The decision had finally been made. We’d considered the alternatives, but I decided that this was the only feasible choice. We talked about what was right and what was wrong. We discussed morals and debated over values. It didn’t matter what was said. My mind was made up, and the wheels of change were set in motion. I had to act quickly.

My heart was as dark and cloudy as the stormy March weather. The sun was held at bay by the prevailing dark clouds. The trees gave way to the roaring, chilly winds. I rode beside my mother in stubborn silence.

The decision I made had put some distance in our relationship. She had made it clear that she did not agree with my decision. It was the pain that silenced her. She could neither look me in the eye nor speak to me. I thought about writing a book called “The Longest Ride”, because the short distance seemed like an eternity.

We pulled into the parking lot of the blue marble building. The old car continued to sputter and rattle several minutes after the ignition was turned off. We were poor, but proud. I cautiously got out of the car and slowly proceeded to the entrance of the clinic.
Mother uttered one final plea: “It’s not too late to change your mind. You can cancel this whole ordeal.”

The look I gave her told her that I wanted to continue as planned. I somehow wanted to convince her that I knew what I had decided was wrong, and that I would probably regret it for the rest of my life.

We approached a winding staircase leading to the second floor of this building. Upon reaching the top, I heard the grating sounds of machines in the back of the building. We were greeted at the entrance by a mature looking woman. She asked our names, checked the list, and told us to be seated.

The walls of the waiting area were a bright mauve color. A matching shag carpet covered the concrete floor. Beautiful pictures of swans blanketed walls resembling botanical gardens, due to the flowery design of the wallpaper. The peaceful ambience of the room stealthily masked its true purpose.

The oak coffee tables contained an abundance of reading material to distract us from the hard, cold folding chairs. The discomfort of the seats didn’t bother me, since it was almost impossible to remain seated for more than a few minutes.

The women sitting in the waiting room varied in age. Some were crying profusely. Some were reading magazines. Others carried on conversations to pass the time away.
I was in a state of shock. I didn’t know how to act. I didn’t know if I should be sad, mad, or happy. I knew, however, that this was certainly not a dream. Instead, it was a nightmare that had become a reality. I kept wishing I could open my eyes and this terrible ordeal would be over. But I couldn’t, and it wasn’t.

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