Readers who write in response to one of the prompts listed each month in Splintered Glass, may see their work presented here on the last week of that month. Though poems are preferred, short prose work will also be considered for publication.

Guidelines for submission:

1. List Splintered Glass prompt which inspired the work in the text of your email.
2. Submit material to be published as Microsoft Word document. Submission should not be longer than one page. Editing will not be provided, please be careful.
3. Include two brief sentences about the author. Example: Michael Whozits is the author of A Book and The Curl, a blog. He is a retired pilot and avid surfer.
4. Submission must arrive no later than the 3^rd Wednesday of the month in which the Splintered Glass prompt appeared. Only one reader’s submission will be selected for any given month.
5. Send submission to karoxby@gmail.com.

“It’s the call. They have a donor!” From the other room, her companion’s voice rings out. Carol stops, frozen in place for a second as she tries to process her joy, her fear, what she has to do next. Then she flies into action. She and her companion have practiced for this moment for over a year. Everything is ready. Everything is planned.

“They need us there within the hour,” comes the voice from other room.

Seconds later, Carol rushes down the hall and out of the door which is open for her. A quick turn of the key in the lock and both are soon in the car and on their way. They will make it. They have practiced this run over and over at every time of day, in every weather condition, every traffic condition.

Nothing can stop them, not road work or a traffic accident, the route and its alternatives are all worked out. They will be at the hospital in close to twenty minutes.

“It’s really happening, Carol.”

“I can’t believe it” she answers. “At last.” Then she gulps. “I’m so scared something will go wrong.”

“Nothing’s going to go wrong. We have a great doctor. The hospital is certified and has performed this operation successfully many, many times. Nothing’s going to go wrong.”

“But it might.”

“Then we’ll deal with that. We’ve waited this long. We can wait some more.” Her companion’s hand leaves the steering wheel long enough to catch hers in a squeeze. “You’re going to be fine. The operation will go smoothly. I’m sure of it.”

She squeezes her companion’s hand with both of hers. “Yes, it’s going to be fine. It’s going to be wonderful.”

Arriving at the Emergency entrance, they are met by her doctor who whisks her away toward surgery. Left behind, her companion answers the admittance clerk’s hail, waving papers in that direction, “I have all the information right here.”

Soon they are huddled over the papers as the data is entered into the system. The companion keeps glancing at the doors through which Carol disappeared.

“All done,” the clerk finally announces.

“Where do I…can I wait?” Now that the moment is here, the companion’s mind cannot remember where to go.

“Take the elevator in that hallway,” the clerk points to the right.

“Which floor?”

“Third floor.”

‘Oh, yes, that’s right. I remember. And there’s a waiting room there.”

“That’s right. Just take the elevator to the right.”

Carol’s companion hurries toward the row of elevators. How long did the doctor say the operation will take? Then the memory returns. All the careful planning is once again clear as the elevator doors open.

 

Many years before two women of middle age, obviously long-term friends, are having lunch in a modest shopping mall restaurant. The taller of the two brings up the topic of women’s right to control the destiny of their bodies.

“The politicians on the right are trying again to take away the right of women to have an abortion. Men just won’t give up trying to control a woman’s life. What do you think about the situation?”

Her companion does not immediately answer. She ducks her head and turns slightly away for a moment. She is uncomfortable with this subject. Then she brightens and straightens up in the booth.

“Well, I have a solution no one talks about, but it is really just science-fiction now. My idea,” she continues, “is that they divert all the money being spent fighting against and for this issue into research. We’ve got some of the tools already, but more will be required and the training, and so forth.”

Her friend leans toward the speaker. Both have stopped any pretense of eating their lunches.

“You see, my idea is that they take the unwanted child from that woman and transplant it into a woman that wants it.”

The woman opposite her sits back sharply in her seat.

“Of course, there would also have to be a donor list and network just like for organ transplants.” She smiles, looking rather shyly at her friend as if she expects to be ridiculed. “That’s my idea. I think we could do it if we just started working to make it happen.”

The other woman does not respond. After a moment of silence, they both return to their meal. The subject closed.

Across the aisle, Marna Gayle, a young medical student, is typing rapidly on her computer tablet, her lunch forgotten for the moment. She has overheard the two older women, and now, for the first time, she knows the area of research to which she will dedicate her life. On the screen before her is the beginning of an outline of a proposal for a research grant.

 

 

Today, many years later, Carol and her companion have come to the Dr. Marna Gayle Wing at their local hospital for Carol’s happy event. While this hospital’s wing is smaller than the Dr. Marna Gayle Hospital in Texas, Carol had felt reassured just by seeing Dr. Gayle’s name when she and her companion had visited with her doctor when Carol first decided to consider the option of being a donor recipient.

For it was Dr. Gayle who spearheaded the research, the fund raising and who for years was the foremost authority sought out by the legal teams and even the religious councils during the long fight to achieve acceptance of the revolutionary surgical procedure.

 

Today, as Carol’s companion sits in the waiting room, anxiously glancing again and again at the entrance, an older woman approaches and sits in the neighboring chair.

“There is no reason to be worried, you know,” she says.

Carol’s companion is startled, but glad for the reassuring words. “But it is major surgery. Things go wrong sometimes with surgery. Even the doctor said so.”

“Yes, that is possible, but the team here is very experienced. They have performed the transplant surgery many, many times. You can rely on them to take great care of…what is her name, the one you are here for?”

“Carol, her name is Carol. I told her much the same as you have told me. I didn’t tell her how afraid I was, am.”

The older woman reaches over to place a gentle hand on the white knuckled grip of the person beside her. “That’s why I am here.”

“Who are you?”

“I am a volunteer. My name is Betty. I come here often to help people like you and their Carols. I am part of a support group. Your doctor may have mention us?” She lays a card with contact information on the side table between their chairs.

“The doctor did give us some material about support groups. Yours may have been in there, I don’t remember.” Carol’s companion turns toward the entry searching for sight of someone, anyone, a clock. “How long has it been now? Is it always this long?”

“It’s hard waiting, I know,” she says. “But they take great care, and such care takes time. She’s fine. She will be fine. You need to hold onto that thought.”

“I wish I could. It’s just horrible this waiting and not knowing.”

“I am going to share something with you. I hope it helps,” she says. “See that young woman over their with that group of people?” Diagonally across the waiting room a young woman seemed to be comforting what looked like a family group, an older man and woman and a younger man. “She’s my daughter.”

“She helps you with your work?”

“Yes, she’s a volunteer, too. She studied to counsel the donors and their loved ones.”

“Donors? Are they here for Carol’s donor?”

“Most likely.”

“Should I go over there? Is that why you came to me? Do they  want to talk with me?  I’m not sure I can do that right now. Not until…”

“You  don’t have to think about that just yet. They may want to meet you both later, but they may not be ready either. They are just as worried, or maybe more so that you are.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I should I go over there, thank them. But…”

“No, let them make that decision. For now, I’d like to tell you why my daughter and I have chosen to be here today. Perhaps it will help you feel a little better.”

“It’s kind of you to come, of course, but I don’t see…”

“What you don’t see, don’t know, is that I am a donor baby.”

“What?”

“Yes, my mother, like your Carol, was a donor recipient. And my daughter and I between us have a dear friend and cousin who have been donors.” She smiled at Carol’s companion. “We know the fear and the joy that comes with this decision. I have seen many like you and that family over there. All of them were just as frightened as you, but only for this little while.”

“But what if…?”

“My daughter and I will be here for you, and your Carol.”

“Even if everything goes well?”

“Of course. And there are others we know who will be happy to help you both with whatever you need. Don’t think we will forget about you both after today.”

She looked over at her daughter, her eyes alight. She was obviously very proud of her daughter. Then the woman patted the companion’s shoulder. “Perhaps one day I will see you here offering support to another. Hmm?”

 

Today, with the hard-won approval of both the law of the land and religious communities, Carol and her donor have come for a legal and commonly practiced surgery. One woman came to give, the other to accept the gift of new life. All because a long-ago conversation in a small shopping mall restaurant was overheard by the right person.

 

#roevwade, #pro-life, #abortionrights, #anti-abortion