The Procedure

By Glenn A. Hascall


A monologue that follows the musings of a nurse only recently hired at an abortion clinic and why she decides that she can't stay.




NURSE: It all seemed so easy - bring your money to this place - this overwhelming, clean, white, institutional place and your problem goes away, forever.

Problems. I've seen pieces of those "problems". I was told this was nothing to be concerned about, this was an empowering choice, that way any child they chose to have would be loved.

If they weren't ready - then there really there was only one loving and compassionate choice

The offending piece of tissue inside could be eliminated easily enough and it wouldn't affect their future. It made sense - it seemed compassionate - it seemed...

Oh, I remember my first day, holding the hand of a young girl not much older than my little sister. She asked if this really was just a collection of tissue. I smiled as I nodded, holding her hand as the (pause) procedure began. You know what? The doctor reminded me of the time I had a wart removed, so business-like, so detached, like it was no big deal.

Despite all of our assurances, she wept. She called out, cried for a mother she once avoided but now desperately wanted -- a mother that might never know or comfort the terror.

You'd think the doctor would stop and reassure her that everything would be alright, but, no that was my job. The doctor had other patients waiting.

(Agitated) This was my first job right out of nursing school. Sure, I had wanted a nice job with a hospital, but I took what I could find. I had gone through the classes on abortion and saw pictures of the (slight wince) procedure - (builds in intensity throughout) I even knew what needed to happen to bring it to an end. But, I wasn't prepared for the reality of what I actually saw. (Very emotional) That "tissue" had fingers - and toes. This was not a textbook or instructional video - this was real.

The girl must have seen the look on my face (very emotional). She cried even harder, and asked the doctor to stop - but it was too late (Quietly repeat) too late - much too late (pause a beat, takes a deep breath).

Well, (Gains a modicum of composure) today is my last day - I don't know if I'll be able to find another job - we aren't exactly parting under the best of terms. I see these women come in and all I think about are the hands that will never reach to place their delicate fingers on the face of their mother in adoration. There will be no smiles to brighten a day. No feet will be heard in pursuit of grandpa. Names will never be given, grandchildren will never be born, hopes will lie extinguished in the bottom of a plastic bag marked Bio-hazard. I wasn't told the truth and my patients are also being lied to.

If they could see what I see they would weep at the incredible loss so many have already gone through and they would never come through these doors.

I can't imagine the pressures these women face in coming to terms with this as their life goes on. Will they ever know or acknowledge the false hope they were promised was also dealt a mortal wound? I see it when they leave this place (pause) the light is gone from their eyes.

They leave shaken, disillusioned and now must hide a terrible secret that must surely haunt a portion of every day.

So this day will end and I will share a forever bond with nameless, sightless children who had no choice - no one to empower them. I have learned that God forgives and that's great news - I can't help but believe He will also remember these little, innocent children. (Pause) I wonder if He gives them a name?

Fade to black


Copyright 2004 Glenn A. Hascall. Should you use this script would you be so kind as to let us know of its use? Email: glenn.hascall<a>