Free This Common Secret: My Journey as an Abortion Doctor by Susan Wicklund

it. My heart beat like a charging horse. All the way down the spiraling ramp I laid on the horn, five floors down, loud and furious.
    Then the toll booth. Had to find money, act normally, make an exchange. Finally out in the big night, the cool air, and all the heat in me collapsed, all the torrent of emotion fell off. I managed to get on the freeway, shaking fiercely. Got to stay together. My body was still functioning, but the bigness that had empowered me dissolved.
    First exit. Can’t drive. Can’t do anything. Pulled over, actually up onto the sidewalk, stumbled out. I was crying. I sat against the fire hydrant and cried uncontrollably while people passed by. Then I started to vomit, heaving up the terrible fear inside, everything collapsing, sobbing, letting it drain away. The inner screaming subsided, my heart slowed. Periodically I retched, bringing up nothing. Inside, taking the place of heat and fear, I added another layer to my resolve.
    For weeks the siege continued. Sonja stayed with her father, David, on weekends whenever possible. David was now living in St. Paul and had remarried, but he saw Sonja regularly. The police car was her school bus many times. My mother would come to stay at the house on days when neither Randy nor I would be there. Protesters stayed outside the house day and night. They would always move aside to let me drive in, but would frequently delay or block me from leaving.
    Sometimes they would block me with their bodies; other times they’d haul in huge cement-filled barrels with trucks. Over and over they spread their leaflets around town, six miles away. They called themselves the Lambs of Christ.
    Not long before the onslaught, we had signed papers to buy an old farmstead four miles away. We were trying to sell the house we were in, but had not let the real estate agents put up “for sale” signs. Somehow, however, the antis found out. One of the members of the Lambs of Christ masqueraded as a potential buyer. She toured every room, looking at pictures of family members, checking entrances and exits, learning the layout of the house, even finding names of relatives.
    Days later I recognized our “potential buyer” as she was being arrested outside the clinic in Fargo, North Dakota.
    I often stayed alone at friends’ homes so I could be sure of getting to work in the mornings. I took a different route to and from the airport each time, sometimes driving for hours, feeling hunted, watching the cars behind me. Every time I went to my car I checked the tires, looked for nails on the ground. Each time I turned the key I waited for the bomb explosion, held my breath while the engine caught.
    The protesters became more and more bold and self-righteous. At every airport I had to run their gauntlet. Life had turned into an awful game. I couldn’t trust people, had to suspect every unfamiliar vehicle, every strange voice on the phone. Although I didn’t know it then, Shelly Shannon, the woman who years later would shoot Dr. Tiller in Kansas, was a regular at the airport and outside my home with the other Lambs of Christ.
    Journal Entry, October 16, 1991:
    Slept last night at Kathy’s. Arrived at 1:30 am after 6-hour drive from Appleton. Too many antis at the house, so Randy sent Sonja to Kathy’s and said I should go there too. Am so frustrated. So sad. So tired. Is this worth it? Am I just being a martyr?
    Pulled into the yard. Turned off the car and sat there. Numb. Strange buildings. Not home. But Sonja inside and I needed her comfort as much as she needed mine. Found my way into the house and greeted by Kathy’s mom. Talked a bit. Thanked her. Followed her to where Sonja was sleeping.
    Stripped down to t-shirt and crawled into bed. Held her. Held her and cried hot tears. No sobbing. No sound. Just rivers of tears.
    My God, she is fourteen years old. Fourteen years old and riding to school in police cars. Fourteen years old and sleeping at strange homes because her own home isn’t