Uppercase Woman

R.I.P. Dr. Tiller

I've been trying since last night to write how I feel about the tragic loss of Dr. Tiller. I attempted to post my thoughts on Twitter, but I wasn't clear at all, and I confused people. I just can't quite calm down enough to formulate my thoughts.

If you haven't read about Dr. George Tiller's death, here are the facts. Dr. Tiller is one of perhaps three doctors in the entire country that performs third trimester abortions. He lived in Wichita, Kansas, as had many other generations of his family. On Sunday, he was serving as an usher at his church when a man walked into the church lobby and shot him once, killing him. His wife was in the sanctuary at the time of his death. This wasn't the first time Dr. Tiller had been shot: in 1993, he was shot by a woman in both arms. In 1986, his clinic was bombed. His clinic was routinely vandalized, including the most recent event where someone clogged up his gutters causing severe water damage to the clinic. He's suffered through protests at his home, his church, and his office his entire professional career. His children have been harassed. But he never stopped providing what he considered to be a critical service for women.

I have only a loose personal connection to Dr. Tiller. As a child, my mother and I often drove from Albuquerque, New Mexico to visit my grandparents in St. Joseph, Illinois. My mother had a friend in Wichita, Kansas, so we often stopped there for a respite and a visit for a day or two. My mom's friend had a daughter my age, who I thought was the coolest girl ever (she played me a Bill Cosby record!). This daughter, once she grew up and became a young woman, spent many years working for Dr. Tiller, so I've always noted the violence and attacks against him and worried about her safety. Although she quit working for him in the recent past, I still paid attention as an advocate of choice.

Then, of course, I had my situation with the boys. Suddenly, the work of Dr. Tiller took on far more meaning to me than just a pure issue of choice.

I was technically only hovering on the border of the third trimester when my pregnancy was terminated, but I was extremely lucky that my doctor even knew how to perform an intact dilation and extraction procedure -- much less was actually willing to DO one (oh, and of course, in 2004, it was LEGAL). At the time I had no understanding of just how lucky I was, but looking back on it now I see a bit of God's grace in that moment. While other options were available, of course, none of them were as safe for me and most carried a strong risk of my losing my uterus. But as luck would have it, my life was saved, and Tori was able to grow up in my body and become the beautiful girl I have today.

Dr. Tiller was the only person in his state that performed a variation of the procedure that saved my life. In fact, he was the only doctor in the entire middle of the country that did that procedure. His loss will cause more than just grief for his family and friends; his loss will quite possibly cause the death of women like me. It will certainly cause unnecessary pain and grief.

I'm trying hard not to go off into tangents, like the outrageous hypocrisy of MURDERING Dr. Tiller in the name of "saving lives." Or how enraging I find the argument that babies matter more than women, how I feel that at the heart of that argument is really the possibly male babies that matter. Or the fact that the crowing of joy on the internet (twitter in particular) at Dr. Tiller's death makes me sick to my stomach in a way that makes me want to shuck off being American. I don't want to get into all of that, although that is all swirling around my brain right now.

The thing that I find the most terrifying is this: that there are people that believe killing doctors is the RIGHT THING TO DO. Doctors that provide critical medical services. And I find myself filled with fear.

I have made the choice to be an advocate about this issue and what happened to me. I've taken into account the risk that my family faces by my doing so -- I'd be easy to find if someone wanted to choose harassing me as a way to make a statement about choice. I know this.

But when I mentioned my doctor's name in the blog -- as a way to tout his awesomeness -- I never took into account the fact that someone could think that killing him would be a way to save the lives of babies. Admittedly, my doctor does not run a practice that solely does abortions. He's an obstetrician. He brings babies into the world, most of the time. What happened to me was rare enough in his medical experience that he described the day of my surgery as one of the worst in his medical career.  He is, overall, a life bringer, not a life ender. But sometimes, he is also a life SAVER. You are reading this because of him.

My doctor is not only a great doctor, but an amazing person. He lights up the room when he enters, and his warmth and kindness is... well, spectacular in a anyone, let alone a doctor. I mean, the man goes to Africa to help women by performing fistula repairs for his VACATION. We, as patients, are lucky to have him.

This, too, is how many described Dr. Tiller.

To think that someone could pick up a gun and decide to end the life of Dr. Tiller is unimaginable. To think that someone could do that to my doctor as well is horrid. To worry, now, that perhaps I put my doctor at risk by sharing his name? Scares the fucking pants off me.

I realize my fears are self-centered, and I want to say again how sorry I am for the friends and family of Dr. Tiller. What they are suffering now -- the loss of a loved family member, amid the cheers of many in the pro-life movement (note: I did NOT say all) -- has got to be insurmountable.

But this crime feels personal to me. I feel it in my heart, and in my bones. I am angry and sad and horrified and terrified and I want to GET UP and fucking DO SOMETHING right now, something to celebrate this man's life and to shake my fist in the faces of those rejoicing and say FUCK YOU! You will not terrorize us into silence! We will not go away! We will not lay down and take this kind of act of domestic terrorism! We will fight you for the right to control our bodies!

But all I can do is write this post while tears run down my face and pray for the family of Dr. Tiller, and the women who will now suffer because of his loss. I will pray that others are not emboldened by this successful act of terrorism (because that is just what it is) and take similar actions. I will pray that this horrid act calls the kind of negative attention to the pro-life movement that it deserves. I will pray that those of us that support choice across the board will be galvanized by this to stay active, even when we supposedly have a pro-choice President. And I will pray that I can set aside my own anger and sadness about this event to remember that not all that call themselves pro-life think murdering doctors is a good idea, and that many people that are opposed to choice are actually good, decent human beings. Because right now, that thought is hard to hold on to. It really, really is.

PS: Julie has some great links posted where we can take action. Please check out her post today.

PPS: The friend that I mentioned that worked for Dr. Tiller has also linked to some great places you can donate in honor of Dr. Tiller at her blog. Please check it out.

The M Word

Yesterday Susan left this comment on my blog:

"Call it what you want to make yourself sleep at night Cecily, but partial birth abortion is murder. It's not a political issue...it is a human rights issue. For someone who is "constantly sticking up for the little guy", you sure could care less about the life of a innocent child. Delete if you want...the truth still remains."

I did delete the comment, but then I thought about it a bit and kind of wished I hadn't. Then I got really fired up; I could see from her IP address that she'd never been to my blog before yesterday, and that she'd never read more than a couple entries. So it was clear to me that she doesn't know my story (she didn't even click over to my "about" page), so she doesn't realize that she just called me a murderer. Then I got REALLY mad.

But in talking to my friend Dave, I calmed down. Dave, in his infinite wisdom, pointed out that Susan did NOT in fact call me a murderer; she said partial birth abortion is murder and there is, in fact, a difference. So I will cut her some slack. But as I prepare to watch Sarah Palin and her "I'll council rape victims to choose life" debate tonight, I find that I do have something I need to say.

So, Susan, let me say this to you. Since you clearly don't know my story, you may not realize that my life was saved by a surgical procedure that falls under the umbrella of the partial birth abortion ban. It happened four years ago this month, before the ban was upheld by the Supreme Court. You probably don't know about my sons Nicholas and Zachary, and how badly I wanted them, and how much I miss them today. You certainly don't know about my harrowing hospital experience, my severe preeclampsia, my near brush with death, or how my doctor cried while he performed the procedure that saved my life and killed my surviving son.

You certainly don't know about how, alone in my room that night feeling like nothing more than an empty womb, I cried and cried in a far corner of the maternity ward, away from the happy new moms. I was so lonely and sad; even the nurses stayed away from me. You don't know about the months of horribly post-partum depression, the agony I felt when my milk came in with no babies to nurse, the desire to start using drugs again to kill the pain despite my years of sobriety, or the fear that plagued me through the pregnancy with my daughter.

You don't know how every single time my daughter giggles, I thank God for saving my life so she could be born. You don't know how much, every day, I miss my sons and wish my daughter could know them.

So I'll forgive you for showing up here, on my blog, and issuing bold statements about a subject you know nothing about. But do know this: I sleep at night just fucking fine.

Dilemma

So, my period is nearly two weeks late at this point. Today my boobs hurt and I felt some nausea at the end of the day.

Yeah.

No, I haven't taken a pregnancy test. I will probably pick one up tomorrow. Why have I waited? Because COME ON. There are about a million reasons why I couldn't be pregnant (or, perhaps, several million missing reasons why, since male factor was the primary cause of our infertility. One of those reasons is the rarity with which Charlie and I engage, ahem, in "the act" that causes pregnancy. (Don't feel too sorry for him, we engage in plenty of other fun things). Another is the fact that we were told that Charlie's sperm are actually coated with an antibody that prohibits them from penetrating the egg. Then there's the whole unprotected sex for six years with no spontaneous pregnancies.

In other words, it's extremely fucking unlikely.

And guess what? I hope that I am NOT pregnant.

Hard to believe, after working so hard for so many years to have a baby. I know I joke about it, but all kidding aside, I would not be totally opposed to having a second child. Not at all. I dreamed about having a second baby all through Tori's first year of life, about how awesome it would be to have two, to not raise her as an only child. But even so, I do not want to be pregnant now. Not because I don't want a child. Nope.

So, what's the reason? I don't want to fucking die.

Before we discuss the risk to me, let's talk about the risk to the baby. I've been taking medication for my migraines that is seriously contraindicated in pregnancy. Then there is the fact that I'm now over 40, and my eggs are probably crap at this point. So the baby could be in bad shape for a lot of reasons (you know, if there was a baby. Which there isn't. We hope.).

But worst of all is my risk factors. If it was just the Preeclampsia (JUST!), it might be feasible. But combine a history of preeclampsia (with both pregnancies, remember, although unlike with the twins with Tori it was very mild) with placenta abruption, and you've got a messy fucking cocktail of crap.

In other words, the chances of my having a successful healthy pregnancy ending in a healthy baby are pretty fucking tiny. Which means, were I actually pregnant now, I'd have to make a choice. Do I press forward and hope for the best? Or do I do the sane thing--the thing the doctors would tell me to do--and terminate the pregnancy?

Perhaps you think I'm exaggerating the situation. Maybe you've forgotten the doctors that visited me after the twins were born and suggested I immediately get my tubes tied. And that was just after the twins! After Tori, I got loads of crap about how I should NEVER. GET. PREGNANT. AGAIN.

God willing, the metformin is just fucking with my cycle and my period will come along soon enough (most likely? At BlogHer). God willing, I will not be put in the position to choose.

Because honestly, I do not know what I would do. I really don't.

But wouldn't it be JUST LIKE GOD to put me in that position?

Unbalanced

So, I've been fuming ranting and raving stewing considering the whole last 48 hours on this blog.

I've been thinking about what would happen if any of the candidates actually DID come and read my blog post about losing Nicholas and Zachary and why it made me even more a believer in keeping abortion safe and legal (and rare). Then I started to think about how it would be if they read the comments, and then what I posted the next day, and I began to feel, well, frankly... embarrassed.

I'm not embarrassed by you guys--your comments were fine. I'm embarrassed at my behavior, at my cattiness, and at my reactionary response to the few people that asked me that simple question: why didn't I get a c-section? Of course the answer seems obvious, on the surface, either to those of us that have been through a similar situation, or have watched women like us go through it, or have a medical background, or have the Google MD that comes from years of infertility and loss.

But you know what? That does NOT describe everyone who reads this blog any more. There are a lot of people who come here who never had any trouble conceiving (and some who haven't even yet tried) who might honestly just not know the answer to that simple question: why didn't I have a c-section?

Instead of being calm and rational, and what I like to call the "Good Cecily" that handles discussions of the loss of my twins in a reasoned and sensible manner and just answers the question asked, I instead reacted to what I perceived to be the unasked questions or the unstated judgments. I didn't hear a simple "Why didn't you get a c-section?" I heard, "Bitch, why didn't you try harder to save your son's life and have a c-section?"

And you know what? NOBODY SAID THAT. I leaped to conclusions--many of us did--and instead of responding, I reacted. I got angry. I behaved badly. I engaged in an email debate that got ugly. And worse, when the person I engaged with extended what might have been an olive branch I could have possibly grasped onto (admittedly, it was a small branch, slightly wilted, without any actual leaves), instead of trying to bring peace to our discussion, I set the fucking branch on fire.

Additionally, I turned my back on the 110 supportive and positive comments I got and instead focused on the single commenter that was negative. How rotten is that? How ungrateful? How small minded and stupid?

I can't give a reasonable excuse for why this happened; I'd love to blame the hormones (seriously, this is the worst PMS I've ever experienced, and WHERE THE FUCK IS MY PERIOD ALREADY?) but that's not the only reason. In general lately I have been focusing on the dark and not able to see the light. I find that when my surface is scratched these days, what is underneath is bitterness and fear. I'm not letting love in. I'm not letting God in. I'm not letting the light in.

So I'm not sure I should be representing ANYONE to our candidates.

I want to apologize to those of you that asked a simple question and got shouted down. Please, forgive me for not just answering what you asked and instead assuming you were saying something else entirely (and even if that WAS what you were thinking, that is SO not my business). I hope you will continue to come here, and continue to ask questions, and continue to express your point of view even if it differs from mine and from many readers of this blog.

Now, please don't give me a bunch of accolades and tell me how awesome I am for saying this. I'm not big-hearted, or brave, or tolerant, even, particularly. Truth is, I'm mostly kind of an asshole and sometimes I let it show here in the blog. This was one of those times. I'm working on it.

Now. Back to the puppies.

Juno, or why adoption isn't cute

So it seems like every movie I've gone to see lately has been morbidly depressing. I Am Legend was horribly sad (I know, I just didn't expect that); Atonement, of course, I knew would be, but it was so much tougher than I thought (plus now I'm having nightmares about drowning in subway tunnels). I saw P.S. I Love You which was a MUCH better movie than it had a right to be (and a MUCH better movie than book--the book was awful, I couldn't even finish it--) but still--sad (Hilary Swank was horribly miscast, but did ok anyway).

So, when my mom was desperate for some Tori time this weekend and Charlie and I reviewed our movie options, he was excited to see Juno. This isn't shocking--the reviews are crazy good--but I was feeling pretty full of trepidation. I've read a lot about it; between reading about the very interesting woman that wrote it, and reading the stories of women that have been through similar experiences, and the stories of women that have adopted children, I wasn't sure I was up for a comedy about adoption. Because in the last four years that I've been reading blogs by women who were going through the adoption process, the one thing that has been clear to me is that IT IS NOT FUCKING FUNNY.

But we went.

Ten minutes into the movie it was clear that it was going to be cute. And by cute I mean over-the-top aren't we so fucking clever cute. The dialog was witty, snappy, and utterly and completely unbelievable--there is not a single teenager on the planet that talks the way Juno does. But still, I always enjoy hearing words put together well, so I was able to enjoy that aspect of the movie.

It was my understanding that abortion wasn't discussed at all in the movie, but that's not true. In fact, the first thing Juno does is call someone "to procure a hasty abortion." But she changes her mind because the baby has fingernails. For the first couple of days after I saw the movie I did not see this as an anti-choice movie--I thought, basically, that Juno was presented a choice and made a choice (and hey--I am ALL about choice). But now, after a few days away from the cuteness, I feel like it's actually a damned sly anti-choice statement--and that kind of pisses me off. Not only because of the whole "fingernails" thing, but because the whole movie makes the process of adoption look so easy and simple. Ug.

Anyway. Throughout the movie, I couldn't stop thinking about Kateri, a birth mom, and about this post (warning--tough read if you are an adoptive mom), were she talks about being:

"De-mothered. No one’s mother. Hit the reset button, reboot and start again. Motherhood erased. That’s how it was supposed to be."

It wasn't until nearly four years later that she felt the full pain of her choice:

"The anesthetic had worn off, and I was raw, naked, freshly separated. My body unleashed the primal force of loss so that I could not speak, I could not make a sound. I could not sob. I could not think. The hall of mirrors collapsed in shards stained with the blood of my psyche. Within a month I was suicidal."

In the last moments of the movie, this was all I could think about. Juno is happily playing guitar, her life is fine, and the baby is happy. All is well. Right?

I also couldn't help but think about Dawn and her experiences with her daughter and what she refers to as the "primal wound" her daughter suffered from leaving her birth mother. Now, Dawn has one of the best open adoption stories I've heard of, and it's clear that her daughter is wildly loved and loves in return (I know this because I got to meet them), yet she still talks about how much loss her daughter feels:

“When you were a little tiny baby,” I said and her sobbing quieted but she was still choking on the tears that kept running down her face. “When you were first born you stayed with Jessica in the hospital for three days. And then you came home to us and Madison, you were very sad then. Sometimes you cried a lot. I think it’s because you missed Jessica so much.”

It was like … I wish I could show you the look on her face. The floodgates opened back up but she had such … relief on her face. She was still crying, mind you. She cried for more than 45 minutes.

“It must have been scary for you,” I said. “You didn’t know me. You didn’t know Daddy. You didn’t know Noah. And you missed Jessica. You wondered where she was. I know she missed you, too, you have really missed each other.”

So, sure, in the movie the baby was in a good and loving home. I mean, my heart was with Jennifer Garner's character as the infertile mother throughout the movie (oh, she was perfect, I tell you). But I could not set all of my second-hand knowledge aside and just enjoy this movie. I worry, too, that all those teenage girls there in the theater with us, the ones that giggled as I wept when Jennifer Garner's character got down on her hands and knees at the mall to feel the baby move in Juno's belly, that all those girls will now have taken a big old swallow of the "adoption kool-aid" as Kateri calls it. That if they end up pregnant they will think it is just that easy; Juno at one point says she just wants to "squirt the kid out and get on with her life."

If only it were that easy. So, kids, view with caution. For normal people this movie may be light fare. For the rest of us? Not so much.

Tactician Vs. Idealist

I had a fascinating conversation recently with my friend Geoffrey. We were talking about voting, and how committed we both are to the process--and how differently we vote. Geoffrey is an idealist; after voting for Ralph Nader in 2000, he felt badly about voting as an idealist and decided to vote for John Kerry in 2004, even though he had great reservations about Kerry's record. He's decided this time to vote his heart and not for the most "viable" candidate. He doesn't much care for any of the front runners; was not a huge fan of Bill Clinton and is not at all enamored of Hillary. He says the only guy he likes remotely is Kucinich.

When I take those online polls to find out which candidate matches my views the most, Kucinich is also the one that rises to the top. I'm not surprised; he's clearly the most liberal and socialist minded candidate running for office this time around. But there is no way in hell I'm voting for him.

(I won't be discussing the Republican nominees today. Because, like, why? That is what it is. Thank God Giuliani is losing so far is all I can say.)

I like Obama. I find him invigorating and inspiring, I love the passion he presents and the way he makes me feel that odd, burning sensation behind my breastbone I identify as hope and optimism and national pride. But I probably won't be voting for him either.

I want to like John Edwards. I love the fact that he continues to discuss the truth about America, and the fact that there are two different nations (one poor, one rich). I admire his wife's courage, and I have to admit that I love the fact that they are most likely our compatriots in assisted reproduction. But I find the idea of his 13,000 square foot house disconcerting (seriously, does anyone other than those people with the 14 children need that much space?), and he's just too... I don't know. Pretty.

I find that I am like a lot of other Democrats that feel on the fence about Hillary Clinton. I'm opposed to the idea of political dynasties. I think Hillary is too perfect as a politician, and maybe a little out of touch with being a normal person.

But damn it, I just love her.

I know all her issues. But I will most likely vote for her for three reasons. One, I believe she might win, and I'm a tactical voter rather than an idealism voter. Two, I want, oh so desperately, to see the light in Tori's eyes when she grows up knowing that she could be president. Three, I want, oh so desperately, to see the light in my eyes when I know, finally, in my heart, that a woman can be president.

For a long time I believed that I wanted a woman president for Tori. But damn it, I want one for me. I want to feel like I belong to this nation, for fuck's sake. And President Hillary? With First Husband Bill? Yeah, that totally works for me.

So how about you? Are you an idealist, or a tactician? Where does your heart lie as we approach Super Tuesday?

Just A Little More

I thought I was done. After writing that last post, reading and responding to all of the comments (well, the ones without fake email addresses anyway), I thought I had nothing more to say on the issue. But apparently, I was wrong.

At church yesterday (yes, I go to church), the pastor asked if anyone had joys or concerns, as he does every week. My hand went up in the air, almost without me meaning it to, and I spoke about the news of the week and how difficult it had been.

I spoke about my anger. Not anger, actually--more like intense rage about this issue. I asked for the ability to find forgiveness for the five men that made a decision about my life and my body, even though they gave no thought to me or my life or my worth as a human being. I said that I wanted to be an activist and an advocate, but I knew that real change comes only from being in a place of quiet hope and having an open heart, and I don't yet have that. I found myself shaking and crying as I asked for the ability to forgive.

I was more upset than I realized.

I'm willing to talk about this until I'm blue in the face, because every time I do, someone else tells me that they didn't realize the implications of this issue, and they've found that they've changed their minds. Truth is, those of us who have had a late term abortion often don't want to talk about how that pregnancy ended. We say, euphemistically, that we've "lost" the baby or babies. Only women who have gone something similar know what that might mean. That's why I talk about it.

But sometimes it's hard. Each time I post about this some new person says that I killed my baby (or babies, because they didn't actually READ what I wrote, and don't know that one twin had already died), or says they just don't understand why I didn't deliver the surviving baby and give him "a chance," or even graciously acknowledge that it's just so sad that I was pressured into making this decision by my doctors.

Over the two years I've been speaking openly about this, I've developed a bit of a shell to protect myself. But sometimes, when I'm not being careful, something in me slips and I realize that I'm absolutely fucking furious. I just cannot believe that people don't get it. I cannot accept that FIVE MEN made a decision for everyone with a uterus in this country. I find myself looking at my daughter, knowing that my mother had preeclampsia, I had preeclampsia, and it's highly likely that she, too, will have to battle that disease. I want to run to Washington and stand in front of the court and shriek my rage at the building. I want to curse those men, wish terrible things on the women in their lives, just so they fucking GET IT.

But I won't.

Instead, I will pray, and pray furiously, that I can continue to keep my heart open to those that disagree with me. I will continue to explain what happened to me, over and over and over. I would do it on Good Morning America if they'd let me. I want people to hear my story, and to rethink what they believe. I want to fight to keep choice open to all women, everywhere.

One anonymous commenter accused those of us that are Pro-Choice of "hiding" behind our tragedies, of using our tragedies to keep abortion legal. Of course we are! No one--NO ONE--thinks using abortion as birth control is a good idea. But when you start placing limits, when you start CRIMINALIZING A MEDICAL PROCEDURE, suddenly there are no doctors willing to perform that procedure, and then there is no fucking choice, and women start dying. You cannot claim to be Pro-Life and then devalue the lives of women so much! You just can't.

The scripture lesson at church this week was John 21:1-19. Basically (and forgive my paraphrasing) it discusses Jesus' third post-crucifixion appearance, in which he asks Peter to tend his sheep three times. According to my pastor, in the original Greek Jesus first asks him to attend the lambs, then the older sheep, and then, as my pastor put it "the big old sheep."

If you ask me, that makes it clear that Jesus wanted all of us protected. It's doesn't say just the lambs, or the lambs above everyone else. It says, right there in the bible, that Jesus wanted "a big old sheep" like me protected too. And this law does just the opposite.

HEALTH vs. LIFE: Trying to clear things up

Healthy discussion going on over in the comments of my last post (person with fake emails and all caps not withstanding). But the core of the issue is the line between life and health and who gets to choose.

First off, let's talk about some different terms.

Technically, the term "Partial Birth Abortion" does not apply to any currently known and used medical procedure, as Maura stated in her comments. However, it is "assumed" that they are usually referring to the procedure known as a D&X.

D&X refers to a procedure called an Intact Dilation and Extraction. The benefits on this procedure are many, including the fact that having an intact fetus allows the family to view the remains if they choose. Remember, also, that this method is used often when a baby has already died. And, as Aurelia pointed out, "is quite often needed for babies with hydrocephalus or severe cranio-facial disabilities who cannot be delivered vaginally with their skull and brain intact."

According to this survey, this procedure is performed in 0.17% of all abortions. In other fucking words, HARDLY EVER.

D&E is a different procedure, a Dilation and Evacuation. This procedure is done between 12 and 20 weeks gestation. In this procedure, the fetus is usually, well, separated to allow for easier evacuation of the uterus. 11% of all abortions occur in the second trimester, according to the same study above.

I hope that clears up some confusion for folks about the terms.

Now, the problem with the ban is that the language is NOT CLEAR about which procedure is being banned. Part of the issue is the fact that there are many medical terms that fall into this category--this New York Times article refers to both "intact dilation and evacuations" AND "intact dilations and extractions". The line between the two procedures is very small--and doctors now face, as Maura mentioned, CRIMINAL prosecution for crossing that line--and sometimes they don't know what procedure a woman need until they've actually started the surgery.

Do you see the problem? They are taking a medical decision out of the hands of the people involved--the patient AND the doctor.

Personally, I do not know which procedure I had. At 22.5 weeks gestation (when my pregnancy ended--and that is based on my last menstrual period, remember, not the date of implantation, so the fetuses were really 20.5 week along) I was right on the line between trimesters. Plus the fact that there where two fetus (one barely alive, and one dead) could have impacted which surgery I had.

Other than having a medical termination, the options open to someone in my position are usually either a) emergency c-section, and b) induced delivery.

My doctor believed--given my particular circumstances--that it would be better for both my short term and long term health to not cut open my body if at all possible. My health was in a precarious state, and the option of a medical termination was the fastest, safest, and least complicated procedure to use. It also preserved the health of my uterus for future pregnancies.

Also, my doctor (you know, the man in the room with me, the one with a medical degree and my chart in hand? that guy) knew that inducing me, with my insanely high blood pressure, would be likely to cause me to have a stroke.

Please remember that even if my twins had both been alive, THEY WOULD NOT HAVE SURVIVED. Do not tell me they would have, because you are wrong. There have been NO DOCUMENTED CASES of babies born that early surviving--I don't care what pro-life websites you send me links to that say differently. THEY ARE LYING.

Trust me. Don't you think that I wanted those babies and would have done anything I could to save them? And don't you think that my doctor--who knew about my struggles to get pregnant and called the day of my surgery "the worst day of my professional career"--would have told me if that was possible?

Lastly, let's discuss, using me as an example, the difference between HEALTH and LIFE.

Where do you draw the line? Was my life actually at risk at the moment they chose to terminate the pregnancy? Well, my blood pressure was going higher and higher and they weren't able to get it under control with the medications they had available. My kidneys has begun to shut down and I'd stopped producing urine. But I was alive. I could have remained alive, possibly, under those circumstances for a while. Maybe they could have pushed it until I actually began to have seizures. Or maybe until I had a stroke. Or, maybe, since even after a stroke and having seizures I would have still been alive, maybe they would have to wait until after I felt into a coma. But wait! If I'm in a coma, I'm still alive, right? Even if my brain has been irreparably damaged, I'm still ALIVE. Right?

So, my point is, sure-- the "Partial Birth Abortion Ban" has a provision for the LIFE of the mother. But there is NO PROVISION FOR HER HEALTH. Or the health of her uterus, or her future children.

To sum it all up, if I hadn't had the procedure that I had, Nicholas, Zachary, me AND Tori would all be dead.

Got it?

With A Sinking Heart

I don't know why I'm surprised. But I am. I'm shocked, horrified, and dismayed.

It's finally begun. The long war waged against women's lives has finally scored a huge, awful, horrid victory.

Thank you, fucking Supreme Court, for wishing me dead. Thank you so fucking much.

I'm actually crying as I write this. I just can't believe it. God. Let me remind you: there is NO EXEMPTION for the health of the mother. NONE.

Fuck.

You don't want to read this (and I don't want to write it)

I've been really haunted the last few days after watching Zinnea's film offering in the International Infertility Film Festival. After struggling with infertility, Zinnea finally got pregnant in 2004, only to discover that her daughter had a fatal birth defect called Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia (CDH). Instead of terminating (as her doctors recommended), Zinnea and her husband decided to go to term. Mia Marvelle passed away six days after she was born.

In her film, Zinnea includes the incredibly private and deeply wrenching images of her holding her daughter and weeping. And photos of she and her husband holding their daughter after she's passed and saying goodbye.

After watching the film, I found myself gasping for air and sobbing inconsolably. This isn't a shock; many, many things have made me cry here on the internets. So many of us have suffered and lost, and I've cried right along with many of you.

But I couldn't stop thinking about those photos. I couldn't sleep that night; they kept drifting into my mind and I would start to cry again. The strength of my reaction took me by surprise.

It wasn't until about 3am that I finally figured it out.

I was jealous.

Every time I think I've done all the processing I need to do about losing the boys, I find a new area that I haven't dealt with yet. Of course I'm not jealous of the horrific loss they suffered; what I'm envious of is the fact that they got to see their baby, to hold her, and to say goodbye.

I've had inklings about this before. A few months ago I allowed myself to wonder what, exactly, had happened to Nicholas and Zachary's bodies. But as soon as I had the thought, I shut it down. I wasn't ready.

And I'm still not ready. I don't have any desire, whatsoever, to again probe the grief that surrounds the loss of my sons. There's a lot of shame there, and anger, and guilt. Oh, God, so much guilt. But God doesn't agree, apparently. I am supposed to deal with it.

Not long after I lost the boys, I expressed my rage and anger here in this blog. I hurt some people in my anger and one person pointed out that others had lost "live babies" after all, so I shouldn't be---well, honestly, I'm not sure what I wasn't supposed to be. I guess I was being reminded to keep my grief in perspective. But I still feel pissed off that things went the way they went. I still feel ripped off. I feel like the randomness of the universe, the luck of the draw, or worse, "God's plan" doesn't make any fucking sense and is completely and utterly unfair. I don't care what others suffered. My "lot" in relation to the boys SUCKED.

Thinking about the day we lost the boys now, all I can remember is that it all happened so fucking fast. Remember, I went from going in for a routine anatomy scan to having to terminate the pregnancy in less than 24 hours. I was so ill that I didn't get to participate much in the decision making process. No one at the hospital said to me, "Yes, delivering your sons will be more risky, but at least you'll get to see them and hold them and say goodbye." No one said, "Do you want to make arrangements with a funeral home?"

Instead, they just said, "You are dying." This was all Charlie could hear--that not only was one son dead, and the other was dying, but so was his wife. No one came to him and said, "Have you thought about what you want done with their bodies?" All they said was "We have to terminate. NOW."

We were alone, afraid, and sick. Options weren't offered. I was the patient, not the boys. No consideration was made for Nicholas and Zachary.

Instead of getting to say goodbye, to look at their faces, I was just knocked out and the boys stripped from my body. I'm left with the shame and guilt of--God forgive me--treating my sons like standard medical waste. My sons. My boys.

I wish, oh, how I wish, that I'd done things differently. That I'd gotten them cremated and been able to scatter their tiny ashes. That even if it would have been awful, the worst pain in the universe, that I would have been able to see their faces just once.

I wonder if Zinnea sees reflections of Mia's face in her (living) daughter Naima? I often wonder if the boys would have looked like Tori does; if they would have scrunched up their noses like I do when I laugh, like she does, or if they would instead use their eyebrows like Charlie does. I know I wouldn't have been able to tell that from their tiny and unfinished faces at only 22 weeks gestation. But, oh, god. I wish I'd tried.

I know I'm one of the lucky ones, now. I do have a living child. So many of us don't. But this--this sadness--will never leave me, I'm afraid.

It's never over, is it? Even while I was sitting on my front porch last night, holding Tori, watching her extend her hand as she tried to reach up to the wind chimes Anne gave us, I felt the deep wound that the loss of the boys caused. Even while I find myself sinking deeper and deeper into joy because of Tori's magnificence, I still find myself the owner of a bruised and battered heart.

I guess I always will.

National Blog For Choice Day

Pro-choice bloggers are speaking out today about the right to choose. I've been thinking about this subject and how my feelings about abortion have changed since I had Tori.

There is no doubt that looking into Tori's face highlights for me exactly what is lost when a pregnancy is terminated. The pangs I feel when I think about my sons Nicholas and Zachary is tremendous; since Tori's arrival, I find myself thinking about them several times a day. How I wish that I'd had another alternative, some better medical treatment that could have prolonged that pregnancy without endangering me further so the boys could be here with me now, glorious and rambunctious at nearly two years old.

But then I look at Tori and I think about how her adorable and tiny body harbors an equally adorable and tiny uterus. And I think about how my mom had preeclampsia when she was pregnant with me, and how her mother probably had it with her children. There is evidence to support the fact that preeclampsia may be a hereditary disease, meaning that Tori has a chance of developing it with her (far, far in the future) pregnancies. And since there has been little in the way of improvement in the treatment of preeclampsia since my mother was pregnant with me nearly forty years ago--they just put her on hospital bed rest and gave her magnesium sulfate, just like they did with me and the twins--well...

I think that now, more than ever, I must fight to keep abortion SAFE, LEGAL, and RARE.

I hope and pray that no other woman is told that a much wanted pregnancy has to be terminated in order to survive. I don't want anyone, ever, to have to through what I went through. It sucks. It sucks ass in a big way. That day remains the worst day of my life, and I would give anything to prevent that horror from happening to someone else.

But it does happen. It happens all the time, and someday it might happen to my daughter. And I want, no, fuck that, I DEMAND that my daughter have the right to save her own life.

So I stand before you as a mother, as fiercely Pro Choice as ever. Giving birth to my daughter has only deepened and re-affirmed my resolve to fight for the right to control our bodies. For the lives of all of our daughters, I will continue to stand on the front lines of this battle.

Pro Child, Pro Family, Pro Choice. Rock on.

I Don't Know What To Think

Read.

Then discuss below.

Me? I have no idea what to think. Not being deaf or a dwarf, I'm not sure I have a right to an opinion. If I develop one later, I'll update here.

Thanks to MotherTalkers for the link.

Uncommon Bravery

I read Julia's latest post over at Uncommon Misconception with great interest. Julia and I are totally kindred spirits, both because of elements of our fertility history and because we're both writers and, of course, because I am so a skinny blond on the inside. Plus she is also the proud mama of an uncommonly beautiful little girl. Ahem.

Go on over and read it, and read her archives while you're at it. Done? Good.

Like me, Julia was faced with an unbearable decision to make about her son's life (read her testimony to the Texas State Legislature that tells the story here). Unlike me, her life wasn't at stake, other than her terribly broken heart. Like me, the prospect of delivering our children was unbearable--because they would have suffered unbearable pain and agony the entirety of their short lives. Mine because I was only 22 weeks pregnant and he was terribly, terribly small (being a twin) and hers because of a horrendous set of medical conditions.

She's been asked to tell her story again, this time in a book. And she's wondering if she should use her real name. Because a bunch of wingnuts in this country could consider harassing or even worse, killing her to be a rational and reasonable reaction to her having exercised her legal right to take the best care of her son she could.

And that makes me steaming, hopping mad.

I completely understand her fear. I've kept my last name and town a secret in this blog until very recently (Glamour blew my cover), at first because it seemed that everyone did, and then because after I lost the boys I was really afraid. Afraid that the people that sent me hate mail and left horrible comments here would show up to march outside my house, or to beat me senseless, or kill my dog.

Having an abortion is no longer something to just be ashamed of; it's something to keep secret for safety's sake. What if you employers find out? Your neighbors? The guy who sells you your coffee every day? No one wants to put themselves at risk, nor do we want to have to explain ourselves to outraged individuals who think they have some right to have a say in our lives.

If I were in Julia's shoes, I would use my real name. Because I believe that we need to rise above that fear and shame. Ms. Magazine is organizing a "We Had An Abortion" Campaign (you can sign the petition and put your name on the list here). I signed my name, not proudly, but honestly.

And most of all, we need to remind people that no one chooses an abortion easily. Every woman I know that has had one agonized over the decision the same way Julia and I did. And having Tori, now, I can see so much more clearly what I lost.

But I still know I made the right choice.

Julia will make whatever decision is right for her, and I will support her. I completely understand her motivation in keeping her name quiet (especially considering the redness of her state!). But she shouldn't have to worry about it, damn it. She did nothing wrong.

Chair Covers, Table Runners, and Fetus Pain, oh my

So, I have become the kind of person that owns a table runner. I don’t have anything against table runners, understand, I just never actually owned one before. But while I was at the store last night hunting for dining room chair covers (to hide cat damage on our wicker-backed chairs), I saw one with gorgeous shades of burgundy, green and gold, and I got all excited because our kitchen is burgundy-colored and our dining room is green, and it just… matched.

Not only do I not recognize my home, I no longer recognize myself.

Speaking of the dining room chair covers… I know these things are really hip right now, I mean they are right there in the dining room on Will & Grace. I had to buy beige ones cause they were the only ones that were short (the long style would have become fur-trimmed, and not in a good way, in my house) and not too expensive. But they look like paint drop cloths. Really well fitting drop cloths. I think they look that way on Will & Grace too. Weird. Oh, and um, are you supposed to iron them? Cause I don’t have an iron and they sure are wrinkled (I used the BEST PRODUCT EVER on them—Downy’s Wrinkle Releaser—and it helped a little).

I guess I just don’t get it.

But you didn’t tune in today to hear me talk about home improvement, did you? You all came here to see what I think about this. I know because so many of you have sent me links to various articles about it.

Go on, catch up. I’ll wait.

So.

I’m not surprised by the findings. But, and this is going to sound harsh, I don’t really care.

Yes, of course, I’m very relieved to know that my surviving son didn’t feel any pain during my dilation and extraction procedure—the one that saved my life, and ended his. But in my heart, I already knew this. I knew that any pain he did feel would be much less than what he would have suffered during labor and delivery (extremely premature babies have little fat padding to protect them during delivery) and the pain and panic he would feel during his last moments of life, spent struggling for breath.

But the larger truth is that any momentary pain my son suffered is negligible compared to the pain and discomfort I was suffering. Not to mention the emotional agony my death would have afflicted on my husband, my mother, Sarah, and all my other friends and loved ones had I died. Hell, it would have been less than the sadness my dog would have experienced at my loss. Or of the doctors treating me. Or the strangers in the internet that have followed my story.

OK, you say, that makes sense when the mother’s life is in danger. But what about the women that choose to have a late-term abortion (only 1.5% of all abortions, by the way), you know, on a whim (right, like that EVER happens)?

Well, the momentary pain of a not-yet-sentient fetus is STILL going to be less than a woman’s labor pains, particularly if she is forced to labor and deliver a baby she doesn’t want. Or the poverty she and the child will live in if she can’t support the two of them. Or the pain of blows inflicted on the mother by an abusive boyfriend or husband (yet another pregnant woman was killed by her boyfriend just a few weeks ago--remember, murder is the number one cause of death for pregnant women).

In other words—in my opinion—no matter what the science says, a woman’s life and safety trumps a baby’s life every time.

Of course many of you don’t agree with me. I have come to accept that. I’m curious, though—does this new study comfort you at all? Does it help you to know that there isn’t physical suffering happening during abortions? Or do you have just as many scientists saying that the study is wrong?

I’d like to know. BUT REMEMBER—this is SUCH an emotional issue—KEEP IT CIVIL. Respect each other’s opinions. Anyone not nice gets deleted immediately.

And anyone who would rather not talk about this can discuss table runners and chair covers, of course.

Snowflake Babies, Dominionism, Cultural Marxism and why I should stop reading the news

When I first heard President Bush refer to frozen embryos that are a product of IVF as "snowflake babies," I didn't pay it much mind. Obviously, he was using language to promote the idea that a frozen bundle of four to eight cells is actually a full fledged human being, and can go buy a car or run up a credit card like any good little American (but not a car from Ford!).

But as Maura recently said to me, it's creepy. It's clearly hinting that this administration is considering taking on the infertility industry; maybe they've taken a cue from the Pope.

Maura also sent me a link to this article in the current issue of Harper's. It chronicles the author's trip to the National Religious Broadcasters convention. One thing that stood out about the convention to the author was the fact that so many Christians sects were represented at this convention. Apparently, conservative Catholics, Pentcostal Christians, African-American Baptists and many others have set side their differences to promote the new doctrine called Dominionism. Here is explanatory quote from the article, which may be the most terrifying paragraph I've ever read:

"What the disparate sects of this movement, known as Dominionism, share is an obsession with political power. A decades-long refusal to engage in politics at all following the Scopes trial has been replaced by a call for Christian “dominion” over the nation and, eventually, over the earth itself. Dominionists preach that Jesus has called them to build the kingdom of God in the here and now, whereas previously it was thought that we would have to wait for it. America becomes, in this militant biblicism, an agent of God, and all political and intellectual opponents of America’s Christian leaders are viewed, quite simply, as agents of Satan. Under Christian dominion, America will no longer be a sinful and fallen nation but one in which the Ten Commandments form the basis of our legal system, Creationism and “Christian values” form the basis of our educational system, and the media and the government proclaim the Good News to one and all. Aside from its proselytizing mandate, the federal government will be reduced to the protection of property rights and “homeland” security. Some Dominionists (not all of whom accept the label, at least not publicly) would further require all citizens to pay “tithes” to church organizations empowered by the government to run our social-welfare agencies, and a number of influential figures advocate the death penalty for a host of “moral crimes,” including apostasy, blasphemy, sodomy, and witchcraft. The only legitimate voices in this state will be Christian. All others will be silenced."

For the record:

a·pos·ta·sy   (-pst-s)
n. pl. a·pos·ta·sies

Abandonment of one's religious faith, a political party, one's principles, or a cause.

blas·phe·my    (blsf-m)
n. pl. blas·phe·mies

1. 1. A contemptuous or profane act, utterance, or writing concerning God or a sacred entity.
   2. The act of claiming for oneself the attributes and rights of God.
2.      An irreverent or impious act, attitude, or utterance in regard to something considered inviolable or sacrosanct.

sod·om·y   (sd-m)
n.

Any of various forms of sexual intercourse held to be unnatural or abnormal, especially anal intercourse or bestiality.

witch·craft  (wchkrft)
n.

1. Magic; sorcery.
2. Wicca.
3. A magical or irresistible influence, attraction, or charm.

These would offenses punishable by death. DEATH.

I'd be first up, I'm sure. Let's see: I abandoned the religion of my childhood (Methodist); I've got an entire catagory on my blog called "Dear God: You Suck"; I write about blowjobs, that's gotta be sodomy in some eyes; and I've seriously considered Wicca as a personal spiritual path. So I'm definitely going to get the chair in the new order.

Oh--and did you hear that a judge can decide what religion you practice with your children?

After reading that article, Blurbomat directed me to this one about Pat Buchanan (yes, I've defended him in the past, since he hates the Neo-Cons so much, but no longer) his assertion that liberals have secretly organized a movement called "Cultural Marxism." Here is a quote from the article:

"The phrase refers to a kind of "political correctness" on steroids — a covert assault on the American way of life that allegedly has been developed by the left over the course of the last 70 years. Those who are pushing the "cultural Marxism" scenario aren't merely poking fun at the PC excesses of the "People's Republic of Berkeley," or the couple of American cities whose leaders renamed manholes "person-holes" in a bid to root out sexist thought.

Right-wing ideologues, racists and other extremists have jazzed up political correctness and repackaged it — in its most virulent form, as an anti-Semitic theory that identifies Jews in general and several Jewish intellectuals in particular as nefarious, communistic destroyers. These supposed originators of "cultural Marxism" are seen as conspiratorial plotters intent on making Americans feel guilty and thus subverting their Christian culture.

In a nutshell, the theory posits that a tiny group of Jewish philosophers who fled Germany in the 1930s and set up shop at Columbia University in New York City devised an unorthodox form of "Marxism" that took aim at American society's culture, rather than its economic system.

The theory holds that these self-interested Jews — the so-called "Frankfurt School" of philosophers — planned to try to convince mainstream Americans that white ethnic pride is bad, that sexual liberation is good, and that supposedly traditional American values — Christianity, "family values," and so on — are reactionary and bigoted. With their core values thus subverted, the theory goes, Americans would be quick to sign on to the ideas of the far left."

Um. Ok. And they say the political left is full of whacko consipiracy theories?

After I waded through that article, I went ahead and read the New York Times. Turns out that Indiana is attempting to do the same thing they did in Kansas--demanding the records of Planned Parenthood patients under 14 years old to allegedly investigate sexual molestation of minors. This time, however, abortion isn't involved at all--they just want to monitor the sexual behavior of minors. I was sexually active at 14 (I know, I know--it seems crazy to me now); and I was also a patient of a local Planned Parenthood type clinic. The idea that the state would be allowed to review my records and then call me in for questioning to determine exactly how I was sexually active is just beyond words.

There were some signs of hope, however.

Everyone is all excited about the news that Deep Throat was W. Mark Felt, the number two man at the FBI during Nixon's reign. Charlie and I were talking about it last night and Charlie wondered what made Mr. Felt come forward now; it got me thinking.

Perhaps in light of the recent Newsweek scandal (where a story was retracted because the "anonymous source" changed his/her tune), Mr. Felt thought coming forward would remind people of the important role the press plays in this country--and that anonymous sources are a critical part of that role and can bring down a president.

At least that's my theory. Course, most conservatives think that Mr. Felt is a traitor. But then, most conservatives these days would think Nixon was a liberal.

I'll say it again; this is all breaking my heart. All of this crazy stuff I've linked to has happened in the last WEEK. I love my country, and the idea of making it a Christian Dominion makes me want to tear my hair out.

I'm going to go cry now. At least Jon Stewart is back from vacation.

Alright, now I'm PISSED

First off, there’s this situation with the asshole attorney general in Kansas. Thanks so much to all of you that emailed me about it.

Once again, an attorney general is overstating his bounds by requesting information about women that received late term abortions (past 22 weeks). He claims he has “the duty to investigate and prosecute child rape and other crimes in order to protect Kansas children” (sex with anyone under 16 is illegal in Kansas—damn—good thing I didn’t live in Kansas). He is, of course, a staunch opponent to abortion rights, and therefore his claims of “protecting the children” should really be read as “humiliating, demeaning, prosecuting, and torturing women and their doctors.”

There are two clinics being investigated. We don’t know what clinics are involved, but there is an organization that is dedicated to defeating the bastard now and in 2006. You can give online here (mailed contributions go to ProKanDo, PO Box 8249, Wichita, KS). Please consider it. Tell ‘em Cecily at Wasted Birth Control sent you.

I’m also furious about last night’s episode of CSI. I’m only a moderate fan of the show, but I most certainly won’t be watching it any more.

For those of you who missed it last night, it featured a man found dead in his hotel room. He’d been, apparently, slowly suffocated over eight or ten hours, from having a 300-pound weight over his chest.

Guess what the weight was? Go on. Guess. What would be really, truly offensive?

Yeah. It was a woman.

Apparently, there was a “Hogs and Heifers” convention in Las Vegas that week (basically, a convention for fat people and those who are attracted to fat people). Just for the record, no such convention by that name exists (according to that which sees all things, otherwise known as Google). There are, frequently, “fat pride” gatherings (actually, the CSI website lists a fake organization; here is the real one), but trust me, they don’t call themselves “Hogs and Heifers.”

So, the guy who died was basically into fat women and was there to pick up and fuck as many as he could. But the more “enlightened” fat chicks at the convention knew him for what he was--a man who would fuck a fat woman but not hold her hand in public, so they avoided him. In a moment where the show was clearly trying to be “sensitive” one of the characters replied to one of these “enlightened” fat woman, “Well, you don’t have to be large to have low self-esteem.”

Now, a week ago, when I wrote that “skinny wasn’t sexy” I was accused of discriminating against the naturally thin. I’m sorry for saying that; there are plenty of naturally slender women that are very hot (I just don’t think MODELS are hot—look at how they have to contort their bodies to create the curves most of us have naturally).

But making fun of fat people is the last safe discrimination (along with the Indian/Pakistani store owner). Think about it; remember “Fat Bastard” in the Austin Powers movies (turned me off Mike Meyers forever)? How about every fucking talk show where husbands are having affairs because their wives gained weight because of having kids? What about every male stand-up comedian who talks about fat women? Hell, even in the movie “Ray” there’s a scene where he rejects a woman based on how plump her arm is.

I know I’ve been discriminated against because of my weight. I used to book events for a Big Chain Bookstore in the suburbs, and a new store was opening up downtown. I’d been living in the city and booking music and poetry readings downtown for nearly five years, and had already been working for the Big Chain Book Store for a year when I went up for the job. The thin, blond woman who actually got the position had only just moved to the area a few months before, and had never lived in or booked events in our city. I was most assuredly more qualified, but my district manager felt I wasn’t “right” for the more visible position.

While CSI got some things right—there are, in fact, men we fat chicks call “chubby chasers”—they were really wrong about a lot. I find it impossible to believe that a man strong enough to lift a woman up on a table while they’re having sex (as he did with a woman before the one who killed him—and it actually cracked the table for god’s sake) wouldn’t be able to squirm his way out from under the woman who killed him (she passed out on him cause she was drunk, you see). The actress that played the “killer fat chick” was actually a quite lovely woman, but when she cried about being fat and trying to diet, you could see it was real. It broke my heart.

The “killer fat chick” claimed to have smothered him with a pillow because she couldn’t bear to become the butt of jokes on Jay Leno. And you know she would have. If she were a real woman, and this had really happened, I suspect she would have killed herself. That’s how deep the pain goes.

Because fatness is viewed as a moral failing, and not a medical condition or a result of a race you were born into, people feel safe to discriminate against us. But “fat acceptance” movements are treated as a joke. We don’t have marches or rallies to go to; instead, we just quietly suffer, and try the next diet. Don't get me wrong--I'm not saying that fat is good or healthy or the right way to be. I'm just saying that making fun of fat people is not the best way to solve the American obesity problem.

Something is really wrong with this picture, and wrong with CSI. Not that they care, but I won’t watch it again.

Time to Shut Up--at least for a while

Yesterday was an overwhelming day. I’m afraid I became a little obsessed, going back and forth from Elizabeth’s and Perdito’s blogs, posting comments and reading what others had to say.

I’ve never witnessed such a lengthy and civil debate about abortion. While I doubt anyone’s mind was changed, I do think everyone listened to each other. And at the end of the day a funny thing happened—Elizabeth and I became friends.

The only bad thing, of course, was the arrival of the infamous Holly. I cannot BELIEVE she was waiting in the wings all this time to tell me, ONCE AGAIN, that my son died needlessly and I heartlessly killed him. Elizabeth was appalled and immediately pulled all of her comments and the comments that responded to her, including mine (which I requested--I don't like being that nasty).

Throughout the day, no one questioned the fact that my pregnancy had to be terminated. The only disagreement was about how—the dilation and extraction procedure vs. labor and delivery. Catherine (sorry I couldn’t find the link to your blog—send it to me if you’d like me to link) mentioned that perhaps that argument has more to do with euthanasia than abortion, which is a very valid point.

Interesting fact, by the way—last night, Charlie told me that if his memory serves him correctly, labor and delivery was not an option for me. My health was too fragile to endure the rigors of labor at that point. He’d never mentioned that to me before. Throws yet another light on the situation doesn’t it?

When I began blogging, I was deeply inspired by Julia and her bravery in talking about her son Thomas and fighting for the right to choose. I decided after my sons died that I would also take up that banner and carry on the fight.

I’m glad I did. I don’t personally know many people who have had a “partial birth abortion.” I knew it was a major weapon in the anti-choice arsenal and I thought I could maybe sway some points of view.

And I have. But, not surprisingly, I’m tired. It’s hard to be called a murderer over and over, either directly or indirectly. I bent my fairly brash and pushy personality over backwards yesterday to remain civil to everyone at Elizabeth’s, and even posted a reasonably worded response on Perdito’s blog in the entry he directed to me.

But when Holly showed up, I lost it. I actually threatened her. I was shaking with rage. Charlie was here and he was worried about me.

In recovery, we talk about how “righteous indignation is the dubious luxury of normal men.” It’s true, anger can poison you, especially if you are an alcoholic. It can make taking a drink seem like a reasonable thing to do. At best, anger knocks me off my spiritual center. Since my spiritual center is pretty goddamned flimsy these days, it doesn’t take much to knock me down.

I realized I spent most of yesterday feeling toxic. So I’m going to set the banner of a woman’s right to choose aside until I have regained some trust in my higher power and a little smidgen of faith again. And because anger can be so toxic, I’m going to utilize a tried and true spiritual trick to help rid me of my anger toward Holly.

I’m going to pray for her. I’m going to pray that she receives everything in her life that I want in mine—health, peace, happiness, financial security, unending love. I’m going to do it every day for two weeks. If I still have the anger to her at that point, I’ll do it for another two weeks. Not because she deserves it—but because I deserve to be free of her.

Tune in tomorrow for a fun-filled post about my fucking weight. I will even post some photos of me from the 80’s. OK?

More Fuel for the Fire

So, I’m sick. White crap is coating my throat, I have a low-grade fever, and my head is full of about 85 pounds of snot. And I’m at work. So I’m not in a really good mood.

But blessedly, I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon, and I have been provided distraction..

Apparently, I shouldn’t pick on the priest at my friend Donald’s funeral. After all, according to the charming Perdito, he has “GIVEN HIS FRIGGIN LIFE FOR THE SERVICE OF OTHERS.” I’ve come to accept the fact that the Catholic funeral mass apparently is NOT the forum for saying good-bye to the deceased (silly me for thinking that), but Perdito’s comment piqued my interest, so I went to his blog to check it out. It's interesting stuff.

First off, there’s this fascinating information about contraception. Be sure to read this wonderful missive on why even condoms will condemn you to hell (AIDS be damned!). Don’t miss the fabulous section about “natural law” and why using fertility enhancing drugs such as Clomid are permitted, while hormonal contraceptives are not. Especially fun is the whole part about why sex isn't for pleasure.

But my favorite entry is this one. While I support wholeheartedly the right of this woman to choose what she did—regardless of how I personally feel about the choice she made—I shudder at the idea that the Church praised her for “choosing life.” After all, she didn’t choose life—she chose death, and left her other two children motherless. It’s also worth noting that her son was born extremely premature because of her death (as far as I can tell from the limited information in the article).

The fact that Perdito said this story made him, “want to sing for joy and cry at the same time” makes me wonder how he ended up at my site. Has he read my whole story? I think it’s safe to say no.

I thought long and hard before choosing to link to his site. One the one hand, I don’t want to give people like him more attention than they deserve. On the other hand, I’ve made the decision to be political and outspoken about the right to choose, and in order to fight to keep our rights, we need to know whom we are fighting. Rarely have I been provided with such an opportunity to look inside the head of an anti-choice mind. A MALE anti-choice mind.

I apologize for picking on Catholics in these last two entries. It's not my intention to take on any particular religion.  I understand that many people value the Catholic Church deeply and I respect that completely. What I take issue with, however, is anyone attempting to legislate their beliefs.

Was this the right thing to do? I don’t know. Very interested in your thoughts. But one thing: let's all respect everyone's right to have a different opinion--state yours, but please refrain from attacking other commenter's points of view. OK?

In Honor Of Today's Inauguration, or here I go again

It's clear that many people who read my blog have different political opinions than I do. Many, particularly, seem to be opposed to abortion. Because I've been so public about having a dilation and extraction (or a "partial-birth abortion"), I've had some amazing conversations (not counting Holly). I’ve been having a fascinating email discussion with a woman who is staunchly opposed to abortion, but who’s mind I’ve opened with my story. As she put it, “I believe abortion is taking a human life, but I’m damned if I know who I think should be arrested if it were ever made illegal.”

I was not quite five years old when abortion became legal. Even at that tender age, I’d already been to pro-choice marches with my mother. I have always felt, deep in my heart, that it is critical for abortions to be available to women, primarily because women must be allowed to control their own reproductive capabilities. While I believe that mothering is a critical and culturally important job (and an influential one), if women want to have a voice in business or politics they MUST be able to choose when and how often they have children.

Women, I also feel strongly, must to be allowed to express and enjoy their sexuality. Lords knows that men have always been able to! That means, of course, that women should always have free and unfettered access to contraception (something many anti-choice people are opposed to—which I simply don’t get).

When I was in high school, I volunteered at my local birth control clinic (wasn’t I a cute little feminist!). The clinic was full of stories of fathers bursting in, demanding to know if we had provided contraception to their daughters, or boyfriends and husbands wanting to know if their wives had been in to get pregnancy tests. Thankfully, of course, the law prohibited anyone in the clinic from answering those questions. I’d even heard a story of a father finding his daughter and dragging her out by her hair.

Unlike those of us who desperately want a child, there are women that see that second pink line on a test and are filled with dismay and fear. Women who already have more children then they can support or women too young to be good at mothering. Many of these are women simply cannot, for their own safety, tell their sexual partners or parents.

Remember that the number one cause of death in pregnant women is murder. And while the Laci Peterson case got a great deal of attention (and some questionable laws passed), most of these murders occur much earlier in the pregnancy.

This is why I believe that in cases of both contraception and abortion parental and spousal/partner are unacceptable. If it’s lives we are trying to value, the life of the woman (even if she's a teenager) must be on that list! As for legally required waiting periods, they really aren’t necessary. If you go to Planned Parenthood and get a positive pregnancy test, it’s not like they have a room in the back ready and waiting and you can just stand up and say, “Time to get that abortion!” Women usually wait for a second test and an exam, and then it has to be scheduled. There is plenty of time to really think about it without it being legally mandated.

One of the issues I have with the anti-choice movement is that there is this belief that women make the decision to have an abortion lightly. I know plenty of women that have had them, and every single one agonized over the choice. Of all the women I know that have received abortions, there is only perhaps one who I feel made that choice out of selfishness. One. Out of at least fifty.

Remember, too, that when a woman has a positive pregnancy test at a place like Planned Parenthood, she receives counseling. Contrary to anti-choice opinion, she is not forced to have an abortion. She is told about abortion, true, but she’s also informed about adoption as well as the resources and support available to her if she chooses to parent. Planned Parenthood provides prenatal care too, remember—to nearly 16,000 women in 2002. Not to mention doing over a million breast exams a year (think about that next time you want to block the entrance to a clinic). It’s also worth noting that 70% of Planned Parenthood’s clients are over 150% below the federal poverty level. For a chart about the variety of services provided by Planned Parenthood, look here.

Planned Parenthood also referred nearly 2,000 women to organizations that could help them place their babies up for adoption in 2002.

It’s easy to change people’s minds about medically necessary abortions. My situation with my sons, and Julia’s with her son Thomas , are clear and heart wrenching. The awful scenarios that forced us to terminate the life of a beloved and wanted child can sway even the hardest of anti-choice hearts.

But because the religious right is working so hard to stop those other abortions, the ones where the baby just isn’t wanted, those of us who have a medical need are the ones that pay.

Because of the anti-choice movement, doctors are no longer undergoing training on how to perform abortions. Why would they, when they could be murdered as a result? My doctor is only one of two in my major east coast city that still performs dilation and extractions. Many women who end up in my or Julia’s situation don’t even have the option.

Do you see why choice must, across the board, remain available? Be pro-life. I know I am. I want to save the lives of both women and babies.

But feeding the trolls is so much fun!

OK, I know, I know, you aren't supposed to feed them, it makes them reluctant to leave.

But today I seriously needed some distraction from my grief, and Holly was kind enough to provide it.

So, thanks Holly, for providing me with said distraction, and for getting me angry enough to remember my commitment to myself--that I will NOT sit on my ass and watch my rights get stripped away. I WILL become active and fight for the right of women to choose, because it's too important to let it continue to slip away because of some fucked up "values" some people who claim to believe in Jesus try to force down my throat.

Oh, and thanks also for becoming the first person I've blocked on my blog. Yeah! I feel all special, like Grrl or someone REALLY cool,  now.

First on the political agenda: we need something to call these people other than "christians." Some of my best friends are Christians (Moxie, I'm talking about you, baby!) and we need a different word to discuss those that "politicize their own hysteria" (a quote from Anne Lamott, via my hubbie).

Any suggestions?

VOTE, and the plan

VOTE.

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Another day.

I didn’t realize it, but before (you know, before last week) I woke up every day with that Christmas morning feeling--that excitement and joy of  “Oh my--I’m pregnant!”

I haven’t shaken that feeling yet. Now, I wake up, feel the joy, and them boom... reality hits. If it doesn’t hit right away before I get out of bed, it certainly does when I go into the hallway to the restroom and see the empty room we were getting ready to paint for the boys.

This morning, I decided to read my little recovery meditation books and write in my journal. That was hard, because I hadn’t written yet by hand about what happened. I’ve been out of the habit of doing this morning ritual, since I got pregnant, because I was usually either too tired or too sick to take the time.

I usually end this ritual with a brief prayer and a few moments of quiet. Here is a version of what I usually pray:

“God, fill me with your grace and your light and make me a channel of your peace. Relieve me of my character defects so that I can better serve you and others. Help me be the best person I can be today.”

Today’s prayer was more like this:

“God, fuck your grace and your light. Why are you such an asshole? What the hell is the point of your plan for my life? I don’t like you very much right now. Fuck you. Amen.”

Ah, well, at least it’s a start. I do believe that God can take it.

Last night I went to a meeting for the first time. I really needed it, since heroin sounds PRETTY FUCKING GOOD about now. It helped, although I was pretty edgy and nervous about being around people, even people who love and support me. We were all reading from one of the books we read at those meetings, and when my turn came, the paragraph I was supposed to read was the St. Francis Prayer (sorry, y’all will have to look it up, I told you I can’t link from my Mac). God has a fucking sense of humor, I’ll tell you that.

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VOTE.

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I wanted to tell you all a little bit about The Plan.

Right after the surgery, I was able to come up with this simple strategy and plan. I’m glad I did it before everything really hit me and I lost my shit (it’s still lost, by the way. If you happen to see my shit, send it home).

So here it is.

1. MOURN. First on the list is just a lot of tears. Tomorrow, around 6pm, we’re having a small gathering of friends to have a memorial, and say goodbye. Our friend Jim the opera singer will sing Amazing Grace, and then we’re all going to plant daffodil bulbs, since daffodils will come up about the time the boys were due. If you think of us around 6pm EST tomorrow, just say a quick prayer. You have no idea how much all of your prayers have meant to me.

2. HEAL. This is hardest for me, because I want to move forward already, and not take the time to just feel better.  I have more energy now, ironically, then I did the last month of my pregnancy (particularly the last week--remember those “I’m so tired” posts? I think I was already pretty sick at that point). But I have a lot of muscle aches and muscle weakness, and I’m also battling some pretty awful headaches (I’m trying to get in touch with the doctor to find out if I need to be worried about them). Thankfully, I’m not working this week, and I don’t have to work again until I’m ready (my bosses are just being awesome). So I have time to heal. But again, I’m impatient.

3. GET BACK IN SHAPE. Before ART, I was extremely active. I went to the gym three or four times a week. I walked my dog (and my neighbor’s dog) about two miles up and down serious hills every weekday morning. I biked about eight miles to work. I hiked on the weekends. I walked all over the city to get to meetings. I was still fat, but I had great endurance and a layer of hard muscle under that fat. Sadly, I reacted very strongly to all of those medications. Even just Clomid fucked me up enough that once I started taking it, my exercise began to slack off. By February, when I began my round of injectibles for IVF, I stopped going to the gym altogether. I still walked, and still hiked, even biked occasionally, but by April when I developed OHSS I stopped pretty much everything. The last serious hike I did was on Memorial Day weekend.

I want my body back. I want to be in charge of it again, and I want to rediscover all of my strength, endurance, and muscle.

4. LOSE WEIGHT. I’m up nearly 100lbs from the photo I have posted here on the blog. Yep. That was taken on Labor Day Weekend of 2003, when I was at my most fit, and a successful member of Weight Watcher’s. The following eight months put back 50lbs that I’d lost on Weight Watchers, and then the pregnancy (including the preeclampsia fluid weight) put on another 50. I know that the water weight and the pregnancy weight should come off fairly quickly once I get active again, and then I want to work back toward getting to a nice healthy weight. I have no plans to become skinny or anything, but I want my health back. I know this will help the most with any residual blood pressure issues I’ll have from the preeclampsia, so that’s an important goal. This will be the last time I’m fat. I will probably rejoin Weight Watchers, since I’ve heard cool things about their newest plan.

5. VACATION. Charlie and I aren’t rich, but we need a real vacation together. Since we got sober (almost nine years ago), all of our vacations have involved camping. Now, I love camping, but it’s work. We want to go someplace where we lay about and people bring us things. I’ve got some dough in my retirement account, and I’m cashing some in and we’re going to the islands. Probably after Christmas. I’ve never seen blue ocean water, and I can’t wait.

6. TRY, TRY AGAIN. Next spring, when I’m back in shape and have lost some weight, if Dr. Mama thinks I’m ready, we’ll try again. We are blessed to have 3 frozen eight-celled embryos and another 11 fertilized eggs left from that first crazy IVF retrieval. My RE is a specialist in Natural IVF and FET, and we’ll be doing it all natural. This means just monitoring my cycle, and transferring embryos when my lining looks good, and no drugs (since I am not the major player in our infertility, this should be fine). We’ll probably do only one or two embryos at a time, since we hope to avoid multiples (much higher risk of preeclampsia with multiples). Since fluid retention plays a role in preeclampsia, and all of the ART drugs make me retain water like crazy, we’re hoping that if I eat a low-salt diet and exercise moderately I can avoid fluid retention early in pregnancy, keeping my blood pressure down and helping the pregnancy get farther along than this one did. If preeclampsia emerges early on again, well, we’ll just have to face that when it comes, won’t we.

So that’s the plan. Obviously, it’s not set in stone, and may change (it would be just too hysterical if we got preggers naturally while in the islands) but it feels good to have it set down. It gives that all-important semblance of CONTROL. Ah, control...

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VOTE. Early and often.