She stared at the ceiling. Occasionally she closed her eyes, lightly. She tried to smile or nod at us. Hers was the lengthiest abortion I’ve seen. I really don’t know how long we were all in tiny Room 4 at the end of the hall. It was a warm summer evening, and with five of us in there the temperature rose. Through it all, people were prodding at her body. One doctor inserted a saline drip in her arm to keep her blood pressure up and to hydrate her. At Jadine’s feet, the clinic director and another doctor, pale with concern, were tensely discussing whether to proceed. Jadine was more than 12 weeks along,
12 weeks being the maximum stage for which
this clinic was equipped.

Across from the doctor, holding the saline drip up by Jadine’s head, was me. A novice advocate, I was telling her to breathe, to hang on, though Jadine had obviously been breathing and hanging on with considerable tenacity for a long while. I wiped her forehead with a cool cloth. Trying to equal the strength of her grip, I held her hand. Later, I arranged the heating pad under her broad back.

I had done this for many women and nearly all
were grateful. But Jadine was one of the few who was almost embarrassed by the kindness of these simple acts. She had held so many hands herself, children and grandchildren. For someone to do these things for her — whisper words of support, remove the cloths dampened by her sweat and blood — this was such a surprise. She didn’t say much to me, but the humbleness of her thanks expressed its depth. Later, waiting outside for a cab, both of us exhausted and the night quietly warm, she directed her gaze at me and then away to some thought, perhaps of a prior touch or of tomorrow’s work that would not wait for her to take the rest she really needed.

The experience of holding a stranger’s hand during an abortion is a powerful one. A piece of your self is taken on by them, just as you take in their pain, relief, tears and nervous laughter. Standing guard next to paper-clothed examination tables, I have been closer to more women than in every locker room and slumber party of my past. It is an odd bond that is made. One woman so exposed, the other there only to attend to her needs. You lie on your back, feet in stirrups, a doctor between your legs, instruments prodding inside, all extracting this small piece of you. No matter how patient and well-intentioned
the others in the room, you are bare, vulnerable. Scars are exposed. Your underwear, soft and worn, rests in a small pile on a chair. Your socks and
toes stick up into someone’s face. Laughing when you are afraid, you sob later
with relief.

It all comes out so oddly here in this small cupboard of a room with these strange, concerned faces. This sliver is all they will know of you. They won’t
know that you balance your checkbook neatly each month or that you once read “War and Peace” in a week. These people, smelling clean and unfamiliar, might learn, because your body gives it away, that you’ve injected yourself with drugs or that you had a Caesarean. But those other things that make you whole, they won’t know those. Now you are a body on a table covered with thin paper — a conglomeration
of pulse and temperature, your family’s cancer history, the date of your last period. Right now you are a woman who has decided to lie on this table, to
go on with her life in a changed way, and these are the people accompanying you
through the physical trials of that decision.

I too have lain on the table, my legs in stirrups, a mild sedative pulsing through my system leaving a soft blur. The faces are fuzzy; I could never pick
out the doctor or even the advocate who was there with me. I vaguely recall the
chill of the speculum, and the quick fist of pain that was the cramping. But these are all physical memories. Afterward in the recovery room (how did I get there? did I fly?), I peered at the city. And though I have a mental snapshot of a gray, cold day dotted with European steeples and bare trees, this is all wrong because it was September and about 80 degrees outside.

When it was finished and I was dressed, the check written and the receipt pressed
between the pages of “The Day of the Locust” (where I found it two years later during a move), I probably said thank you. Almost all women for whom I have advocated have thanked me when it was over. It’s odd how this makes you feel when
you are there to assist. Often I will want to say, “No, thank you.” Thank you
for your patience, your nerves, your warmth. Thank you for revealing yourself.

Now and then, a woman will drop an unpolished stone in your lap, a memory or a dream, something she has held against herself warm and private all these years. And now, after you have held her hand and wiped away vomit from her mouth, now as you move the heating pad under her back, she tells you: “You are the only one who knows this happened. I couldn’t tell my boyfriend because we’re breaking up. None of my friends would approve. Just you.” And so you put this responsibility in your pocket and try to carry it safely through whatever voyage it may be on. I have had women tell me of physical abuse, of failed friendships, of dreams unfulfilled. Momentarily I wonder why they have chosen me. I hope that it is not because there is no one else, though, sadly, I think this is usually the case. I must take care. I must try to remember.

At parties I hesitate to talk to unknown women, checking for any sign of familiarity. I fear someone pausing and squinting her eyes at me: “Don’t I know
you?” I have been around so many abortions that it seems to me that almost every woman has had one. It is not shameful; it is something that happens. Have sex, get pregnant — simple equation. For a woman to get through her entire life without a single unwanted pregnancy demonstrates an amazing degree of self-respect, foresight and emotional health to which few of us are privy. An abortion seems to signal for many women that something is askew, that we need to make changes. This chance for alterations, the prevention of more serious ills, has always been for me the most formidable element of abortion.

But other people don’t immediately see it this way. I have spoken to some of my closest friends about their abortions. Even with me, whom they know to be caring about the subject, their tones are hushed, the pauses long. This is wrong. You are weak. These sentiments are common and firmly intact, no matter what a woman’s politics are. It is hard to shake them away and to replace them with visions of prevention, future and hope. Yes, these friends always include some positive outcomes in their accounts. Needed changes were made. They learned that only they can care for themselves. They gained respect for the power of their bodies. But these are afterthoughts to a story that is scattered with self-blame and guilt.

Recently, I was sitting in traffic in a suburb far from the clinic. A woman crossed right in front of me. Where had I seen her? She was wearing a Denny’s
restaurant uniform, and I recalled a particular woman and her boyfriend for whom I had advocated. They had impressed me with the unity and tenderness with which
they approached the abortion. It was indeed her, looking happy and confident, totally unaware that someone who had been intimately involved in an hour of her
life sat just feet away, watching her cross safely.

I could have sat next to the woman who had advocated for me in a restaurant or on a plane. Without doubt I have been on the same bus or in the same movie theater as some of the women for whom I’ve cared. Our paths cross gently, without our knowing. We help and we receive help in return. Perhaps I will see Jadine again. I would remember her face, I think.

“Well, not in practice, maybe,” he said. “What could be more wonderful than watching your girlfriend come five, six, seven times? When you’re just doing all you can to hold off? Oh, I love thinking about box scores when I’m making love. It’s great.”

“So, you’re saying that, just in theory, it’s not fair.” I had to control my irritation. “Well, get over it. It’s not going to change. After all the stupid things that women have to go through — PMS, menstrual cramps, birth control responsibility, having a baby, leg waxing, the glass ceiling, making 70 cents on the dollar, sexual harassment, rape — I would think you could throw us this one little bone, guilt-free.”

“It was just a thought.” He speared a tiny dry shrimp. “I was a little curious what it was like when you girls come. I would think, because you in particular have so many, that they’re probably pretty watered down. What do you think? Are they just little bursts, several in succession?”

“No,” I said.

“Really. How bizarre. You don’t really think your orgasms are better than men’s, do you?”

“Yes,” I answered immediately. I had always thought this. “It’s not always the same intensity, every time, but yes, I actually do think women come longer and more deeply. Why do you think we’re more vocal?”

“Because women are more vocal about everything. High maintenance, etc., etc.”

“Don’t start on that high maintenance thing with me. You know what I say about that.”

“Yes, yes. High maintenance, high yield. You’ve told me.”

“Well, anyway, there’s a reason why we make more noise. And it’s not a Harry Met Sally scenario, by the way.”

Michael looked at me. “How can you categorically state that your orgasms are better than mine? What standard of measurement could you possible be using?”

“It’s just a feeling I have,” I said. “With us, it’s like going up a hill, a little rising, that gets more intense and more concentrated. If it were a color, it would be going from light pink to rose to crimson to deep, deep burgundy.” Michael looked thoroughly confused. “Sometimes when I’m coming, if we’re going to be totally honest here, I feel completely and totally selfish. I really don’t care if my boyfriend gets off at all, just that he not come too soon, because then it’s all over, usually. In fact,” I waved at some friends who were sitting across the restaurant, “that is the sign of a good lover. When he makes certain that I come several times before he does.”

Michael widened his eyes nervously. “Did I do that? I can’t remember.”

I considered a broccoli stalk. “I think so. Most of the time. I also think that the more you mind-meld with the guy, the better your orgasms are. Now, I don’t think that’s the same with men.”

“Unfortunately not. Men are dogs.”

“No, they’re just different. And another thing about going down on a woman …”

“Hot and sour soup,” the waiter announced brightly. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you,” said Michael. “Continue,” he said to me.

“… is that, at least with me, the orgasm is totally different. More mental. Less the burgundy rising. More like a sea-green wave breaking.” I set down my chopsticks. “Am I making any sense?”

“Ah, writers,” he sighed. “Sure. Waves, roses, soup. It all seems to be coming together. No pun intended.” He blew on a spoonful of soup. “Now what about when you masturbate?”

“A weapon going off.”

“Like a handgun shot?”

“More like a blank.”

“Hmmm.” He paused. “I think I’m going to have to write this all down.”

“Now, if you were to compare your orgasms,” I started, “I would say it’s more Hale-Bopp. Less aurora borealis. But you tell me. What is it like when a man comes?”

“Let’s save that for the next course,” he said.

“As a matter of fact,” I said cheerfully, “I am grateful to my split ends. They remind me that I get to talk to you.” I settled into the bright purple leatherette chair. “Just the usual,” I said as she secured a towel under the neck of my orange smock and some atmospheric tunes began to waft out of nowhere. “Is that the pygmy music I’ve been reading about?”

Marie ignored me and got right down to business. “Are you still seeing that guy that wasn’t right for you? The one that hated Valentine’s Day?”

“No,” I said.

“It was never going to last,” she said. “He didn’t understand your needs. Also, never trust a straight man who sells flowers.” She began tugging a wide-toothed comb through my hair, and pinned half of it to the top of my head. “I could have saved you a lot of time and heartache.”

“I know,” I said. I added, “There wasn’t that much heartache.” She was right, though. That was the thing: Marie is always right.

I’ve often thought about the vast sums of money my friends and I would save in therapy bills if we’d just come talk to Marie once a month. Like most hair cutters, she’s heard everything. And like most hair cutters, she seems far more sane and level-headed than any of her clients. She knows her own mind and she speaks it. At the same time, she’s probably the most diplomatic person I’ve ever met. I’m just waiting for the day when the U.N. snatches her away from her multicolored, pygmy-music playing salon in San Francisco and plops her into a leather armchair as Annan’s right hand.

Her relationship with her boyfriend is also one of most stable and committed I’ve seen in a couple in their 30s. Marie is very open about it, and I’m always quizzing her, trying to find their secret. “We could make a lot a money, Marie,” I say. “Just one little bestselling self-help book. I’m telling you, it could be our Yellow Brick Road.” She always laughs in my face.

“So, are you and Gavin having sex again?” I asked.

“Nope,” she said, with an expert snip. “It’s been about five months now. Before Davia was born. Just wait until you get pregnant. Sex will be the last thing on your mind.”

“I can imagine,” I said, although I couldn’t at all. “How does he feel about it?”

“Oh, he hates it. And I feel bad, really I do. But in the seventh month, you know, it just wasn’t something I wanted to do. I told him, ‘Hon, I really just don’t want you inside me right now. I feel full up as it is.’ And then in the eighth month, I said, ‘Hon, I really don’t want you to touch me. No, I really don’t want you to kiss me.’ He looked hurt, but what could I do? Just the thought of his hand on me gave me the heebie-jeebies. It’s all physiological anyway.”

“What happened in the ninth month? I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“I said, ‘Hon, you really should think about sleeping on the sofa. I can’t take another body next to me in bed.’ So he moved to the sofa. And then I had the baby, and we still aren’t having sex. I’m just too exhausted, and really I don’t miss it.”

I thought about Gavin, Marie’s tattooed, pierced and motorcycle-riding boyfriend who is also just about the friendliest and most polite person I’ve ever met. He owns a rowdy bar in the Haight that routinely hosts fistfights and homicide threats. When things get particularly hairy, Gavin can often be seen talking calmly to the offender at a dark corner table, trying to reason with him, while everyone else is screaming about calling the police. He’s been with Marie for more than 10 loving years, but I had a hard time imagining how even he was handling this.

“But I know he misses it,” she continued, “so the other day, I sat him down. He’d been jerking off about five times a day, so I just said, ‘Look, here’s the deal. Why don’t you have an affair? There must be some cocktail waitress or bartender that wants to sleep with you. I want you to be happy, and I just don’t want to have sex right now.’”

“Jesus, Marie,” I said. Maybe I’m more conservative than I thought. “What did he say?”

“At first he was shocked. Then when he got used to the idea, I think maybe it seemed like a good option. We started to go through a list of all the possible women. Karen, the one with the red hair? Or Raven, the Goth girl with the tongue pierce? We couldn’t make up our minds. There were a lot of good possibilities.”

“Wow,” I said. “Talk about modern.”

“The only thing I insisted on,” she continued, frowning as she measured two ends, “was that he tell me who it was and that he use a condom. I mean, of course. I just didn’t want him sneaking around, you know? But I want him to be happy, and I know he likes sex, so …” She began snipping methodically. “You’ll see. You might encourage the same thing.”

“I don’t think so, Marie. I don’t think I could do it. I’m not that secure.”

“Oh, he didn’t actually do it,” she said. “I knew he wouldn’t. I just wanted him to feel that he could. I mean, the whole point of having a sexual dalliance is the sordid sneakiness of it. And I guess, once we talked about the whole thing, it kind of took the wind out of his sails. Maybe if I hadn’t told him he could, he would have. Or if I told him he couldn’t, he would. Who knows?”

“What if he did have an affair? If he actually took you up on your offer?”

“I’d probably kill him,” she said cheerfully. “Knowing me. This is all hypothetical. I’m sure we’re going to be having sex soon again. It’s just a matter of time.” She spun me around in the chair and held a hand mirror so I could see the back. “Just wait till you have a baby. Everything changes, but sex changes the most. You’ll see.” She hummed a little bit.

“I can hardly wait,” I said.