With my legs spread apart, I lie on the gynecological chair. I’m extremely nervous, completely beside myself. My child… what should I do… I keep thinking. I could still escape this horrible room, away from these people who show not even a shred of understanding for my condition—no, they don’t care about me at all. They’re just here to do their jobs routinely.

The gynecologist, in his forties, reveals his hairy arms beneath the short sleeves of his white coat. He hasn’t even looked at me. He’s chatting casually with the nurse—something about loans and a new car. In fact, he’s so engrossed in his own problems that it’s as if I’m not even there, legs spread open, as if he’s just drinking coffee in the hospital cafeteria. As if on this table lies only a doll, an animal they need to open up, cut, remove, and sew back together. I hate him. Actually, I hate both of them, but most of all, I hate myself.

What should I do, what should I do? The thought races wildly through my head.
But I can’t kill it again!!!!

“You’re not scared, are you? It won’t hurt at all. You have such beautiful hair—is it natural?” The nurse finally shows me some attention.
I force a smile.
This crazy woman, I think. Can’t she see the state I’m in?! What is she even saying? About my hair? What about the little child waiting to die?

“I’m going to pour some water on you now, don’t be scared, it won’t hurt.”
So it’s happening. Do something! Tell them you’ve changed your mind! Are you sure? You don’t even want a child with Matevž! And where would you live? At his parents’ place? Horrible—even worse than home! And you haven’t even finished school yet. But my little child… It’s mine! It wants to live! How beautiful it would be to have a child, to care for it! I can’t just kill it! I don’t have the right to kill it!

“I’ll place this cloth over your nose. Count to three, and you’ll fall asleep.”
No, no, no! Oh God, no! I don’t want this! My child, my little one…

Someone slaps my face. I’m asleep—it feels so good to sleep. I don’t want to wake up. I’d sleep forever. I don’t want anything else but to sleep.

“Wake up, it’s all over.” I open my eyes and see glasses and hairy arms.
Oh no, it can’t be! My little one is gone! I want to sleep, disappear, forget. Please, let me sleep! I don’t want to be awake, I don’t want to know it’s gone!

The nurse wheels me out of the operating room to the ward. The hallway is full of male patients. They eye me curiously. God knows what they’re thinking. And she’s so young! I feel humiliated, like an exhibit on display, completely powerless.

The nurse opens the door to the room—there are already five women inside. Our entrance interrupts their loud chatter. They fall silent for a moment, sizing me up. Maybe they’re disappointed because I’m young and don’t belong in their circle. They’re all in their late middle age. They say nothing, ask me nothing. The nurse leaves immediately. The women resume their conversation about their illnesses. One dominates, detailing her many surgeries. The others sigh loudly, shifting in their beds, which creak under their weight.

Once they exhaust the topic of illnesses, they move on to the next meal—God knows what’s for dinner? What was it yesterday? Lunch wasn’t very good. I’m so hungry. Then they speculate about the weather. And then, back to their illnesses—their favorite, inexhaustible topic.

I ignore them. Their talk makes me sick. I regret not bringing earplugs. Then I remember—I have the book The Picture of Dorian Gray in my bag. I’ll try to read and forget. I read one sentence. It doesn’t work. What it’s about feels a thousand years removed from my agony.

What have I done? By the time I’m thirty-five, I could have had ten! God knows if it would’ve been a boy or a girl. What would they have been like?

A knock at the door. I’m sure it’s the nurse or a cleaner. Matevž walks in. I’m stunned.
“That fast?” Suddenly, my torment will be over—I just need to get out of here.
“I was worried about you.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here! Please, help me get out of here! Go get the nurse! I feel awful, just awful!”

The nurse comes and says I can leave at my own risk—by the rules, I should stay two more days. I’d lose my mind! “Sign here.” I exhale in relief. “Here are your clothes.”

Dressing is hard. My hands and legs won’t obey—I just want to leave. My whole body trembles. I shake so much I can’t even put my clothes on. Matevž helps me.
“I feel so terrible… I almost changed my mind…”
“You know we couldn’t keep it. We don’t have the means…”
“Please, don’t talk about it. It’s easy for you. They cut it out of me—God knows where they threw it. The trash?”
“You’re delirious.”
“Matevž, please call a taxi. And then don’t ask me anything else. I can’t talk anymore.”

We wait outside. It’s a gray January day. The ground is slushy, damp. On days like this, you can’t even tell what time it is.
I killed it. It feels like half my body is gone. An overwhelming sadness, an unbearable loss.

We get home. Everyone’s there.
Mom says, “What’s wrong with you? You didn’t… have an abortion, did you?”
How does she always know when I want to lie?! But she’s a woman—she senses it. She’s a mother, too.
“Are you insane? What if Matevž leaves you? What then?”
The last thing I want right now is her preaching. I can’t stand anyone!

My sister is much kinder, showing sympathy: “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gone with you…”
It doesn’t matter. It’s too late now. Keeping the baby was never an option. Where would it have lived? I can barely stand it here myself. It’s a miracle I haven’t ended up in a mental hospital.

“Matevž, please, no one comes into my room. Just leave me alone,” I manage to say.
“Do you want me to bring the cat? Maybe it’ll help.” Never before have I refused to pet the cat.
“No. I can’t stand anyone right now. I want to be alone. Alone. ALONE!!!! Please, you go too. Thank you.”

(db, written in 1994, Ljubljana)

***

SPLAV

Z razkrečenimi nogami ležim na ginekološkem stolu. Zelo sem živčna, vsa sem iz sebe. Moj otrok…, kaj naj storim…, premišljujem. Še vedno lahko pobegnem iz te strahotne sobe, stran od teh ljudi, ki ne kažejo niti trohice razumevanja za moje stanje, bolje, sploh jih ne zanimam, oni so tu, da rutinsko opravijo svoje delo.
Ginekolog štiridesetih let, kaže svoje kosmate roke izza bele uniforme kratkih rokavov. Še pogledal me ni. Povsem običajno se pogovarja s sestro. Nekaj o kreditih in o novem avtu. Pravzaprav se pogovarja o svojih problemih tako zavzeto, kot da mene s tistimi razkrečenimi nogami sploh ni tam in kot da ravnokar pije kavo v lokalu bolnišnice. Kot da je na tej mizi samo ena lutka, ena žival, ki jo morajo odpreti, razrezati, odrezati in spet nazaj zašiti. Zasovražim ga. Pravzaprav zasovražim oba, predvsem pa samo sebe.
- Kaj naj storim, kaj naj storim, mi z divjo naglico brni po glavi.
- Pa ga je ne bom že spet ubila!!!!
“Saj vas ni strah? Nič ne bo bolelo. Kako lepe lase imate, kaj so naravni?”, je končno nekaj pozornosti pokazala sestra.
Nasmehnem se ji.
- Zmešana ženska, pomislim, kaj ne vidi v kakšni stiski sem?! Kaj vendar govori! O mojih laseh, kaj pa mali otrok, ki čaka na smrt?
“Zdaj vas bom polila z vodo, ne se ustrašit, nič ne bo bolelo.”
- Bliža se torej. Daj, naredi kaj! Povej jim, da si se premislila! Ali si prepričana! Saj vendar nočeš imeti otroka z Matevžem! In kje boš stanovala?
Pri njegovih starših? Groza, še huje kot doma! In faksa sploh še nimaš narejenega. Ampak, moj mali otrok! Saj je vendar samo moj! Saj si vendar želi živeti! Kako lepo je imeti otroka, skrbeti zanj! Pa saj ga ne morem vendar kar ubiti! Saj ga nimam pravice ubiti!
“Tole krpo vam bom dala na nos. Ko boste preštela do tri, boste zaspala.”Ne,ne,ne! O,groza, ne! Saj nočem! Moj otrok, moj mali…
Nekdo me udarja po obrazu. Spim, tako lepo je spati. Nočem se zbuditi, spala bi, spala. Čisto nič drugega si ne želim, kot spanja.
“Zbudite se, vsega je konec”, odprem oči in zagledam očala in kosmate roke.
- Ah ne, pa saj ni mogoče! Mojega malega ni več! Želim si spati, izginiti, pozabiti. Prosim, pustite me spati! Nočem biti budna, nočem vedeti, da ga ni več!
Strežnica me odpelje iz operacijske sobe na oddelek. Na hodniku je veliko moških bolnikov. Z zanimanjem si me ogledujejo. Mislijo si, Bog ve, kaj je s to? Pa tako mlada! Sram me je, počutim se zelo ponižano, ko sem tako nemočna, kot bi bila razstavni predmet.
Strežnica odpre vrata v sobo, tam je že pet žensk.
Prekineva jih v glasnem pogovoru. Za trenutek pomolčijo. Malce se me ogledajo, morda so razočarane, ker sem mlada in ne spadam v njihovo družbo. One so vse v poznih srednjih letih. Nič ne rečejo, nič me ne vprašajo. Strežnica takoj odide. Ženske nadaljujejo pogovor o svojih boleznih. Prednjači ena, ki je šla že skozi celo vrsto operacij in do potankosti razlaga, kako so potekale. Ženske glasno vzdihujejo in se obračajo. Postelje pod njihovo težo glasno škripajo. Ko izčrpajo priljubljeno temo o boleznih, se začnejo pogovarjati o naslednjem obroku – “Bog ve, kaj bo za večerjo? Kaj je bilo že včeraj? Kosilo ni bilo prav dobro. Tako sem lačna.” Nato se sprašujejo kakšno bo vreme. Ko to izčrpajo, pa spet o svojih boleznih. To je njihova najljubša, neizčrpna tema.
Ignoriram jih, njihov pogovor mi gre na bruhanje. Zelo mi je žal, da nisem od doma vzela zamaškov za ušesa, da jih sploh ne bi slišala. Nato se spomnim, da imam v torbi knjigo “Slika Doriana Greya”. Poskusila bom brati in pozabiti. Preberem en stavek. Ne gre. To, o čem govori, je tisoč let oddaljeno od moje stiske.
- Kaj sem storila! Ko bom stara petintrideset let, bi jih imel deset! Bog ve, ali bi bil fantek ali punčka? Kakšen bi bil?
Nekdo potrka. Prepričana sem, da je sestra ali sobarica. Vstopi Matevž. Zelo sem presenečena.
“Tako hitro?” Kar naenkrat bo mojih muk konec, samo da grem stran od tod.
“Skrbelo me je zate.”
“Oh, samo da si prišel! Tako sem srečna! Prosim te, pomagaj me spraviti stran od tod! Pojdi po sestro! Grozno mi je, grozno!”
Sestra pride in pravi, da lahko odidem le na lastno odgovornost, po vseh pravilih bi morala ostati še dva dni. Zmešalo bi se mi! “Tu podpišite!” Oddahnem si. “Tu je vaša obleka.”
Zelo težko se oblačim. Ker si želim čim prej stran, me gibi mojih rok in nog ne ubogajo. Drgetam po vsem telesu. Tresem se tako, da se ne morem obleči. Matevž mi pomaga.
“Tako mi je grozno, skoraj sem si premislila…”
“Saj veš, da ga ne bi mogla obdržati, nimava pogojev…”
“Prosim ne govori o tem, lahko je tebi. Izrezali so ga iz mene, Bog ve, kam so ga vrgli – v stranišče?”
“Blede se ti.”
“Matevž, prosim pokliči taksi in potem me ne sprašuj več, ne morem več govoriti!”
Čakava pred vhodom, zunaj je siv januarski dan. Na tleh je brozga, vlažno je. Pravzaprav ob takih dnevih ne moreš povedati, koliko je ura.
- Ubila sem ga! Občutek imam, kot da je polovica mojega telesa nekam izginila. Občutim strahovito žalost, strahovito izgubo.
Prideva domov. Tam so vsi.
Mama reče: “Kakšna pa si, pa ja nisi… delala splav?”
- Le kako je to možno, da ta ženska vedno ugane, ko se ji hočem zlagati??!
Sicer pa je ženska, intuitivno ve, tudi ona je mati.
“Si nora, kaj pa, če te Matevž pusti? Kaj boš pa potem?”
- Najmanj, kar si zdaj želim, je poslušati njene pridige. Nikogar ne morem prenašati!
Sestra je veliko prijaznejša, pokaže sočutje: “Zakaj pa nisi povedala? Peljala bi te…”
- Saj je vseeno, tako ali tako je prepozno. Da bi obdržala detece, si pa sploh ne morem predstavljati. Kje pa bi živel? Tu še sama ne zdržim. Še čudno, da nisem končala v norišnici!
“Prosim Matevž, naj nihče ne hodi v mojo sobo, prosim pustite me na miru”, so besede, ki jih izdavim.
“Ja, hočeš, da ti prinesem mačka, morda ti bo lažje!” Še nikoli se ni zgodilo, da ne bi hotela božati mačka.
“Ne, nikogar sploh ne morem prenašati. Hočem biti sama. Sama. Sama!!!! Prosim, odidi tudi ti. Hvala.”
(db, napisano leta 1994, v Ljubljani)