Betty Dodson with Carlin Ross

Better Orgasms. Better World.

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In the
fifties long before Roe vs. Wade, abortions were illegal but available
if you could raise the money. I had to make difficult phone calls using
code names until I finally found a person who could help. With five one
hundred dollar bills in my purse, half of it mine and the other half
from my boyfriend, I met my contact at the Stage Delicatessen on Sixth
Avenue. Fay was a well-dressed attractive married woman in her forties.
She explained how their operation had to move around like a floating
crap game to keep the cops off their trail. That night, we drove to
Jersey City. My heart was frozen with fear and barely beating as we
walked up three flights of tenement stairs. I entered a kitchen with a
white metal table sitting in the middle of an ugly little room with
worn linoleum on the floor and a bare light bulb glaring overhead

There
were several women present, and I was introduced to a large woman named
Mary who was the doctor. When Fay said a few cross words to her about
drinking, she said she'd only had one beer to steady her hand. Dr. Mary
turned to me with the assurance that she was "a good doctor" and I
didn't have to worry. Not only did I want to believe her, I had to. At
that moment, my life was in her hands whether they were steady or
shaking. One woman present just had an abortion, and she was still
alive, so I hung onto that fact as I lay down on the porcelain table
while the doctor aimed a gooseneck lamp between my legs.

During the procedure, Fay held my hand and gave me a washcloth to bite
on while my cervix was opened without any anesthesia. I was told not to
move so the metal instrument wouldn't puncture my uterus. The most
dreadful pain of my young life consumed me. The cramps were so intense
that my body broke out into a cold, clammy sweat. But I never moved, or
cried out. After resting for an hour, we walked back down the tenement
stairs to the car and drove home.

At
the time, I was sharing a large apartment with three other women on
West 55th Street. A housemate's mother was visiting, and since I'd told
everyone I was in bed with a cold, her mom kept coming into my room to
cover my chest with warm Vic's Vaporub. Meanwhile I'm bleeding to death
from an illegal kitchen table abortion.

The
second day, still bleeding and scared out of my mind, I called one of
my roommates doctor who said he'd lose his license if he treated me.
His only advice was to go to the emergency room of any hospital, tell
them what had happened, and be prepared to get grilled by the police.
No thanks! I'd rather go ahead and die. On the fourth day the bleeding
finally began to slow down.

After
an experience like that, you'd think I would have asked myself, "What
is this thing called love?" But I didn't. I just fell into it again,
and again, and it was always accidental - similar to stepping into dog
shit while walking the sidewalks of New York City. Not only did I fall
in love again but I also got pregnant two more times which convinced me
that I was mentally deficient. I remained a victim of romantic love
throughout my twenties.

The
Romantic Love Wars: One day in my studio, the nude I was drawing turned
into an X ray of my body. Scars from the abortions didn't show on the
surface, so I drew a sanitary napkin leaking blood to represent these
emotional wounds. The world knew all about the horrors men suffered in
war to defend their country's ideals of freedom. But I couldn't talk
about the horrors I'd experienced to defend my right to reproductive
freedom. Instead of feeling like a hero, I was made to feel like a
criminal. Going back over that first abortion, I silently awarded
myself a purple heart.

The
last abortion was legal and far more humane. It took place in
Switzerland in a doctor's office with nitrous oxide. At the time I was
living in Germany with Victor. One night I was spotting blood and
thought I was getting my period. But I was ovulating instead. We made
love without my diaphragm in place. Although I claimed I wanted to get
married and have the baby, I probably unconsciously picked him knowing
he'd never go through with it. I was right. He accused me of entrapment
with my "so-called accidental pregnancy" and said we could discuss
marriage after I had an abortion. Swiss law required seeing a
psychiatrist and signing a paper that said I'd commit suicide if the
pregnancy wasn't terminated. Actually, I was far closer to committing
homicide. In retrospect, that abortion was worth an oak leaf cluster.

Next
I put in the surgical scar from my broken ankle. The accident took
place at a cocktail party, not respectably on some ski slope. Right
after returning from Paris, I was 28, flat broke and already pressuring
my next lover Dr. Juan to get married. But all I got that year was
crutches and an engagement ring. "Ah ha," I thought, "I couldn't stand
on my own two feet." When my husband left me, bursitis crippled my left
arm because I'd lost "my other half." According to Wilhelm Reich, the
history of my body was the outward expression of different inner
states, not just mysterious accidents. Reich felt the conflict between
sexuality and morality was manifested in the body. He called it
"character armoring."

As
much as I respected Reich, I'd have to be living in a different society
than the one I found myself in, or be some kind of martyred saint not
to armor myself against The Romantic Love Wars. Without benefits or
social recognition, I was a veteran in the battle between the sexes,
bitter and scarred from fighting on the front lines of the bedroom,
negotiating boundaries in relationships, signing peace treaties, and
once again declaring war over broken agreements. The enemy was the man
I was supposed to love. No surprise I was conflicted about sex, at war
with my body, filled with self-hatred and doomed to fail as I loved a
myth instead of learning to love myself.

Although
I thought the myth of the prince was put to rest in 1969, if I'd been
able to look into a crystal ball that told my future, I would have
written, The Myth of the Prince Never Dies. The Prince simply changed
forms and returned in the guise of a woman, an ideal, a religious
devotion, a political movement or a business venture - the search for
some one or some thing that would complete my life and provide me with
a sense of security was endless.

Excerpt from Betty's Sexual Memoir © 2008 Betty Dodson