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Authors: William X. Kienzle
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she felt, she began again a leisurely foreplay.
The next day she appeared at his office immediately after class. He administered several tests in only one of which he was really interested. That test revealed that Claire was pregnant.
She had missed but one period. The fetus was in its earliest stages. It would have to go. With her strong Catholic upbringing she would, he knew, be utterly opposed.
In everything else she had been docile. Making love … the varieties of lovemaking … being a mistress … she had done it all, and more. All of which were sins in her Catholic training.
But abortion! Green knew she would not under any condition cross that line.
That night, when he arrived at their apartment, he greeted her. “Now I don’t want you to worry, but there’s a little something we have to check.”
She began to tremble.
“Don’t do that!” He could not tolerate cowardice in any form. “I’m going to do some further tests. The problem may require some surgery. But I’ll handle the whole thing. You got confidence in me?”
She quieted the tremors. “You’ve given me everything. Why shouldn’t I trust you?”
A very anxious Claire McNern checked into the hospital. She was lonely and apprehensive. Once the wristband was snapped shut, she felt that she was nothing more than an animated number, rather than a person. Indeed, the admissions clerk related to her as if she were an appliance that needed repair.
And so it went throughout the preparation for what she assumed would be further tests and possibly surgery.
The staff all seemed too busy to give her any expression of reassurance. Only one person, the nurse who would assist Dr. Green, treated Claire with kindness and empathy. Claire drew strength from this sympathetic nurse, Lana Kushner, R.N.
When Claire was fully prepped, Dr. Green made his entrance. Even in his scrub uniform, he was only slightly less imposing than paintings she had seen of God. In his hand, he held a clipboard with a sheet of paper on it and a pen. “How are you doing, Claire?”
“Better now that you’re here,” she said, feeling some small bravery for the first time. “Lana has been a big help.”
“That’s nice.” He did not even glance at the nurse. “Claire, there’s a formality before we take care of you. Just a lot of legal gobbledygook, but we have to have your signature on this line.” Still holding the clipboard, he lowered it so she could sign.
She took the pen, but began to read the paper.
“We haven’t got time to waste on reading this stuff. It just says you give me your consent to take care of you. Haven’t lost confidence in me, have you?” As he ended the question, his voice grew stern.
“Of course not.” She signed.
She did not see the single word typed in describing the treatment for which she had given her consent.
Hysterectomy.
She was wheeled into the operating room and transferred to the operating table. An anesthetist injected her. She drifted quickly into dreamless sleep.
The procedure moved along without complication. Dr. Green removed the uterus containing a fetus so undeveloped he was able to mask its presence by folding the womb over in the receptacle that held it.
No word was spoken during the operation. That was as expected. Surgeons differed in many ways one from the other. Some talked quite freely; some demanded strict silence unless there was an emergency requiring speech communication.
As Green was closing, stitching Claire together, Nurse Kushner reached for the dish holding the amputated uterus.
“Leave it alone!” Green commanded sharply. “I want to take it to pathology myself. I want to follow this thing through right away.”
Kushner was only slightly surprised. Usually, the trip to pathology was taken by a nurse. But … doctors could do whatever they pleased. What did puzzle her was the appearance of the uterus. But she said nothing. No use being raked over the coals on a matter of mere curiosity.
On
The next day she appeared at his office immediately after class. He administered several tests in only one of which he was really interested. That test revealed that Claire was pregnant.
She had missed but one period. The fetus was in its earliest stages. It would have to go. With her strong Catholic upbringing she would, he knew, be utterly opposed.
In everything else she had been docile. Making love … the varieties of lovemaking … being a mistress … she had done it all, and more. All of which were sins in her Catholic training.
But abortion! Green knew she would not under any condition cross that line.
That night, when he arrived at their apartment, he greeted her. “Now I don’t want you to worry, but there’s a little something we have to check.”
She began to tremble.
“Don’t do that!” He could not tolerate cowardice in any form. “I’m going to do some further tests. The problem may require some surgery. But I’ll handle the whole thing. You got confidence in me?”
She quieted the tremors. “You’ve given me everything. Why shouldn’t I trust you?”
A very anxious Claire McNern checked into the hospital. She was lonely and apprehensive. Once the wristband was snapped shut, she felt that she was nothing more than an animated number, rather than a person. Indeed, the admissions clerk related to her as if she were an appliance that needed repair.
And so it went throughout the preparation for what she assumed would be further tests and possibly surgery.
The staff all seemed too busy to give her any expression of reassurance. Only one person, the nurse who would assist Dr. Green, treated Claire with kindness and empathy. Claire drew strength from this sympathetic nurse, Lana Kushner, R.N.
When Claire was fully prepped, Dr. Green made his entrance. Even in his scrub uniform, he was only slightly less imposing than paintings she had seen of God. In his hand, he held a clipboard with a sheet of paper on it and a pen. “How are you doing, Claire?”
“Better now that you’re here,” she said, feeling some small bravery for the first time. “Lana has been a big help.”
“That’s nice.” He did not even glance at the nurse. “Claire, there’s a formality before we take care of you. Just a lot of legal gobbledygook, but we have to have your signature on this line.” Still holding the clipboard, he lowered it so she could sign.
She took the pen, but began to read the paper.
“We haven’t got time to waste on reading this stuff. It just says you give me your consent to take care of you. Haven’t lost confidence in me, have you?” As he ended the question, his voice grew stern.
“Of course not.” She signed.
She did not see the single word typed in describing the treatment for which she had given her consent.
Hysterectomy.
She was wheeled into the operating room and transferred to the operating table. An anesthetist injected her. She drifted quickly into dreamless sleep.
The procedure moved along without complication. Dr. Green removed the uterus containing a fetus so undeveloped he was able to mask its presence by folding the womb over in the receptacle that held it.
No word was spoken during the operation. That was as expected. Surgeons differed in many ways one from the other. Some talked quite freely; some demanded strict silence unless there was an emergency requiring speech communication.
As Green was closing, stitching Claire together, Nurse Kushner reached for the dish holding the amputated uterus.
“Leave it alone!” Green commanded sharply. “I want to take it to pathology myself. I want to follow this thing through right away.”
Kushner was only slightly surprised. Usually, the trip to pathology was taken by a nurse. But … doctors could do whatever they pleased. What did puzzle her was the appearance of the uterus. But she said nothing. No use being raked over the coals on a matter of mere curiosity.
On
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