It was November 18, 1989 and I found myself at an abortion clinic in downtown Birmingham, Alabama. Scared. Crying. I was 16 years old. I walked through a crowd of protesters, who felt the need to call me some pretty horrible names and shove pictures in my face of aborted fetuses. Throwing pamphlets at me, I don't know what was written on them, I can only guess but I'm sure it was more photos. By the time I hit the door of the clinic, I was escorted in by one of Birmingham's finest. Yes, a police escort was necessary to walk into the clinic. Picture if you will a very dimly lit place, I scanned the room of unknown faces. Sad faces. Angry faces. The lady at the desk was not a polite woman, I guess you harden yourself if you work at a place like that. You would have to. She had me fill out paperwork and when I returned it, she handed me a gown and said "change and have a seat". My boyfriend, his mother and my mom were there with me. Not sure if they were offering moral support, or making sure I went through with the abortion. You see, it was not what I wanted, not at all. At the time my mom was a single mom herself, trying to raise me and my brother on a very meager salary. I knew she couldn't help me raise a child. I knew Brett couldn't help me. He stayed in trouble a lot. In my mind, it was the only option I had. "Lisa", she called me. My heart sank into my stomach and then stuck in my throat. I couldn't move, didn't want to move. I didn't want this scenario to be real. I just knew I would wake up any minute and it would be a dream. Nope. I walked into a room, all white. "We have to do an ultrasound to see how far along you are". I nodded. "Hmm", she said. "How far along do you think you are?" "Three, maybe 4 months". "Nope, you're 6 months. We can't do the termination here, I can give you the address of places in Atlanta or Arkansas and you can go there." With that, she got up, and walked out of the room. I screamed on the inside. There was no way I was that far along, no way. After I dressed and left the room and told my mom what they said. We walked out. Went our separate ways.
My grandfather was a barber at UAB and had been for longer than I had been alive at that time. He was cutting the hair of a doctor and told him my story. The doctor had told him about an attorney he knew that did adoptions and got us in contact with him. We met him at Shoney's and he talked to me about all of my options regarding the adoption process. I had 2 weeks to decide. It was almost Christmas when I made my decision to place that baby up for adoption. January 18, 1990, I was at Medical Center East sitting in Dr. Dollar's office and he wanted to do another ultrasound. (This is the same doctor that my grandfather knew, who kinda started this process). It also happen to be my birthday. A somber birthday, but one I will never forget. The lady that was doing the US was so very sweet. She smiled, I cried. She comforted me, I still cried. She said "honey, you're 6 months along. That puts your due date in April". Wait, what? No, in November I was 6 months. This is where I witnessed for the first time ever, divine intervention. It was the only way I could be 6 months pregnant two months in a row.
On April 10, 1990 I delivered a baby girl. I have one picture of her from the hospital.She was adopted by a family that had strong christian values. The lady had tried more times than not to have a baby on her own, only to lose them in her third trimester or be stillborn. They said they didn't care what she looked like, if she was sick, or if she was healthy. They wanted a baby.
For 24 years I have secretly searched every face in the crowd wondering "is that her". It was comforting knowing that I made the right decision but heart wrenching as well. I often wonder what she's doing. If she looks like me or her dad. How her life has turned out so far.
I don't regret any of the decisions I made regarding her. None. I have a hard time at Christmas and on her birthday. It's almost as if I mourn a little. I squeeze my babies a little too tight at those times.
I found out on New Year's Eve of 2013 that her biological dad had died in a car accident in July of 2006. I was heart broken. Heart broken because I knew she wouldn't have a chance to meet him. When we parted ways at the hospital that day, I didn't have contact with Brett. I saw him 2 years later at a gas station with some girl and couldn't bring myself to say hello. The last time I spoke to him was in 1996, very briefly in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart. We remained friendly, but he never brought up our baby girl. It was probably for the best.
I do hold out hope that one day our paths will cross. Until then, I will constantly search the crowds for a familiar face.
