On our bodies

Today was about abortion at the United States Supreme Court, like too many days before. I’m wrapped up in it, from my values, to my own experiences, to my work. My clients are intimately impacted — like so many of us — by what happens next. And ironically, I don’t even have a uterus anymore.

I am a lawyer. I have been working with reproductive justice groups and abortion funds for the past several years, since some folks in Texas decided to pretend that the Supreme Court doesn’t matter and that they could criminalize abortion (and its advocates) city by little Texas city even while is it recognized as a constitutional right. Most recently I have worked with a number of other lawyers, advocates, and clients to try to dismantle the abomination to democracy that is Texas’s SB8. This is how I have spent most of the last few months, for full disclosure. But that’s not what’s guiding my sadness and anger today.

Efforts to recast today’s arguments as about “baby-killing” or “protecting life” are more than disingenuous. The same people who claim that moral high ground advocate vociferously against universal healthcare, pre- and post-natal, against paid family leave, and only provide assistance — in Texas, state assistance — when a pregnant mother agrees to a variety of demeaning demands, including but not limited to accepting someone else’s view of God shoved at them. Likewise, the same voices decry the parenting of LGBTQ+ homes, of marginalized racial minorities, and of single parent homes. They show up at school board meetings claiming their children cannot possibly read a book containing a rape scene because it is pornographic. They don’t want employers to be obliged to pay for birth control, which might reduce the number of unplanned pregnancies.

But these aren’t even the reasons I am lost today. I listened to the arguments, and then I laid down, in silence for most of the day, thinking about what I know. About the stories that the Court will never hear. And about how each of us has them.

I was once a girl, who grew up in church and learned to be “good.” I became a young woman, who believed in self-sacrifice and forgiveness. That young woman was soon literally and figuratively trapped in a relationship with a fine, upstanding young man who would lock her in stairwells, take her keys, occasionally hit her, force himself on her, and ultimately, strangle her after she finally left. That was the first time I learned I did not necessarily get to control my own body or destiny.

In professional life, in small and big ways, I thereafter learned that many men did not view their female colleagues’ bodies as off-limits. Ask any woman in a male-dominated field, the stories will astound you. Are we feminine enough? Are we able to “hang with the guys?” Who gets a promotion? Who makes the decisions? What do you have to do for a seat at the table? Our bodies unfortunately are at issue. From Mad Men to #MeToo, we are all aware.

After all of that young adulthood, I found myself pregnant. Newly married, not too old and not too young, and the pregnancy was fine and the baby was healthy, and all was well. Work was impacted — in the sense that I now had more to prove, and a baby to care for at the same time.

A year and a half later, I was pregnant again. This time it was harder, including a period of time at 14 weeks when I learned our baby may have a genetic abnormality that was “incompatible with life.” I spoke with my own doctor and a dear friend who was also an OB-GYN — both told me they would not advise a person to continue the pregnancy if that turned out to be the diagnosis, that the pain for the baby was extreme, life was short, and the emotional burden was significant for parents. I awaited another test, and another waiting period. All was fine in the end, but I knew what I would have done.

I’m pretty sure I miscarried at least once. But for all of the reasons people are now pointing out in conjunction with Texas’s six-week ban, I couldn’t be sure because it wasn’t until it happened that I even recognized I might be pregnant.

The last time I was pregnant, it was a surprise. It was a lucky one, and I will forever be grateful for the little man that became my last child. But that pregnancy was much harder, and I found myself hospitalized with preeclampsia at 22 weeks. My blood pressure was sky-high, and the baby was not yet viable.

I had two children under the age of 4. I was acutely aware that I may have to make a decision that deprived them of a mother, or a brother, or maybe both. But what I didn’t have to wonder about is who would make that decision — I didn’t have to check with my doctors, in a city that wasn’t my own, to see exactly when they would decide my life was in danger. The truth is, it was in danger the whole time. I was right at the edge of viability with a pregnancy I wanted, and if things went south, I would leave 2–3 babies motherless. I made it to 35 weeks before my preeclampsia fully took over, and Levi was born to a week in the NICU.

But my body belonged to me then, and to my children. No one else got to decide when the emergency was dire enough to protect us. No one was afraid to treat me for fear of being sued by some “citizen” interested in “protecting life” if they provided care that ultimately meant my unborn child would not survive. No state actor got to decide that my girls should be motherless because their concept of what is “pro-life” hadn’t considered our situation.

I’ve worked with sexual assault survivors. With people whose medical conditions made life decisions and opportunities very difficult for them. With women colleagues whose professional choices and earning potential were significantly impacted (impaired) by pregnancies and the need for childcare. I cannot believe that anyone can legitimately believe or argue that a person’s social, economic, and physical being is not altered by pregnancy and/or parenthood.

I have worked as a social worker and a volunteer with abused and neglected children. I have seen how little the state does or cares for their needs, despite very good people doing their very best to do right by them. I have seen children age out of foster care and into prison, or thrust into a world with no money, no skills or training, and no family. The state did precious little for their lives.

I’ve known and loved women who had abortions for lots of different reasons. I’ve known people who surrendered children to adoption, and adoptive parents who loved their children every bit as fiercely as I love my biological creations. I don’t judge any of them for any of it. Our lives are all unique, and the needs of our families and health all different.

But our bodies must be our own. And we must be able to access the healthcare that we require. Women do not become less human because an egg is fertilized — and abortion bans do not make space for the real-life intricacies of maternal and fetal health, regardless. Women accessing abortions are trying to do the right thing — whether for themselves, or for the children they already have; whether because they cannot afford to parent or they cannot stand to be further tethered to an abusive “partner.” Whether they are simply not equipped to bear a child.

If abortion care had not been accessible in my child-bearing years, I would likely not have the three amazing children I have today. And when my health deteriorated during my last pregnancy, I may not have had access to the care necessary to save us both if today’s Texas ban had forced my doctors into a “hands-off” posture. And I am a privileged white woman with access to money, travel, and healthcare.

In Texas, reproductive justice is hardly visible — marginalized communities are criminalized, abortion is hard to afford and secure, and providers and caregivers are subjected to unbridled hate. But every day, caring and supportive advocates and caregivers show up for pregnant Texans in whatever ways they can. They are not baby-killers; they are community-builders. They are begging us to recognize the travesties that have resulted in the serious economic inequities and lack of accessible healthcare and childcare that keep marginalized communities from full participation in society and full opportunity for their kids.

I know no matter what happens, that those people will keep showing up. They will endure the vitriol and hate that spews forth from others who cannot conceive of a world experience different from their own. Until they have to.

But legally, as an attorney and a person who once had a uterus, I am acutely aware of what is at stake. And as a “good Christian girl,” I am horrified. Self-sacrifice at the expense of ourselves or our futures is not as virtuous or practical as we were taught. Our children are not less human because they are born with a uterus — and neither are we. But we are about to learn that a group of people presiding over a decades-long campaign to “restore” America to a time of “family values” have not bothered to put together any of the infrastructure required to actually support the “lives” they purport to be concerned with. They’ve made no proactive arrangements to live the values they espouse, arguing that’s not their obligation, nor the government’s. Just the edict is appropriate, apparently.

There will be abortions, history has taught us that. They are necessary healthcare to many of us. But they will not be available to those who need them most, and women will die for the decisions made for them. There will be poverty, and more children born into a system that does not protect or value them once they’ve taken breath. And we will all know that equal rights are not possible, because only men have full control of their futures.