Little hope

I could tell my mother was having a very difficult time absorbing this news, and it was quite touching to me to see that she did actually care about me. After the initial long hug, though, she did not repeat any sign of outward affection or concern, but I could tell she was worried. I heard her book an appointment at the doctor for the next day – I didn’t bother complaining; I knew she would get her own way. The subject of abortion was left alone, for then, for which I was grateful. I really didn’t feel like fighting with her, which was what I could tell it would turn into.

The only further thing she said to me that day was, before he went to bed, “Don’t worry. We’ll sort it out. It’s going to be fine.” I got the feeling she was trying to reassure herself more than me, but I appreciated the effort.

The next morning, she told me we were going to see a doctor because she wanted to ‘talk about some things.’ I really didn’t feel like divulging the details of my rape to a stranger, but I felt completely drained by the previous day and decided just to go along with it.

“I am a doctor, so I’m not in a position to advise you about the emotional aspect of this, especially as it is a very... raw issue, so in that respect, I can only refer you to a trauma therapist. Don’t worry, I’ve known her for years; she’s lovely, and I’m sure it would do you a lot of good to speak with her.”

I sat in silence, staring at my clenched hands as the doctor wrote out this therapist’s phone number on a sheet of paper for my mum. A nurse was brought in, as he explained it would be beneficial to check for any infections the rapist may have passed on to me. God, please not another thing. This would really just make my day.

It was horrifically embarrassing having to sit there while the nurse asked all these personal questions while the doctor and my mum sat in the adjacent room. She was very nice, and of course completely non-judgmental, but I felt very exposed nonetheless having to talk to her about such personal matters. She took some STD tests, which was even more horrifying than the questions, but I knew it was just her job, and it was necessary. The 10 minute wait as she processed the results was agonisingly slow and I couldn’t help but feel pessimistic. Everything so far has gone wrong, why not this?

“The tests for Chlamydia and Gonorrhoea show no abnormalities – you’re perfectly clear. And we also did a precautionary test for HPV, which was also negative. Congratulations.” She smiled at me.

“Thank you... so much. That’s such a relief.” I was genuinely happy at this news, seeing as it was the only good thing I’d heard in the past 3 weeks.

“No problem. Now listen, if you’re worried about anything, have any questions or just want a chat, you can come and see me Monday to Friday from 8am until 6pm. It’s completely confidential and you don’t need parental permission, so you could even come along after school.”

School. It started again in three weeks time. The events of that time would decide what everyone would be gossiping about, whether it be pregnancy or abortion. I wasn’t exactly planning on telling anyone, but it seems everything spreads one way or another, and if I did keep the child, it would soon become very obvious I was pregnant. Anyway, I had more important, life-changing, in fact, things to be concerned about than the petty whispers behind manicured fingers at school.

“We will talk about our, um, plan-of-action later, but just now, you need to go to the police station. I want you to give a full report of everything you remember from that night. I want that piece of scum to be thrown into jail. He will not get away with doing this to my daughter.” My mum told me as we were leaving the doctor’s surgery.

"Mum, there’s no point. I don’t remember anything...”

“No arguing.” She interrupted decisively. “We’re going to the police.”