I was going to share the graphic, along with a few words on Facebook. Those few words trickled out until they hemorrhaged through my keyboard. Sorry for the TMI, but it’s my truth.
So now instead of a few sweet words and a graphic, you get a very real, not sweet moments of my life in a blog Op/Ed. I hope that you can share your truth so that we all stand up for what is being done to us and against us in this moment of history.
– Maggie ॐ
For the woman who has a miscarriage, where the body expels non-viable embryo or fetus, it is called a spontaneous abortion. I wonder how many of these bible banging hypocrites know their wives have had an abortion… against their will at that.
In 2006 I found out I was pregnant, only to miscarry shortly thereafter. It was an ectopic pregnancy which is when the fertilized egg nests in the fallopian tube rather than in the lining of the uterus. Normally an ectopic pregnancy doesn’t miscarry, but rather creates a life-threatening situation where the size of the embryo exceeds the interior width of the tube causing it to rupture and leaving no other choice but emergency surgery and in most cases, having the damaged fallopian tube to be removed.
Mine was unique in that I miscarried before it gained enough size to create the aforementioned situation. Generally, after a uterine miscarriage or abortion, a procedure known as a D&C (short for dilation and curettage) is performed to ensure that the uterus is completely cleared out. In my case, this was not an option because you can’t do a D&C on a fallopian tube, and while my tube had not ruptured, the threat was still there because any “residual cells” could continue to grow and rupture the tube anyway.
My husband and I went home that night from the ER, devastated and grieving for the child we had lost. A child who never got named anything other than “spontaneous abortion”. The following day, we were set to return for their improvisational treatment to address my unique situation, a course of chemotherapy that would retard and eliminate the growth of any “residual cells”.
In one of the cruelest situations of my life, I was to go – not to the cancer ward to have the chemotherapy administered – instead, they sent me to the OB/GYN department, where I got to sit at eye level with every pregnant belly, every inverted turkey-timer looking navel. And just when I thought that fate couldn’t get much crueler, the nurse came over with a clipboard with paperwork for me to complete, one of which was an authorization for an abortion.
The only word that applied then, and now, is “mindfuck”. And the fun was just beginning… I started with the “I’m pregnant” pukies, only to be followed by the “I’m not pregnant anymore” pukies and the “chemotherapy” pukies. And just when you want to crawl inside a hole and die or find some way to hide from the people who knew you were pregnant and now ask how you’re doing… it got worse. I had to go for weekly blood draws to monitor my HCG levels.
HCG is the hormone that is detected in a pregnancy test. You see, my “residual cells” were still causing me to have those. And those weekly blood draws were to make sure that my HCG levels were staying the same or declining because there was still the chance that they could increase. If they did it would mean that my “residual cells” would be increasing in volume and surgery to remove them. 14 weeks. 14 weeks before my HCG levels finally started tapering off and maintained a steady decline.
I was pregnant, had a spontaneous abortion, had to give consent for them to perform an abortion, all while spending 14 weeks waiting to find out when I would finally stop being pregnant. I am pro-choice, but this was not my choice, far from it. The 11-year-old who was raped and is now pregnant, that wasn’t her choice either.
And now she gets to spend every day reliving the horror as her body continues to remind her of the worst day of her life while people force her to endure this day after day. Only for her to finally deliver (c-section would be my guess, 11-year-old bodies aren’t really ready to carry and naturally deliver a full-term child). So even if she is able to deal with the additional anguish of giving the child up for adoption, she’ll have that scar to give her warm memories of happier times, huh?
Silly me, I almost forgot If she does wind up keeping the child, she gets to co-parent with her rapist. Won’t that be fun?
Thanks to all the men who keep making laws about shit you don’t fucking have a clue about and the torture you inflict on others with your overblown sense of morality.
Now that you’ve read my story, ask yourself where I would be in a state like Alabama if you were the doctor and what would you be allowed to do to treat me.
I mean that truly to be devoid of personal beliefs and judgment, just what you need to do, as a physician, to treat your patient under the mandate that if you perform, aid or assist in an abortion, then you are subject to personal liability and criminal prosecution. Tell me how you would have treated me or better yet if I would have lived.
Also, in the back of your head hold on to the thought that in Mississippi several years back they tried criminalizing abortion to the point that if a woman had a miscarriage that she would be charged with manslaughter.
It’s a very tangled issue, and blanket statements and legalities that don’t accommodate for cases of rape, incest, the viability of the fetus, the overall health and survivability of the woman just confuse and muddy the situation even further.
Abortion is not just some person who was too lazy to take birth control but doesn’t want kids. And for the record, men are largely responsible for unplanned pregnancies.
Today I offer you a poem and a story, and sadly neither are intended to make you smile. There are no pictures and there’s also a good chance that it will probably make you somewhat uncomfortable.
However, uncomfortable is what leads to change. Uncomfortable is what makes us say “no more”. I keep hoping that more people every day will become more and more uncomfortable, so they’ll look outside their comfort zone and see the need around them, and feel compelled to affect change.
Hello, my name is Anna and I’m six years old
I live with my mama and papa
They can’t always afford to feed me as often as they would like
They can’t afford to buy me clothing very often
We don’t have a house, but we have shelter sometimes
I used to have a brother but he died
I love my parents, and I know that love me too
They try so very hard
We are part of your society
a part you either don’t see or won’t see
I probably won’t be here very much longer
I just wanted to say hello
Hello my name is Anna and I’m ten years old
My daddy died, Mama says someone shot him
Mama has lots of friends, she says that’s how she pays the rent
I used to have a brother but he died too,
Mama said we couldn’t feed him anymore
I worry about my Mama she puts needles in herself
But she says” don’t worry baby God is coming for us all”
I know that I’m supposed to believe in God
and I guess I do
I just haven’t seen him in my neighborhood
Mama’s calling for me now I have to go make her lunch
anyway I just wanted to say hello
Hello, my name’s Anna and I’m fifteen.
I know what my mama did to raise me,
I understand now because I have a daughter now
and I call her Ella… I’d do anything to make sure that she has enough
food and clothes, but things keep getting in the way.
it’s so expensive, and they want so much from me.
I love my little girl but sometimes when she cries when she’s hungry
I just want to get away…
so I do…
Hello, My name is Ella or so I’m told,
they said that my Mama named me after my grandma,
but I never knew her
They tell they she loved me very much
but I never knew
I should have had a daddy
but they never knew
They are closing the home tomorrow
because they have no money
I ask where will I go
but nobody knows
Hello, My name is Ella and I’m 12 years old,
for as long as I can remember
I’ve been sold from pimp to pimp for cigarettes or pool wagers or on a whim,
I am chattel, I am worthless.
I don’t even care enough to despair
DsHello, My name is Ella
I’m a corpse under a bridge,
I’ve been here for weeks
and no one seemed to notice,
I wonder why that is
I lived with a woman named Susan in the homeless shelter I stayed in, along with her husband Dave and their daughter, April (she was 8 maybe?). Dave had a massive stroke that left him confined to a wheelchair, having to be fed and changed, and unintelligible speak to anyone other than his wife or daughter. In fact, everyone originally thought he was her father because he had aged so much from all that he’d been through medically. Sadly she didn’t know enough to apply for social security.
They were a single income household and Susan stopped working when she found out that she was pregnant. They lost their home, most of their possessions, their cars. And now Dave was an invalid who couldn’t take care of himself. With limited skills and experience, the only place that would hire her was McDonald’s. Susan would take care of Dave as soon as they woke up, along with getting April off to school. Susan would leave to go to work, then when April came “home” after school, then she’d be her dad’s caretaker until Susan got “home” around midnight, walking both ways because the car they had been living in had been repossessed.
On the way “home” one night Susan was stopped by three rough looking men, one of which had been kicked out of the shelter previously for being an asshole, and he blamed her. She had asked him to watch his mouth around her daughter and he wouldn’t and got nasty with her, so she told the guard and asked that he try to handle it.
Then he got into it with the guard and started an altercation, needless to say, he was out for good. Not necessarily a good thing in Colorado in the winter(oh well); he brought it on himself but of course he blamed everyone but himself. So here she was, alone, walking “home” and suddenly surrounded by these three street thugs. The one with the vendetta and two of his buddies. They decided to drive train on her because gang-rape is a worthy punishment for asking the guard to make you stop talking in 4-letter words around someone’s young daughter.
I couldn’t sleep at night back then either so I was wide awake as always when she came in later than usual. Her hair messed up, her uniform was a mess, dirty, ripped in places with some blood on it, and a face that was stained with tears. We all knew something was wrong, and it wasn’t hard to tell what that something was.
We tried suggesting to her to go to the hospital to get checked out, but she refused, almost in a panic attack, saying that she couldn’t go because if they admitted her, then that would leave her 8-year-old daughter there to take care of her father, and not only was that not something she wanted to do to April. The big problem was that because since neither April or David was self-sufficient, not only would they not be allowed to stay at the shelter, but children’s services & adult protective services could be called to take both of them away.
A couple of us asked her if they could help her get cleaned up, We all offered to help her family in her absence, I even told her that I’d drive her so that everyone wouldn’t be nosy if an ambulance showed up, but she just said, “no, I just need to be with my family right now”. And just as Susan said, she climbed into her bunk between her daughter and her husband and cried all night. The next morning she told David what happened, we could see it in his face when she told him. He sobbed for 3 days straight
Her pants were ripped pretty badly when she was attacked, so we all chipped in to buy her a new pair of work pants so she could still work. By dinner time the next day, the entire shelter knew what happened. After that, the guards let a couple of the guys out each night so they could walk her home.
Lockdown was at 10, lights out at 10:30. And if you didn’t have a pre-authorized pass signed by your employer, it didn’t matter if you had Jesus himself with you for backup, and you *still* weren’t getting in. The guards couldn’t leave while they were on duty but would let the (rougher) guys go out every night passed lockdown so they could go get her and bring her back. And the guys all took turns, this way if anyone was watching they’d know that there were more than two guys backing her up.
Sunday night was something that well all looked forward to. That’s when we all went to Church in Manitou Springs, where they served dinner… real food, not the crap we were used to. You had to be there on time because they only had so many portions. The soup kitchen in town had those big giant pots, and if they had a significant amount left, it went into tomorrow’s meal, but not at the church in Manitou Springs. It was good food, sometimes it was the only good thing that happened to us for the whole week.
I still had my car, a small Chevette knockoff. I would earn gas money from people to take them places. On Sunday nights it was great because I was always guaranteed to get three guys in the back seat, with me & my boyfriend up front with me. They all gave me $5 each and gas was still 99¢ a gallon back then so it was a great income for someone who couldn’t find a job. I also did it for the ones who went to the plasma center during the week because they were not up to walking back. I lost my job because they found out that I was living in the shelter so this was the only money I was making, by being a taxi to my fellow “shelter rats” (as we were called).
Anyway, we all were sitting down with our plates… it was loud, filled with happy talk because of a real meal and a change of scenery, dishes, silverware, and glasses all clanking and banging. The pastor would have everyone bow their heads and he’d say grace then we could eat. Well he said grace, we dug in and within a few minutes, you could hear a pin drop.
“…and then the angels of justice and mercy came for Susan.”
It was about a month after Susan was attacked and the three guys that raped her made the mistake of coming into the Church basement for dinner. The two guys behind him knew their world was going to change when they turned around to leave and there were two guys barring the door. The leader, I don’t remember his name from 31 years ago, but I do remember his face. He was the blackest person I’d ever seen. Skin the color of espresso, the only thing that gave him away in the dark was his teeth and his eyes. He was wearing a black leather jacket and black pants which gave away how he got around at night (like a ninja) and on his shoulder a heavy chain with a metal padlock on it.
The pastor came out and asked what was going on and one of the guys told him. He looked at those three, grossly outnumbered and said, “I’m sorry we’re full and there’s no more to eat” (which was true) but elicited a very forceful no. The pastor told him “Well then, I’m sure the boys will you help you find the way to your car.” The guy spoke up telling the Pastor that he didn’t have a car. So the pastor glossed over his response and said “God doesn’t care if you have a car or not, he cares about *other* things like how you live, how you treat people, and so on. Boys, If you wouldn’t mind, could you please take these late-comers out to their car, I have to go check on dessert.”
They hadn’t even made it out of the basement when everything jumped off. He rolled his shoulder to drop the chain to put it in his hand but it got snatched away from him while his face stopped someone’s fist from running away. The guy who grabbed the chain from him swung it…
I was “caught staring with the dumb look” (as we used to call it.) I’d never seen a cheekbone before, or any bone for that matter (other than watching Deliverance, but it was not the same.) I was just completely stunned at just how white it was, but that was of course in contrast with the espresso colored skin and the bright red blood that was now going everywhere. The next blast was a right hook that cold-cocked him. It was at that point when he was dragged out into the parking lot and his friends (who were still conscious at least) took off. When thug #1 came to a couple of minutes later, he was freaking out about how he got there and the amount of blood ( a bit dazed don’t you know) and he got his ass kicked. He suddenly came to his senses, stood up and then took off as quickly as he could like his friends did.
Our guys came back in just as the pastor came out, who took one look at them and said “boys, it was very nice of you to help those gentlemen with their car trouble, but you’ve all gotten so dirty, you need to all come in the kitchen and wash up all of you, you need to be presentable for dinner.” (read: Just in case the police showed up.)
I was there for another couple of months but that guy was never seen around town ever again to my brief knowledge.
I really do hope that Susan and David, along with their daughter April were able to move on and move up. I hope they were given access to the services they needed to survive and with any luck, they were able to get help for all that they had endured.
So, why did I tell you this long-winded story you ask?
The reason for this is to use light to see those who are in the shadows, to see those who are normally invisible to the population as a whole. The homeless are a large part of our country’s landscape as well abroad. We see the pictures of the homeless during the Great Depression. People standing in lines a block long. People living in tents We don’t see that, just the occasional person standing at an intersection with a cardboard sign, we don’t see them. So if there is such a homeless problem, where are they? Why don’t they look the same? Easy, back then are programs now like SNAP, Welfare, and WIC that didn’t exist back then. There were no homeless shelters, just people living in Hoovervilles. No food pantries, no soup kitchens per say, there were soup lines (the bonus there was you could fill a soup pot up so that you could feed your children, and bread lines. Can you imagine?
The problem is that these people along with myself at the time and even now as a disabled person, is that we are/were invisible. I swear, I would love 10 acres of land, cover it with tiny houses, solar panels on every roof, mandatory recycling, a place in the middle with a laundry room and hot showers (just in case you’re too tall or just fluffy like me), wifi for the community, since nowadays places will only take applications online. A community center with a couple of computers for kids to do homework, gather up books for a take a book/leave a book library, the same goes for DVD’s and we would have weekend gatherings so you could get to know your neighbors and further know that you’re not alone, you’re not the only person that this has happened to and you just have to get up, dust yourself off. And they’d all have to pitch in taking care of the community…. emptying trash, raking leaves or cutting grass or shoveling snow, helping someone with a handyman project, etc and with the goal that this is temporary, you get your life back together or create a new one and you move up and let that tiny house help out the next person or couple in need.
Well if anyone has an extra $150K lying around and can’t think of what to do with it, give me a call…
In the meantime, thanks for listening and please, don’t have invisible people surround you. Look for them and you’ll see. And once you see, you’ll have them in your heart and want to help
To my fellow #metoo survivors, I am so thankful to have met you and have been witness to your strength. Without uttering a word, we both know what the other has suffered at the hands of others. Knowing that we have this commonality, while not something to celebrate, truly is a gift. Few can truly understand, and many, no matter how close to us they are, will never share that commonality and understanding that you and I and too many others do.
This is such an awkward time. There are so many who support us and stand up for us even if they don’t know our names or faces, who “celebrate” this scandal as a victory of sorts, uncovering the ugly secrets from the back of the Hollywood closets and recognize that open communication and solidarity are the only things that can keep this plague of systemic abuse at bay.
They’re right, but sadly no matter how much we appreciate their support, what they don’t realize is that as this story stays in the forefront, all of us…even without thinking about one single detail of our own incidents, are drowning in the flood of emotions that come with it. Some might call it empathy, however, I think PTSD is a more apt description. We’re left trying to stay on our feet while these waves come crashing against us, furiously trying to keep our head up and not get pulled down by the undertow.
So for those of you who see #metoo, we thank you for your support even though we might not be able to say it just yet, and please know that your support will help in our healing.