My patient’s story represents the experience of the many who live in areas of the country where abortion is simply difficult to access. What happened to her happens to an untold number of individuals every week, every month, and every year. She is a single parent to a young daughter. Money and time are tight. She tells me she is lucky to have her parents, who help care for their granddaughter when she is working as a secretary at a building materials company in a rural part of her state. She was not in a relationship with the person with whom she became pregnant. Beyond that, she cannot bring herself to talk about it. I don’t press.

By the time she could arrange to be away from work, save money for a procedure and get herself to the closest abortion provider, over an hour’s drive away, she was told that the pregnancy was just beyond 14 weeks—too far along for this particular clinic to care for her.

The ordeal repeats itself—saving more money for a more expensive procedure farther away, in a bigger city. A longer drive, more gas money, more time away from work and from her daughter. She is days beyond 19 weeks this time, and again too far along for this second clinic. This clinic, however, is part of a national network. She needs their help, as now she must find funding, drive for hours across state lines, spend two days and two nights away from her daughter, and put her trust in a doctor and a hospital that are unknown to her.

I meet her in my clinic. She is now 22 weeks pregnant. She tells me that she came with her father, and that her mother is watching her daughter. She can’t believe how much traffic there is, how long it takes to travel such a short distance. She can’t think about the days she is missing at work and how much her pay will be docked. She wants an IUD, which I can provide without cost to her through a generous donor. We talk about what will happen the next day. She will spend the night in a hotel room, with her father.

She doesn’t sleep much. The next day, she has no more questions for me. The procedure is uneventful, but I am angry. Angry that she had to come all this way, and that she has a long drive ahead of her before she can see her little girl again.

I see her father in the recovery room. The look of relief on his face makes my anger melt away momentarily. I am grateful that she had him in her life, and that he could be with her. He thanks me and shakes my hand firmly as his daughter rests. We strategize about when to leave so that they may beat the traffic.

It shouldn’t have to be this hard. Our patients deserve better.