Second Chances

The room was tiny and austerely furnished with two chairs, a table, and a cheap worn carpet. It was a dark icy midwinter Chicago afternoon, and my patient Susan was dressed in a halter top and low-slung jeans. A coat with a faux-fur collar was draped casually over her shoulders.

“You're not pregnant, so that's good,” I said. She shrugged, not registering the relief I expected. As a peer counselor and educator in the teen clinic, I wasn't typically involved in any aspect of pregnancy testing or counseling. But that night we were short-staffed, and when another young woman, devastated by the news of her pregnancy, required more than the usual amount of attention, the social worker handed me a chart.

“I see no harm in giving her positive news. Just see that she understands how to use the birth control we've prescribed.” The social worker, Kathy, was young and unbelievably cool and, like several other women at Planned Parenthood, had become a mentor and protector.

In those days pregnancy tests were complicated. They took over a week to process, and results were conveyed in person to avoid any breach of privacy.

Susan squinted at me. “How'd you get this job?” I was dressed in straight-legged jeans and Earth shoes and wore little makeup. I knew I looked too young to inspire the confidence I was trying to convey.

I shrugged, feeling a little uncomfortable. “A teacher told me about it. I'm interested in counseling.”

I was a junior at an academically rigorous high school. Community service was encouraged, and when my biology instructor told me about a volunteer opportunity at the clinic, I jumped at the chance. Planned Parenthood correctly believed that girls of a similar age could better understand each other's concerns.

By all rights I shouldn't have been in this position. I had just ducked under the razor wire of the most harrowing time of my life. I would see this only in retrospect. The convent school I had attended for nine years had summarily dismissed me for truancy and f