In interviewing Bay Area residents for yesterday's article on the Florida for Life Act, another topic was brought into the light: abortion education.
"I believe education is the key here," Amanda,* who calls herself pro-choice, said. "I used to think I could get an abortion if I ever had an accident. Then I started researching it and watching videos of the procedures and reading about the damage the operations cause to the woman's body. All of those things scare me silly -- to the point of never allowing accidents to happen! Educating women about these surgeries should be included in the same classes with STDs."
There is something about even the word abortion that makes people want to cover their ears and hum. We have changed the labels to "pro-life" and "pro-choice" instead of "pro-abortion" and "anti-abortion," which in itself is interesting. The NRA, for instance, doesn't call itself "pro-choice" and clarify with statements like, "We aren't necessarily pro-gun; we just believe people should have the choice to own one." Debbie Wasserman Schultz, self-described as a "crusader for women's rights," is known for making entire speeches on the subject without ever once uttering the "A"-word. Furthermore, visits to the Planned Parenthood and other pro-abortion websites reveal how language can soften the blow by substituting words like "the procedure" for "abortion," and then describing it as "gently emptying the uterus." Some anti-abortion websites, on the other hand, go as far as calling mothers who opt for abortions "murderers" and compare abortions to genocide.
So on one hand, young, confused women are being told that having an abortion is as easy as a day at the spa, and on the other, are told they are violent criminals. It's no wonder why this is such a heated topic, when few people seem to have any clue about the subject before forming an opinion.
This is a story submitted to Examiner by a reader. No name will be released, as per the author's request.
About 3 years ago, I did what I swore I would never do, and had an abortion.
It was an alarmingly simple process. Go in, tell them what you're there for, they have you pee in a cup, hand you a few pamphlets explaining the process and how it works and possible complications, and then you wait for a while. A nurse fetches you and does a quick check-up down there before doing a sonogram to see how far along you are. I requested the nurse show me --as it was breaking my heart to do this, but I knew financially and physically (I get violently sick for seven out of the nine months, and I am allergic to the medication that treats my rare [medical condition omitted for confidentiality]) that I could not handle another child. I wanted that guilt, wanted it to eat me alive so that I would learn from this and never, ever, ever be stupid and bring a child into a situation that was unhealthy again, as I did with my son. As I stared at his or her tiny, tiny figure on the screen (I was roughly two months in, and had already been missing work due to being too sick to leave the bathroom most days), the nurse explained how the abortion would work, in pretty great detail. I was given a pill to swallow, one that would cause my body to reject the fetus. The fetus does not suffer in pain so much as discomfort before drifting into a comatose-like state as their systems shut down due to no longer being attached to the mother. I literally asked her over and over again, "Will this hurt the baby?" and she assured me that no, as far as what she's been taught, it does not. After they give you the pill, you wait for a long time (I think 1-2 hours was what I did. They had some movie playing in the waiting room, but I couldn't tell you what it was, I spent most of my time staring at a plant beside me apologizing inwardly and telling the baby that this was better for it, that I didn't want to make it have the terrible childhood I knew being with me would give it, and that I wouldn't let it suffer in a government system hoping someday to have a mommy and daddy. I couldn't do it.). Then they bring you to another waiting room, where they again tell you the process and what to expect, ask what medications you're allergic to, all that health stuff (for the pain meds and antibiotics to help the healing). Then you're put into a room much like most OBGYN rooms, and you take off your bottoms, sit on the table, and put this paper sheet over yourself. The doctor comes in (mine had a student with her, as I opted in to let a student observe for a discount, partially because I understand the need to learn, and partially because I wanted to know what the student knew), explains the process yet again, and then tells you to look at the ceiling, where there was a poster of a beautiful waterfall surrounded by greenery, a rainbow through it, something calm and peaceful and, for me, completely offensive. So I asked her if while she was doing her thing, she could explain everything she was doing to me. She was genuinely surprised. But she explained everything from how she opens the cervix with these little metal tools stacked on top of each other (which is briefly the worst pain ever, by the way, but I was thankful for the pain), then inserted this tube connected to a box-like vacuum, which she said would suck out the dead fetus and the extra lining in the uterus. This was a long, noisy process that I still have nightmares about sometimes. Then she does another check-up after everything is said and done, pulls out those metal tools (again, such pain), and leaves (not coldly, she was actually a wonderful woman and I am so thankful I had her). Then you go back to the second waiting room, where they give you heavy-duty pain meds (I opted for just Advil, telling them I don't like what narcotics do to me, but really not wanting the pain to go away), and you sit in a recliner next to other other recliners with women after their abortions. All they could do was complain about the pain, but really, those of us who are irresponsible enough to do this optionally deserve that pain, in my opinion. Anyway, the nurse aid comes around and gives us all a pamphlet for dealing with depression afterwards, who to talk to, what options are, how to be safe in the future, and, a lifesaver to me, an offer for a very discounted IUD insertion as long as you let a student observe. After 30 minutes or so, they asked me a slew of other questions (mostly to see if you're still in pain or feel ill or anything like that), and then send you out on your merry way.
I know all these words don't make it seem simple, but in hindsight, it was just as easy as going to a doctor and getting a shot. Do I regret that choice? Every day, and yet no, I do not. Do I approve of frivolous abortions? Not at all. Do I think that, for some people, there are exceptions? Absolutely.
Is there an easy answer? No, not for something this complicated. But it would appear that the logical thing to do, instead of spending time and money on legislation that is bound to get thrown out yet again, is instead invest that time and money in preventative education. In the long run, knowledge may save more lives than any law.
*Full name not released.
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