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

held the loaded pistol in both hands.
    As soon as I was out the door, l listened intently for strange noises. Noises that didn’t belong in a backyard and woods at night. I grew up in the country. Night sounds are generally comforting to me, and those were all I wanted to hear. Nothing more.
    Once my eyes had adjusted to the dark and the roar of my heartbeat had quieted, I took two tentative steps away from the side of the house. I had my route planned exactly—down hill on a very narrow, brushy trail that I knew well, down to the edge of a swamp, then along the river on the old trail until I came to the dirt road. There was a turnaround where I’d wait in the ditch for my ride.
    The plan was great in theory, but my legs were weak with fear. I wasn’t sure I could get beyond those first two steps. Why was I doing this? For the patients? For the principle? To prove something? I went through all the things I’d thought about earlier and came to the same conclusion: I absolutely couldn’t let the antis have the victory of keeping me from clinic for even one day. A victory for them would fuel their flames, and they’d increase the pressure even more. I had to keep one step ahead, even when it meant resorting to the sort of tactics I’d never wanted to use again.
    I knew the woods well and finally felt ready to head down the hill. I heard voices around the front of the house and saw a cigarette glow about thirty yards off the trail. Every few careful steps I stopped again, thinking of the things Dad taught me about stalking game and about being nearly silent in the woods.
    It seemed an eternity. Step by step I made my way, pistol ready, heart louder than my carefully placed footsteps, slowly passing familiar ditches and other landmarks. Please. Please let me make it to the dirt road.
    Just as I reached the prearranged spot, a small red car pulled around the corner, came to a smooth stop, and went silent as the engine was cut. “Sue?” I heard the whisper.
    “Yes,” I breathed, “I’m here.” I stuck my head up from the cover of the ditch, shivering with adrenaline.
    She delivered me safely to the stables. I walked inside. It was quiet, but full of the sounds and smells of horses. I opened the stall of my black mare, Beauty, and stepped inside. She roused and turned her head toward me. I buried my face in her neck, breathed in her scent, promised her a long ride on my next free day.
    Once in the truck and on my way the questions started pounding in my head again. What’s happening? I kept asking myself. I’m not a criminal. I’m not a fugitive. I am sneaking through the woods with a gun in order to get to work. I flashed on a memory: the day in June 1989 when the clinic directors tried to warn me that life could prove to be a real challenge as an abortion provider.
    After two hours of driving my adrenaline had been spent, and I could hardly stay awake, yet I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I felt a desperate need for a shower and found a motel room at two AM. I stood under the pounding hot water a long time, as if I could wash away memory and start over.
    I reached the clinic before dawn, parked in the back, and dozed until someone came to open up. Out front, the protesters were already gathering, jubilant, taunting. They were obviously in contact with the group at my home and believed that I was successfully trapped there, unable to drive away because of the blocked driveway.
    “No clinic today!” they jeered at the guards. “Your doctor won’t make it today! No babies will die today!”
    I called home to find that my fears had been justified. The driveway was completely blocked. The police still hadn’t even begun to remove them from our property. The protesters had, however, rolled one barrel to the side enough to allow a police car to go pick up Sonja and then exit only after they had been convinced that I wasn’t in the car as well. As soon as the car was out, the antis quickly put the barrel back in