November 1, 2002

• Anchorage, still 1973

  
  

  There was always something going on around Open Door Klinic during the summer.  The tent community in the yard was stable in numbers because we couldn’t squeeze any more in.  There were new faces now and then as someone would either move on or go back home, and their space would be filled by someone new.  One couple from Arkansas were there for at least two months, trying most of that time to find a way to get back home.

  
  

  Unlike the rest of the campers, these kids were not sleeping on the ground in a tent.  They had a pickup truck with a camper shell where they slept, parked in the yard beside the clinic.  They were just out of high school and recently married, and they were miserable in Alaska.  Some people love it here, and others hate it.  It is especially unfortunate when a couple comes here and finds out that one hates Alaska and the other one loves it.  At least both of those kids wanted to leave.  But their trip up the Al-Can Highway had been more expensive and rougher on their old truck than they had anticipated.  They were broke and the truck was broken.

  
  

  They had a warm, loving relationship, those two, and it seemed to increase the distress for each of them seeing how homesick and discouraged the other was.  They would try to cheer each other up and end up crying on each other’s shoulders.  Each of the clinic’s counselors had spent hours with one or both of them, just listening to them vent or exploring thier options with them.  Finally someone, probably Jamie, who sat in on staff meetings even though he wasn’t officially on staff, decided to try to get them a blue ticket.

  
  

  Blue tickets, in the old days, were the State’s way of getting rid of the indigent and troublesome.  They would buy them a ticket home.  The program had gone the way of the dodo and the archaeopteryx.  The state no longer provided funds for it, but the clinic was able to find a charitable organization that would pay the plane fare to get the lovebirds back to Arkansas.  They spent several days disposing of the bulk of their possessions from the camper, and they sold the truck for a couple of hundred dollars, and were gone.

  
  

  Around my apartment, there was never much of anything going on.  I had some time to get back into reading books.  I got acquainted with the Z.J.Loussac Library and the Book Cache, both within walking distance of Open Door.  Working on weekends was wonderful:  five days a week off… well, four days off, because Wednesday was staff meeting at the clinic.

  
  

  The first thing at each staff meeting was Kevin’s comments or questions on the contact reports we had turned in.  Every phone call or walk-in contact had to be followed up with a report.  Sometimes there were names to put in the report, often the clients were anonymous.  I filled out a report on the fight I broke up, and it got a comment at the staff meeting.  It got approving comments all around.  If anyone had been uncertain of my ability to handle the job, that relieved the worries.

  
  

  When Kevin had finished the paperwork part of each meeting, he asked if anyone had any particular problems.  That signaled a shift from business meeting to group therapy.  We talked about work-related problems and about scheduling problems, and personal stuff, too.  There was easy intimacy among us, acceptance, a feeling of family.  I had no trouble sharing my feelings and personal problems with that bunch.  When I said I was pregnant and had been considering an abortion, my peers at the clinic asked searching questions and offered support.

  
  

  I didn’t need a lot of time or thought to decide whether I wanted to terminate that pregnancy.  The stillbirth was still too recent; I couldn’t face the stress of another pregnancy either physically or emotionally.  I also did not want the bond with Stony.  Until then, when pregnancy occurred everything else in my life had been adjusted to that fact.  This time, the thought of having another child, of losing another child, presented risks I wasn’t willing to take. 

  
  

  Then we started talking logistics.  I had two options:  Fairbanks or Seattle.  If I had been able to afford it, I could have gotten an abortion in Anchorage.  At that time (but not for very long afterward) the only hospital in Anchorage that would perform abortions would only do D & Cs, with general anaesthesia and an overnight stay in the hospital.  If I flew to Seattle or Fairbanks, or took a train to Fairbanks, I could get an outpatient suction abortion, avoid the risks inherent in the general anaesthetic, and pay a lot less in the process, even considering travel expenses.  Flying to Seattle was the least expensive option.

  
  

  I didn’t even have to wait for another payday.  I was given an advance on my salary.  Early the next week, I flew to Seattle on the redeye, kept my appointment at the clinic near the airport, and went back to Anchorage that afternoon.  It was a liberating experience, even greater than slamming that car door on Stony and walking away dripping blood.  This pregnancy and the one before had occurred while I was on birth control pills.  When I had recovered from the abortion, I got fitted for an IUD.  That one found its own way out of me within three months, and I got fitted for a different shape, and for a diaphragm, just in case.

  
  

  Not that contraception was an issue right at that time.  I didn’t have a partner, nor even any prospects.  And I wasn’t looking.  Oh, I was looking at what was available, not averse to starting up with someone new if the right chemistry developed.  I just wasn’t on the make.  I was on vacation, I guess.  I was enjoying my work and my solitude at home.  I was having more human contact, more intimate conversation with clients and staff at work, than I’d ever had before.  But I had no social life at all.

  
  

  The clinic staff would often get together for parties on weekends.  I was always “invited”, but of course I had to work.  Sometimes I’d get calls from one or another of the staff, just checking up.  If I needed to consult with one of them, I could usually reach them.  Even though I was the only one on duty, I wasn’t alone.  There was a string of volunteers going through there at the time, too.  Most of them were graduate students in psychology or social work, doing the practicum for their masters’ degrees.

  
  

  The lull didn’t last very long.  That fall I found another apartment and moved into it.  It was a cute, nicely furnished basement apartment on a quiet street with lots of trees, just a block from the Park Strip and within walking distance of work.  Shortly after the move, Steve, a co-worker at the clinic, told me that the probation and parole department had gotten a grant of Law Enforcement Assistance Act funds and were looking for ex-cons to go to work for them.  He thought I’d be perfect for the job.

  
  

  to be continued….

  • 3:02 am
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