Page 24 of Counting Backwards

Denise shook her head. “Nah. It was much more like, ‘Hurry, hurry, sign this.’ They got me all worked up about how I couldn’t pay for the procedure on my own, so I signed everything they put in front of me. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“Before the procedure, did they warn you of risks or complications?”

“Nah,” Denise said again. “Just put a mask over my face and told me to start counting backwards from ten.”

I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

“When did you find out they’d done more than the D&C?” I asked.

“Well, when I woke up from the surgery, the nurse was there, and she said... She told me...” Denise paused and turned her dark eyes toward the wall beside her.

“It’s okay. Take your time.”

“No.” Denise shook her head and wiped at one eye with the heel of her hand. “Now that I started getting on about it, I have to get it all out because they did me so wrong.”

I was sorry we were in such a sparse room. Had we been at my office, I would have pushed a box of tissues across the table toward her, offered her a glass of water.

“When I woke up after the anesthesia, the nurse told me the surgery went well. I was real groggy, so they told me to just stay where I was. After a while, the two of them came back to tell me it was time to get ready to go. The nurse said I’d have pain for a few days but not to worry, that it was normal because they had to fix my fallopian tubes. And then Dr. Choudry came in and said, ‘Your fallopian tubes were blocked, so I had to remove parts from each. You won’t be able to get pregnant naturally anymore, but that’s one less thing for you to worry about now, isn’t it?’”

“Oh my God!” The words escaped me before I could stop myself.

“I did some looking online. Maybe I could still try to have a baby with IVF, but the chances aren’t great with the fallopian tubes damaged.” She shook her head as she wiped away the wetness on her cheeks again. “And how would I ever find the money for that anyhow? There’s no point even thinking about it.”

I was intimately familiar with the difficulty of the IVF process and its middling odds of success. One more topic I hadn’t yet discussed with Vance. But I was also well aware of the high cost and the fact that it would be prohibitive for many.

“I always thought I’d have a big family. Now I’m going to have to tell any man I meet up front that I can’t ever have kids. How do you think that’s going to go?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I never would have said yes to that part of the surgery. How’d they just go in and do that?” She threw her hands in the air in a gesture of defeat.

It was hard to sit across from the willowy woman and just watch her cry, but I could only imagine how much harder the situation was for her. I was irate thinking about what this Dr. Choudry had done.

“If you’d like to pursue a claim,” I started, “at least we might be able to change their practices going forward—so they don’t do something like this to anyone else.”

She snorted as she ran her wet hand against the leg of her cotton uniform, wiping the tears into faint lines on her pants.

“Yeah, it’s a little late for that. Saving people,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not like me and Isobel were the only ones. There’s plenty of others.”

“Wait, what?” I hoped I was misunderstanding.

She sighed. “Look. Some of the other girls already tried to speak up, but they’re gone now. Back to their countries or whatever. My whole life is here, so I’m just going to keep my mouth shut. You can’t guarantee nothing happens to me, right?”

“You mean like sudden deportation?” I asked.

Denise nodded. “One woman, she filed a grievance. She was on an airplane back to Honduras the next day. The very next day.”

“That can’t be, that can’t...” I struggled to digest what she was saying. I blinked several times, hoping that would help me see things more clearly. “Denise,” I finally began, taking a deep breath. “If you’re telling me there’s a pattern here, if it’s not only you and Isobel but other women in the facility too... If you’re telling me that those women who’ve spoken out are being retaliated against, we need to do something. We have to fight for your rights and the rights of every other woman in this detention facility, possibly every woman in federal custody.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” She held up her hands as if to push my words away. “This isn’tErin Brockovich. We’re not doing that. These are our private lives, our health. Most of the women here won’t even want to tell you about their private business at all. Never mind filing claims or whatever.”

“That’s exactly it though. Just because you’re in here doesn’t mean you don’t have a right to make your own medical choices. You’re telling me that a doctor performed a life-altering procedure on you, without your consent, and that the same thing has happened to other women in this facility. Don’t you see?” I was getting frustrated with her unwillingness to cooperate, which I knew wasn’t fair of me. I glanced up at the ceiling, thinking of Grandpa Harry and trying to be the very best version of myself.

“If there’s a true pattern here,” I continued carefully, modulating my tone in hopes that she would see me as the ally I was aiming to be, “the doctor or the facility, whoever is pulling the strings, is forcing involuntary sterilization procedures on women who aren’t in a position to resist. It’s a blatant violation of your rights, and there’s probably some ghastly agenda behind the whole thing that needs to be stopped.”

“That’s exactly what I don’t want. I’m not looking to be part of some political movement.” She started pushing her chair back from the table. “The idea sounds great and all, to maybe speak up and help make sure this doesn’t happen to anybody else, but I’m not doing that. I’m telling you, a girl speaks out, they get rid of her. Everyone I care about is here in the US. I’ve got nothing in Cameroon.”

“We can take steps to protect you,” I said.

She was halfway out of her chair, but at my words, she hesitated.

“If they try to deport you, I can file for an emergency stay,” I rushed. “If a whole class of women are alleging the same kind of abuses, they can’t deport you all. Doing so would basically be admitting their guilt. And you can be anonymous on the complaint!” I realized. “We’d just list you as ‘Jane Doe,’ and we wouldn’t have to use your name at all. Not anywhere.”