When Anna first read about the Arizona Supreme Court reinstating an 1864 law banning all abortions except when a mother’s life is at risk, she sent the article to her partner with an angry text.
“I was like, ‘God, this makes me so mad,’” she said.
She also decided to take a pregnancy test, just in case. Her period was a few days late, which she figured was because of her new birth control pills.
“I just want to make sure before anything goes into effect,” said Anna, 24, who declined to give her last name. “Thank God I did.”
Days later, she found herself in the Camelback Family Planning, discussing her options for an abortion.
The April 9 ruling set off a political hurricane, with both President Biden and former President Trump weighing in and Arizona legislators devolving into chaos over whether to repeal the ban before it goes into effect June 8. But at a Phoenix abortion clinic, in the eye of the debate, it has been business as usual.
On Wednesday, Dr. Barbara Zipkin breezed into an examination room carrying Scooter, her emotional support dog. Although she lives in Sherman Oaks, Zipkin flies to Arizona most weeks, staying at her sister’s house while working three to five days at the Camelback clinic.
The doctor, who said she is “somewhere between 40 and death,” recalls the moment in 1973 when Roe vs. Wade took effect: she was on a plane returning to medical school, and she thought to herself, “This is what I’m going to do.” She worked for years as an OB-GYN in Los Angeles, specializing in genetics and performing a lot of second trimester abortions.
“But there are enough providers in L.A.,” she said. “Arizona is unique.”
In the exam room, Zipkin walked Anna through her options — a medication abortion, which the patient had previously experienced with a difficult recovery, or a surgical procedure. Then Zipkin recited a state-mandated “silly consent” form, adding her own caveats to each point.
“Consent says the state of Arizona wants you to believe that there are alternatives to abortion. Well, that’s all well and good, but it’s not really true, because when you’re in this position, you really only have two options. One is carry it and the other is don’t carry it,” Zipkin said. “Adoption and all that — that comes after. You’re either carrying this or you’re not, and it still affects you.”
Anna said she’d always paid attention to the national conversation around abortion, as a woman and especially as an Arizonan. Anna said she had started taking birth control pills within a week of getting pregnant. As a 24-year-old who lives with roommates, she doesn’t consider herself financially able to care for a child.
“It’s just not the situation I want for myself, or my children in the future. I want a two-parent household in a stable home, or a stable situation,” Anna said. “I just don’t know that I’m in that right now.”
After her 10-minute consultation with Zipkin, Anna scheduled an appointment for the following week, when she would decide whether to have a medicated or surgical abortion.
After answering Anna’s questions, Zipkin offered her last bit of guidance: “Before I forget, because I have the attention span of a gnat — vote!”
Abortion is likely to top voters’ concerns in Arizona, where state legislators have yet to vote on a proposed bill repealing the ban.
In the sunny plaza between the two state Capitol chambers, protesters on both sides of the debate milled about Wednesday, some wearing bright orange T-shirts in support of Arizona for Abortion Access, and others in shirts depicting baby’s feet and proclaiming “Choose life.”
Uncertainty at the clinic
Back at the Camelback clinic, staff members gathered in the break room, decorated with posters and handmade thank-you cards, including one with a uterus drawn in place of a “Y.” They discussed what could happen after June 8, and the clinic’s founder, Dr. Gabrielle Goodrick, sought to provide clarity.
She’s hopeful that a constitutional amendment guaranteeing abortion access will be on the November ballot — activists with Arizona for Abortion Access say they have gathered enough signatures.
“People were pretty nervous and stressed that they’re not going to have a job until November,” Goodrick said.
For a clinic rocked by Supreme Court decisions, it has become adept at weathering changes, Goodrick said. A ruling comes down, the staff adjusts its routines and schedules and continues to provide abortions with new limitations, which sometimes includes referring patients to clinics in California or Nevada.
The constant fluctuations have had their toll, though. The clinic, which Goodrick opened in 1999, usually averages about 350 patients a month. That total dropped in 2022 amid patient confusion over what would happen in the wake of Roe vs. Wade being overturned. Her small staff of 12 shrank to six, Goodrick said, as workers grew tired “from the stress of just not knowing.”
The doctor and her staff had just gotten into the swing of their new routine when the state Supreme Court ruling came down.
“The patients are more anxious,” Goodrick said. “It causes what the Republicans want, which is mayhem.”
But this time, she hopes, will be different.
“We just have to get to Nov. 25,” Goodrick said, referring to the date that a constitutional amendment, if approved, would take effect.
Confident that the political fight will turn in her favor, Goodrick has opened the clinic’s doors to media from around the globe, who’ve descended on Arizona to chronicle the latest front in a nationwide battle over abortion.
Nurses wearing “abortion is healthcare” T-shirts moved deftly around the journalists, whom they’ve grown accustomed to filling their workplace the past week. On their lunch break, the staff crowded into the break room, bickering over Supreme Court justices.
“Which one’s worse — [Clarence] Thomas or [Samuel] Alito?,” one asked.
Sitting at a folding table laden with snacks, Dr. Jessica Holmes peered at the clinic’s schedule on her laptop.
“Are you doing through June, or only the first eight days?” Holmes asked.
“No, we’ll go through June,” Goodrick answered briskly.
Opposing forces of optimism
Standing on the sidewalk a few yards from the clinic door, antiabortion activists were similarly optimistic about the future of Arizona’s abortion law.
“We accept it as a victory and we’re very excited,” said Matt Engelthaler, 49, who has protested abortions since he was a teenager, when he first joined his parents to pray outside clinics. “But we also realize that changing laws isn’t what’s gonna do anything, it’s just changing hearts. That’s what we pray for.”
Engelthaler fingered rosary beads as he held a sign that says “Choose life.” A Catholic, he said he prayed the rosary “for the moms, dads and the babies,” and another prayer for the abortion clinic’s workers, “that they can understand the travesty of what they’re doing and turn away from it.”
A passing car honked, and the driver stuck his middle finger in the air at the protesters.
“People just don’t know how to do the peace sign correctly,” Engelthaler said with a laugh.
A few minutes later, another car honked and the driver gave a thumbs up.
By the clinic door, three volunteers wearing bright, rainbow-colored vests escorted patients from their cars into the clinic, blocking their view of the sidewalk protesters with large, rainbow umbrellas. Michael Bublé played on a nearby speaker, ready to drown out any protester’s megaphone.
“When they go loud, we go louder,” said one escort, who declined to give her name. She said her group of volunteers would continue serving at the clinic until they’re told to stop.
One of the patients, a 26-year-old from Phoenix, said the escorts’ music lifted her spirits on an otherwise bleak day. She took Scooter into her arms and, stroking the dog’s back, told the doctor that she found out she was pregnant two days after the state Supreme Court decision.
“It has just been draining, in that sense of like, wow — this would happen this week,” the patient said.
She said that as Christians, her family vehemently opposes abortions and would support her if she decided to have a baby. The woman said she and her partner decided to keep the abortion private.
“It’s definitely confusing and emotional, considering, like, my upbringing,” she said. But referring to the escorts outside who welcomed her, she added, “it’s also encouraging, in a sense, because you do feel this community.”
