She walked into the clinic obviously furious. She didn’t sit
in the queue waiting for her turn. Instead, she cut across the room to the desk
where the in-charge sat. So someone so obviously furious, it was remarkable how
low she managed to keep her voice as she antagonised the in-charge. She was obviously saying some truly
uncharitable things and saying them in a rapid rap. Yet, I didn’t hear a thing
even though I was seated just a few metres away. After several minutes, the clinic in-charge
stood up, took her hand and nudged her to the back. There, voices were raised.
Alas, they were speaking Acholi and even though I was now standing stealthily
at a corner trying to listen in, I didn’t understand a thing! Ah, you’d have to
be a journalist to understand the frustration of listening to a row that you
can’t make heads or tails of.
But then again, when you are a journalist, you’ll know how
to know the juicy details. When the nurse came back into the clinic, I pulled
on my most sincere looking of fake sympathetic looks and asked, “hey, what’s
wrong?” Still flustered and defensive,
she pointed to the back of the clinic and said, “she came here for an implant
(contraceptive) three weeks ago. I think she was already pregnant but we didn’t
do a pregnancy test because the lab technician was on leave. Now she thinks she got pregnant on our
implant.” Auuch! This wasn’t going to end well. I was now genuinely sympathetic
with both of them. I also wished I hadn’t
gotten into it because a) I wasn’t on a reporting trip and b) I didn’t have any
wisdom to add to the situation. I just
sat down with a sheepish look. But the nurse pinched a little more of my skin
into the game. “She already has five children
and her husband beat for the last one. She wants me to remove the pregnancy.”
“Remove the
pregnancy? It’s not exactly equal to a piece of meat stuck between her teeth
that you might remove a tooth pick!” I wanted to say something like that but I recognized
it would be inappropriate and redundant. So instead, we sat in silence for a really long time. I wished fervently that the driver I was waiting for would come and take
me away. By then, I was the only other person left at the facility. Perhaps if
I went away, they would have this whole conversation over again and break the
impasse. The driver took his sweet time. So, we sat some more. I worked hard at
keeping my eyes away from either of them. The nurse eventually went back to her
desk and busied herself leafing through a register. The patient sat just outside to the back of
the clinic, angry eyes trained on the nurse, feet planted firmly on the ground.
She looked like she would murder that nurse before she walked out of that place
with that pregnancy.
By 1 pm, three hours after I had asked this nurse if I could sit at her clinic and wait, my driver was still a no-show. Things happen on a
really stretchy timeline when one is doing field work! Eventually, my
journalistic impulses got the better of me once again. I gingerly walked over
to the nurse’s desk and awkwardly asked, “do you know how to remove a
pregnancy?” She nodded without expression. “Will you remove her pregnancy?” This time with just a
hint of irritation she said to me, “It is her choice. Let me go and counsel
her. If that’s what she wants, that’s
what she wants.” She abruptly got up and started to briskly walk towards the
woman outside. As if she recalled midway that counseling is supposed to be a kind
act, she halted briefly, visibly relaxed her back and went on to the woman.
They didn’t go off to a special and safe counseling room
somewhere. This wasn’t the movies. The nurse didn’t comfortingly pat the
patient’s hand to re-assure her she would be fine. This definitely wasn’t the
movies. The patient didn’t break down and cry on her counselor’s shoulder.
Definitely, definitely not the movies. I couldn’t see the nurse’s face. She had
her back to me. But through the doorless exit to the back of the clinic, I
could see the patient’s face – an unchanging mask painted with one unwavering
emotion – rage. Hell’s fury. Whatever the nurse might have been saying, it sure
didn’t look like it was working any wonders. Indeed, it was the very definition
of futility. Finally, my driver showed up. I walked over to the doorless
opening, thanked the nurse for letting me wait at her premises I clumsily
scampered out of the place in a daze of emotions and thoughts.
I had been
pro-choice for a long time. And in my naivety up to that point, I had thought that stance mattered to women with crisis pregnancies. In my mind’s eye, I had always seen myself as some sort of quiet minor warrior for women being allowed the right of choosing whether or not to
carry a pregnancy to term. But that day, I finally understood why they call
choice a right. You see, like all other rights, it is inalienable. You don’t have
to allow a pregnant woman the right to remove a pregnancy. She just has it. I
could have somersaulted in protest at that angry woman’s decision that day. Or
I could have mounted a parade and hang banners in solidarity with her. Either
way, I still would have been an unregistered part of her background. I had seen
the look in her eyes. That unwavering fury at the unwanted thing that was
growing inside her. The thing that if left unchecked would fetch her yet
another round of beatings. The thing that would be yet another mouth whose
needs would break her back in the garden all the days of its life. The things
she referred to as the clinic’s pregnancy. All the tantrums in the world wouldn’t
have stopped her from wanting it out. And something told me all the laws in the
world were not going to stop her from trying it get it out. In the same vein,
all the pro-choice anthems in the world would not have made her any less
furious at everything. Inalienable right, indeed.
I started to think that maybe pro-choice and pro-life are
but meaningless badges. That’s like saying you are pro-breathing. If your stand
on the matter will affect whether or not the next person breathes, what’s the
meaning of the badge? So maybe
pro-choice people aren’t the little warriors of women’s right to choice. Like
it or not, a pregnant woman has that choice. And when she has to exercise it,
she won’t care who is on which side of the fence. Maybe pro-choice people are merely the people who
choose to be helpful rather than stand across the road throwing tantrums about
a thing they can’t affect. They still are my kind of people anyway.
