The 15-Year-Old OB/GYN (Part 3)
It wasn’t only girls my own age. Grown women came too, including two of my teachers.
7 — The Adults
Dinner ran long, and the conversation meandered before landing on the pill and staying there. We’d discussed whether the Allies should have apologized for what they’d done in the war, what the country had become in the years after Korea, and then, somehow, we stumbled on oral contraception. Karen had been on the pill; she’d quit taking it, and once she started talking about why, she wouldn’t stop.
Her legs had swollen, and she’d gained 15 pounds—which she mentioned twice in about a minute. Then there had been a clot, and after that she quit taking them without ever telling the doctor who’d written the prescription.
When I asked what she’d been taking, she told me, and I couldn’t hide my expression at the mention of Enovid-E.
So I asked her the rest of it, the same questions in the same order I’d asked Teresa in her parents’ rec room and Rita in the A/V room behind the stage: high blood pressure, migraines, liver disease, diabetes, anything else she was taking, when exactly she’d stopped, and whether her period had come normally afterward. She answered all of it without hesitating, and it never seemed to occur to her to wonder why a 16-year-old was asking.
“How do you know so much about birth control?”
I told her my father worked for Ortho and that I’d read all the books and literature they give salesmen, which was true as far as it went. She studied me for a moment before she said anything else.
“Most guys couldn’t handle a conversation about us getting our periods without squirming, let alone talk about estrogen dosages. Guys your age are still giggling at the word ‘breast’ in health class.”
So, I ran out to the car and came back with three DialPaks—a three-month supply—and set them on the table between us. I told her when to start and what would happen if she didn’t take them the way she was supposed to. She thanked me and put them in a drawer.
It took me years of therapy to fully grasp the significance of that night: a married woman and teacher—someone the state of Georgia had certified as fit to care for other people’s children—was getting her contraception (and a lot more) from a boy whose ‘medical degree’ came from reading his father’s sales literature.
Then, of course, there was Connie. She refused the pill and said she was using a diaphragm. With the other girls, I could open the DialPak and see what day they were on. With Connie, I had only her word. She got pregnant.
With Janice, I first brought up birth control the morning after we’d first slept together. Sheepishly, she admitted she wasn’t using any. Her husband’s sperm count, she explained, was too low to impregnate her, so children were off the table. Her admission visibly rattled me, but she assured me she’d just finished her period and thought we were safe. Not sure about that, I hesitated a moment, then announced, “You’re going on the pill today, that is, if you want to keep doing what we did last night.”
Fine, she said, but protested, “Keith, now you know I can’t possibly see a doctor today and get a prescription filled, not in one day. It doesn’t work that way.” She was talking to me in a tone as if I were a naive kid, not versed in the adult ways of all things “female”. I needed to set her straight.
“If you can answer a few questions, let me take your blood pressure and pulse, you can start on the pill today if your vitals are okay.”
I might as well have said, I can make you fly. Her expression and loss for words would likely have been no different had I said exactly that.
“You’re going to do what? And how is it YOU are who’s going to do this?”
I’d dealt with the doubt, the disbelief before. It was old hat by now, so I calmly told my story: how I’d educated myself, just how I was able to get the pills, and how I learned to take precautions with a mini-physical I gave each girl or woman.
After I’d finished my monologue, she sat silent. For maybe 10 seconds. Then she found her voice. “I knew you were smart, a few teachers warned me that maybe you were too smart, but this is something else. Is it safe? Do you really know what you’re doing?”
“Nothing to worry about. Nobody has died—they’re all safe, healthy, and not pregnant.”
“Well, you do seem to know what you’re talking about. Which pill do you ‘prescribe’?”
“Ortho-Novum 1/80 or 1/50. But let’s go through some medical stuff first.” I’d been supplying birth control pills for almost two years now, and I carried a cuff and a stethoscope in my car, as well as having another one at home. There was no need to hide them since I lived alone.
Returning from my car, I sat down next to her at her kitchen table and said, “Take your top off.”
“Okay, doctor, is this just a ruse to get my clothes off?”
“No, smartass, I just don’t want any fabric between the cuff and your arm, your sweater’s bulky. Can’t get accurate readings that way. And stop talking, feet flat on the floor. Hmm… 123/69, not bad. Let’s check your pulse. Ah, a little elevated for a woman as young as you, 74 bpm, but nothing to worry about. Any headaches recently, history of liver problems or diabetes? I know you don’t smoke, so we’re good there. I think you’re okay. I’ll leave you a few DialPaks, and you can get started today. Now, I need to get to school. So do you.”
Numerous next-morning scenes with Karen and other older women had made me far more comfortable saying goodbye to the very adult woman sitting across from me. I leaned over, kissed her forehead, and left, like I wasn’t 17 and she wasn’t 28. Or my teacher.
8 — The Pharmacy Didn’t Close
The week before my 16th birthday, I left home. What I took with me fit in a battered trunk—mostly clothes, with a few DialPaks tossed on top. I needed a place to sleep, a way to pay for it, and I needed to know where the next DialPaks were coming from.
Luckily, a few days before I said I’d be out, I ran into a good friend, John, who said his mom wouldn’t mind me staying with them for a while. I still needed to figure out where my money was going to come from, and I also needed the pills.
Dave Morgan lived about three blocks behind the high school. He was the new Ortho detail man, replacing my father, who was moving to New Jersey with my mother and siblings to start yet another job. I’d met Dave—younger than my father, maybe 31 or 32—several times when he came by our house to pick up Ortho samples and materials he needed. On one visit to our house, he parked in the driveway while I was standing outside. I immediately recognized his ride.
“A ‘53? It’s not a kit? They only made 300 of these, exactly 300. All-fiberglass-reinforced body, and only one color—white— with a red interior and black soft top. It’s beautiful!”
Dave studied me a moment, then said, “You know your ‘Vettes, most people just see a cool car. I’ve just finished completely restoring this one, I love to restore older cars.”
“All OEM parts? No aftermarket stuff?”
“Yep, all original. Hey, your father said something odd the other day, that you’re moving out on your own. How old are you?”
“I’ll turn 16 in a week.”
“16? How in hell are you going to live? Daddy going to give you some money?”
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I decided there was no use in pretending our home was Ozzie & Harriet, so I just laid it out there. “My father’s an asshole, just can’t take it anymore. I’ve got my own money.” Which I wasn’t sure where it was coming from yet, but I wasn’t going to talk about that.
Dave laughed, “Yeah, I’ve spent a few hours around him and had already decided he’s a pompous asshole, that’s for sure. And I’m betting that’s the best thing you have to say about him.” He flashed a knowing grin.
I was starting to like this guy; what’s not to like about someone who can spot just who my father was that quickly?
“Look, why don’t you come over for dinner? Tomorrow? You know where I live, and if you’re into cars, I’ve got another one I want to show you.”
An idea was taking shape, and this was perfect: Dave showing up. “I’d love to, what time?”
“How about seven? Jenny will enjoy meeting you.”
“Okay, I’ll be there.”
I showed up exactly at seven. Rang the doorbell, and a cute brunette answered. “You must be Keith! Come in, come in, it’s great to meet you, I’m Jenny. Dave said to show you to the garage.”
“Thanks, it’s really nice of you to have me for dinner.” She motioned toward the garage door on the other side of the kitchen.
Stepping into the garage, I immediately realized this wasn’t just any garage. Well lit, with every automotive tool imaginable neatly hung on the walls. Even the floor was coated, probably with epoxy to resist oil stains. There was the ‘Vette I had seen yesterday, and right next to it was a 1964 1/2 red Mustang, with a white interior and a black convertible top.
“So, you like the Mustang? I’ve been working on it for about a year, waiting for a few parts, but it’s close.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s really cool!” I walked around it, admiring its simplicity of design.
“You want a beer? Grab one from that fridge behind you.”
I was already drinking, not uncomfortable with it, but surprised he offered. It was increasingly feeling like Dave could give me what I needed.
After two more beers and a lot of car talk, I decided to pop the question. “Dave, I’ve been taking a few DialPaks from my father’s stash and giving them to girls I know.” I proceeded to tell him the whole story, how and when it started, how I educated myself, and how I tried to be responsible with my mini-physicals.
“Wow! And how old are you? 15? 16? It sounds like you know what you’re doing. And I can tell this isn’t a boy’s scheme to get in somebody’s pants. You know way more than you need to do that. Hell, you may know more than me.”
After some more back-and-forth, he said, “What the hell, sure you can have them. Ortho just tells us to throw away any sample supplies that build up. You’re doing a lot more good with them than that. But I have a condition, I want to meet the girls you’re giving them to.”
So, the practice stayed open. We had a deal—Dave would be my source for the next four and a half years, and I would be his Ortho-Novum expert at his beck and call.
9 — It Followed Me
I had been accepted at Princeton, had actually enrolled at North Carolina, and then withdrew from Chapel Hill and came back to Atlanta. For years afterward I told people, and told myself, that Carolina would only have played to my strengths and that I needed to shore up my quantitative skills, which was the kind of explanation nobody ever questions. The truth was that everything I had was in Atlanta. Ashley was there, and that girl had a hold on me I can’t explain to this day. Janice was there, too, and for a stretch around the time I left for school, I had let myself believe her when she said she was in love with me. And the practice was there—18 years old, three years into running an unlicensed contraceptive clinic, and I had no intention of walking away from it.
So I went to Georgia Tech in the fall of 1972, and I took Linda with me.
Linda hadn’t applied anywhere. She had the grades and the test scores and had simply never done anything about it—the way a lot of smart girls in 1972 never did—and I wasn’t going to let Linda be one of them. I made an appointment with the Dean of Students, drove us both down there, and told Linda, let me do most of the talking.
Now in the Dean’s office, he looked at Linda and asked, “Why are you just now getting around to looking for a college? Most students start that their junior year, yet here you are.”
The dean had already warmed up to us, maybe because Linda had become a very beautiful 18-year-old woman. It was there in his expressions and the tone of his voice. Time to ride this one home.
Before Linda could answer, I jumped in. “Dean Robertson, life has thrown curveballs at both of us, and some of it’s painful, I’m sure too much for Linda to bring up.” A quick look over at Linda, and I knew I could keep going on this track. “Naturally that’s slowed her down on getting on with this part of her life. But look at our grades, I’m sure we’re both in the top percentiles of others who were accepted this year and Linda scored higher on the math part of the SAT than me.”
“All that’s true, but look at the calendar, it’s six days until the quarter commences.” Dean Robertson was right, and it was time to play the “girl card”.
“As you well know, there aren’t many girls on this campus, and I think passing on Linda would be an opportunity missed to start balancing things out a bit with the boys. The ratio of girls to boys here isn’t great.”
I paused a moment for effect. “Look, we’re both ideal fits for this school, we both grew up in Atlanta, and despite my grandfather wanting me to go to Carolina, all I’ve ever wanted to do, all Linda has ever wanted to do, is go to Tech. We’ve both sat in Grant Field as kids and cheered the Jackets on. And we didn’t go to the registrar, we came to you because I knew your decision was the final one. I just wanted you to meet us and think how do I squeeze just two more deserving kids into this great institution of learning?”
One visit, and she was admitted; and my transfer was accepted. Linda was dumbfounded, and she said so on the ride home, repeating it many times. To her, it would always be something akin to a magic trick.
There was no magic. I had been reading adults since I was old enough to be afraid of one, and I knew how to sit across from a man in an office and give him the version of things he was already hoping to hear. That skill had been built for other purposes entirely. It was strange to find it doing something useful. Interestingly, Dean Robertson and I became good friends, but that’s another story.
By then I had somewhere around 25 regulars, Linda and Teresa among them, plus a handful of older women, a few of whom had children older than I was. Linda had made it her business to ensure that every female between the ages of 15 and 21 in that part of Georgia knew where I was and how to reach me, and she was thorough about it in a way I didn’t fully appreciate until I got to Tech and found that the circus had followed me downtown.
The ones who hadn’t gone away to school would drive down to see me, and they rarely came alone. They arrived in carloads, four and five at a time, which to anyone watching must have looked like a posse of very pretty teenage girls descending on a campus that was, in 1972, overwhelmingly male. They would find me and greet me the way girls greet somebody they’ve known for years, with hugs and kisses and a certain amount of hanging on me, and my fraternity brothers drew the obvious conclusion. I had slept with some of them. I was still sleeping with some of them. I had not slept with most of them—and nobody believed that.
My fraternity brothers started asking me to set them up with dates, on the theory that I knew more girls than anyone they had ever met, which may have been true. So I did that too, and after a while the girls were coming down for the parties on their own, and the whole arrangement had grown into something I no longer had any real control over.
By then, I was also going out with girls outside my old dating pool—at the nearby nursing school and at a couple of the private girls’ colleges around Atlanta—and “my” girls noticed. My dates would ask me who the girl was who kept asking where I’d gone, or why someone they’d never met had come up to them at a party to ask if I’d been by. At our fraternity’s 1974 Christmas dinner, one of them walked up to the main table, sat down in my date’s chair (my date was Diane), and told her, “Be patient. I need to talk to Keith.” That didn’t go over well then, or a few hours later.
I don’t remember what she needed. I remember that she assumed she was entitled to the seat, and that on some level I assumed it, too.
Whatever this had been at 15—a boy with a closet full of pills and a reason to use them—it was no longer that. I had left high school, my father had left the state, and the thing kept running anyway, because by then it wasn’t about where the pills came from. People believed I could help them, and they kept finding me.
Next, Part 4 (final of a 4-part series)
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