my fingers till the napkins shredded and clumped with grease, then tucked them in the box, too. The handout lay on the dash and I slid it off to take a look. 

It had been photocopied, Dr. Boyle’s letterhead cut and pasted onto someone else’s handout. The section entitled Following Your Abortion said, “Rest in the recovery room for around an hour.” Too late for that. “Take it easy for the rest of the day. It’s typical to have some bleeding and cramping, so rest somewhere comfortable afterwards. Call your doctor right away if you soak two or more maxi pads over the next two hours.” I studied Eve as if I could tell by looking at her how heavily she bled. Was she paler than earlier today? 

Under Your Feelings, the handout said, “Most people feel relief, but some people feel sad or regretful.” Which sort of person was Eve? How would I know? She’d always been even-keeled and polite, almost formal. Would she tell me how she felt? This was the deepest thing we’d ever done together; we had no experience talking about such things. I returned the handout to the dash and looked out the window, gripped by a new anxiety: everything could still go wrong. 

I looked at my watch. Just a little longer and I could go home. I needed to hang in there until Eve seemed well enough to drive.

Eve stirred, her color notably rosier. “Do you want to try your burger?” I asked. Surely more food would be good for her.

Eve shook her head. “Could you get me a Coke?”

“Of course.” I brought the drink back to the car and Eve drank it down in almost one go. 

“How are you feeling?” Now that I’d read the handout, I might be the only thing standing between Eve and possible disaster. 

Eve nodded. “All right.”

“It probably helped to have some food and rest a little.” Eve nodded again and I indicated the handout. “That paper said you should rest for at least an hour afterwards, and take it easy for a while. Remember, I took the whole day off. We can do whatever you need and take as long as you want.” I tried not to think of time ticking away.

Eve looked out the passenger window and gently shook herself. “I have to get back. I told them I’d be there for evening circle. It’s our last night.” She turned to me. “Come with me? It’s a special camp night. We say good-bye and the counselors honor each other after the campers go to bed. I’d like you to meet some people.” Did she mean him? Maybe I didn’t want to meet him. “And I’d like to give you a thank-you, in our circle. You could spend the night.”

I’d just said we could do whatever Eve needed, but that didn’t include driving two more hours to hang out with a bunch of people I didn’t know to receive a thank-you from Eve that only she and I understood the significance of. “I don’t have any overnight stuff with me.”

“Please.” I’d never seen her face so soft and undefended. It would mean a lot to her for me to go. 

“I really can’t. I told my roommate I’d be back tonight.” 

“Okay.” Eve looked ahead. “I think I’m feeling well enough to drive now.”

“Are you sure? The handout said to take it easy.” Was driving ‘taking it easy’? What a fake I was! If I were really concerned, wouldn’t I accompany her to camp? Eve nodded: she was sure she felt well enough. “Do you need a restroom? I bet you could use the one here.”

“No, there’s a campground on the drive back. I’ll use that one. Thanks, though.”

I set the to-go boxes in the back and slid my seat forward. I imagined Eve returning to camp. How would it feel, coming back a different person from the one who’d left this morning? Maybe that’s why she wanted me to come, to distract people who’d otherwise ask where she’d been, people who couldn’t see that something had changed. Or maybe she wanted a buffer against the man who hadn’t accompanied her today. If I came with her, she could gesture to me and say, “This is my good friend.” She’d introduce me, and that night in the circle, in front of them, she could claim me with her gratitude. 

I couldn’t. 

It felt like ages since we’d met at the vacant lot but it had only been four hours. I pulled alongside the Suburban and turned off my engine. “Let’s make sure you have everything. Do you want to take the burger? It’s probably still good.”  

“No, thanks. You can have it.” 

“Okay. Is there anything else of yours in the back seat? No? Don’t forget the instructions.” Would she even read them? Should I tell her how much more blood to expect, and what to do if it went on too long?

“I’ll put them in my backpack.” Eve folded the paper then turned to me again, her hand on the door handle. “Are you sure you won’t come with me?”

Eve sometimes gave me that same beseeching look back in high school, usually about something inconsequential. Could we please stop at Burgerville? Would you please see “Corvette Summer” with me Friday night? That look had never swayed me, once I’d already made up my mind. 

“I really can’t,” I said. “I’m sorry.” 

Eve nodded, lifted my jacket off her lap, and got out of the car. I did, too, as if she might need my help crossing the distance from my vehicle to hers. She tossed her backpack into the passenger seat. “Thank you.” She reached to hug me, something we’d only ever done a handful of times in all the years we’d known each other.

I nodded when we pulled apart. “You’re welcome.”

She climbed into the Suburban and fished the keys out of her pack. I stood awkwardly by, hands in my pockets. Finally, Eve said, “I might sit here awhile. It’s okay to go.”

“Are you sure?” I wanted to be finished, but now it felt too soon.

Eve nodded heavily. “I’m sure. Thanks, though.” 

“Okay, well, I’ll see you.”

Eve raised her hand to wave then pulled the door closed. I got in my car and started the engine. I waved, too, before pulling away, but she didn’t see me. 

I drove through downtown, then crossed the river on highway 34. I’d take a longer route home, through farmland, with rolling hills and stands of Douglas fir and oak in the distance. I needed some time in the car, just driving. The interior smelled of grease and ketchup, and I rolled my window down. In Halsey, I found a wide spot in the road and parked beside a windbreak of poplars. The sun had finally broken through the haze and it sharpened the green leaves and the field of uncut hay. I was starving. 

I reached for Eve’s burger, then slid my seat back – which is when I saw it, on top of my thigh, a quarter-sized glob of barbecue sauce, soaked into my new jeans. “Damn!” I blotted at it frantically, near tears; if anything, I spread the edges of the stain further. It would be months before I could save enough for another pair of good jeans. I threw the balled-up napkins onto the floor and stared at the trees. 

Some feminist friend I was. Eve had had to fight every battle herself while I stood by, mindlessly talking because it was all I could think to do. 

None of my women’s studies classes had prepared me for today. They’d taken care of the basics, making it clear why abortion should be safe and legal, describing the process to demystify it. But they’d left out so many things. That stupid handout needed another section entitled After Your Friend’s Abortion: “Most people feel overwhelmed, and then guilty about feeling overwhelmed. After all, you’re not the one who had the abortion. This will make it hard for you to acknowledge your feelings.”

It didn’t matter what I wore to Eve’s abortion. Deciding what to wear made me feel like I could have a say in how we’d be treated. But our clean, carefully-ironed clothing made no difference whatsoever. It hadn’t mattered to Nurse Graham. The doctor and the second nurse were still determined to be detached and businesslike, immune to our presentation. 

What I wore didn’t change me either. I still held back. I told meaningless stories to allay my own anxiety, and I forgot to say, “You’re doing great, Eve. You are awesome, my friend.” 

A week later, a card appeared in my mailbox. I sat at my dining table and held it away from me, as if I wouldn’t like what was inside. Finally, I slid my finger to separate the flap from the red envelope. Tucked inside, a Sandra Boynton card picturing a hippo splattered in paint and said, “Thank You!” in a banner across the top. Inside, Eve had taped a penny and quoted a poem:

Many times in life

You just need a little luck

If the path you’re on is bumpy

Or you’re simply feeling stuck

When you’re up against a challenge 

Or have something big to face

This lucky little penny

May just be your saving grace.

I laughed. Typical cheesy Eve. She added, “If you’d come back to camp, I would have given you this penny in person. I would have said, ‘Today, you were the luck I needed, you were my saving grace.’ I hope this brings you luck some day, too, when you really need it. Thank you.”

Tears started in my eyes. I took a shaky breath. It still didn’t matter how carefully I’d chosen what to wear that day, but now it didn’t matter for a completely different reason. It didn’t matter because it was more important that I’d shown up. Imperfectly, true. But in a sea of fear and anger and disregard, Eve had had someone with her. I thought of how brave she’d been, and for the first time I wondered if perhaps she’d found her courage partly because I’d been there. She could demand the treatment she deserved because she knew I would back her up.

I pulled the penny off the card and detached the tape. I slid my new wallet out from my jeans pocket, flipped it open, and unzipped the small coin slot. The penny slid inside and I zipped it again. I sat there for a long time.