William X. Kienzle
Man Who Loved God
One
The Past
“This is just the way you’re built. You’ll have to live with it.”
Babs’s mother was incredulous. In effect, the gynecologist was saying that Barbara was malformed. That couldn’t be. Not Claire Simpson’s daughter.
In every way, Barbara resembled her mother. And Mrs. Simpson was a most attractive woman: she had the spoken and unspoken testimony of her husband and four paramours.
However, Claire Simpson did not need testimonials. She was well aware of and confident in her own striking beauty.
Babs was her daughter. The child’s body could not fail her. Babs was young-only twelve. Technically, she was not exactly a virgin. But that was the result of a biking accident. She had not, she attested, been sexually active.
Barbara insisted on a woman-rather than a male-gynecologist. Assured that the girl had not been sexually active, the doctor gave Barbara a routine pelvic examination, then pronounced, “This is just the way you’re built. You’ll have to live with it.”
Claire greeted this diagnosis with deep doubt. She watched her daughter carefully for the next few months. The condition worsened. Barbara complained of pain and pelvic pressure. And her menstrual periods-which had begun only in the past year-had ceased.
Claire took her daughter to her own gynecologist. Once again, Claire explained that her daughter had not had sex.
The doctor was skeptical. He gave her a pregnancy test. It was positive.
There were options.
They could prepare Barbara for the birth, which, if nature ran its course, would take place in four to five weeks. The delivery on this young a female could be tricky. But far greater risks had been taken successfully. And, as the doctor noted, her pelvic structure was excellent.
If delivery proved successful, and if the baby survived, the next option was to keep the child or to place it for adoption.
Or, there was abortion.
Both delivery and “dilation and extraction” held risks. But Barbara was otherwise healthy and stood an excellent chance of surviving either birth or abortion.
All of which led to another question: to tell Barbara the truth-that she was carrying a baby-or to create a fiction?
The decision, in which the physician concurred, was to tell her there was a tumor-a growth-inside her tummy that needed to come out. The doctor would take it out and then everything would two be fine.
Barbara was happy. Claire was worried. The doctor was confident.
By no means would every gynecologist have agreed to perform an abortion, particularly at this advanced stage of pregnancy. Even though, at this time, the mid-seventies, it was not against Michigan law.
There was no reason to delay and every reason to complete the procedure as soon as possible. So the operation was scheduled two days hence.
After supper and after Babs had been put to bed, Claire related the day’s events to her husband: the doctor’s examination, diagnosis, and recommendation. Claire anticipated no opposition or disagreement. Her husband was an absentee partner in their relationship. His business kept him on the road much of the time. However, he did not lack for sexual consolation. Claire had ample evidence of his womanizing. Though this was, in part, a rationale for her own promiscuity, Claire’s extramarital behavior was disciplined compared with his. She’d had four-and no more-sexual partners. He, apparently, bedded any female who would accommodate him.
In any case, his reaction to the news was a sort of uneasy silence.
The next day, Claire brought Barbara to a teaching hospital in a far northern suburb of Detroit.
Claire stayed with her daughter through the afternoon and evening. She was there for lunch, dinner, and when they prepped Barbara for the operation. Throughout the day, Claire tried to make light of the impending procedure. “They’ll get that tumor out of your tummy and you’ll feel good again. Real good.”
Babs tried to convince her mother that all this reassurance was doing the trick. But she could sense that something more dire was distressing her mother. Babs was good at sensing the unspoken.
But now Claire was able to at least establish a deeper bond between the two. This was leading to something. After all, Barbara was pregnant. Somewhere there had to be a father.
Gentle questioning, backing off, returning to the matter eventually drew out the admission that someone had been doing strange things to her.
Daddy had told her it was all right because he was her daddy. But she shouldn’t tell Mommy or anyone else what they did when Mommy wasn’t home. Barbara doubted that. She had a sixth sense. She was good at sensing things.
Claire quieted her daughter and stayed with the girl until she fell asleep.
Then Claire went home and put an end to her husband.
She ordered him from the house. She vowed a divorce. All this would be done with a minimum of scandal and notoriety-as long as he never again darkened their lives with his presence. There was no room for negotiation: this was unconditional.
His defense was no more than token. He knew it was over. He had known from the moment Claire told him about their daughter’s condition.
She didn’t know where he would sleep that night. But never again would it be with her or-save the mark-their daughter.
Next morning she arrived at the hospital early and never let go of Barbara’s hand till they were parted at the door of the operating room.
Barbara was wheeled into a strange environment of intense light, shiny objects, lots of sheets, several people busy with work they seemed quite used to. They all wore masks. Their work seemed to draw them inexorably to her as filings to a magnet.
She thought the doctor was the same one who had examined her a couple of days ago. When he spoke she was sure; she recognized his voice. She relaxed somewhat when he spoke to her encouragingly. “How are you feeling now, Babs?”
“Okay, Doctor,” she murmured. “You aren’t going to put me to sleep, are you?” They had talked about this earlier. Terrified of being put to sleep, she feared that she would never again wake.
Behind his mask, the doctor seemed to smile. His eyes crinkled. “No.”
They placed her feet in stirrups. An odd position for removing a growth from her stomach. A sheet was draped over her knees.
Wordlessly, they stimulated labor. A saline solution started the movement. Pitocin, to keep labor going, was delivered intravenously. They called it “pit drip.” As dilation began the volume was increased.
When dilation approached four centimeters, an epidural anesthetic-Bupivicaine mixed with Sentanyl, a solution more than ten times stronger than morphine-was inserted in the spine, blocking pain from the abdomen down.
From that point on, all went smoothly. The only real problem was the baby’s head: It was too large to pass through the birth canal.
The surgical team was ready. If this had been a delivery instead of an abortion, and this anomaly had arisen, at this point they would have performed a cesarean section. As it was, this baby was destined to be destroyed in any case.
So a procedure termed “collapsing the cranium” or “compressing the head” was used.
Once the head was crushed, the rest of the body emerged easily.
It was over.
A nurse gathered the small body into her arms and turned to cross to the other side of the room.
In that flickering second, Barbara saw what had come from her body. With that gift that some children have, she was able to identify precisely what she saw. Every detail was etched in her mind and stored in her memory.
Everything was so well formed. The tiny hand with five stubby, perfectly curled fingers. The small, curved shoulders. But most of all, the head. Like a favorite doll that had fallen from the dresser to smash its head against the floor.