Friday, July 1, 2022
I didn’t know why then, a secret my mother kept nearly to
her grave, about her cousin and best friend Kitty who had gone there to get rid
of a problem she could not or would not solve by marriage.
Where Kitty got the money, my mother never said. But Kitty
was a popular girl and if the sugar daddy that created the problem wouldn’t pay
for its solution, then one of her other sugar daddies would.
The small estate testified to that doctor’s success; large
urn-like planters situated on either side of the long walk that led up to the
front door.
Even back then in the late 1940s when Kitty’s event
transpired, doctors like this made their side money off spoiled girls who got
themselves in trouble and expected their parents to pay to get them out of it.
Poorer neighborhoods had less prestigious doctors to do it,
or even underpaid interns from the local hospitals looking to pick up an extra
buck or two for their service.
The really poor or really desperate found cheaper, riskier
means to get rid of their shame, dumping the results in some nearby trash bin
as they staggered home lucky not to bleed to death along the way.
Unlike many of the spoiled kids from nearby towns, Kitty
wasn’t rich, but managed to get enough to hire this butcher, and made my mother
keep her secret, and my mother did, long after Kitty probably forgot about it
herself, my mother not even divulging it to the priest in confession, carrying
this mortal sin inside her until it drove her crazy, struggling perhaps with
the vague thought of how she might solve her problem when her time came, after
her bastard of a husband first took off, leaving her alone and pregnant, a
notion that if carried out might have ended my existence before it began.
Years later, society gave up this unspoken side profession
with Roe vs Wade, when modern technology and equally unethical doctors,
employed an assembly line approach to help women eliminate the problem all
their wrong decisions got them into in the first place. So efficient was this
new technique these butchers could later sell the body parts of the unborn to
help deal with their bottom line, turning the whole affair into little more
than a tooth extraction.
To make themselves feel less guilty, these women and doctors
created a whole variety of myths to justify their actions, it isn’t life they
were removing, or that a woman might risk her own life if the doctors did not
perform the action. Many of these myths claim a woman should not bear a child
born out of rape or incest, nor should a predictably deformed child be brought
into world, or that it is cruel to bring a child into the world without hope of
adoption.
Unfortunately, these account for about 8 percent of all the
abortions in the United States, all the rest are elective, meaning that some
woman decided that a baby does not fit into her life style or the relationship
out of which the pregnancy came didn’t quite work out as planned, or rage at
the father made the woman terminate the birth. In many cases, it is merely a matter
of convenience.
The most popular myth involves the innocent young girl who
falls deeply in love with a boy who promises her undying love, then abandons
her when she ends of pregnant as a result of unprotected sex. She is portrayed
as an utterly innocent victim, drawn in by the boy, and when pregnant, she has
no other choice but to seek a doctor to help her chop the kid to pieces.
Advocates claim this poor unfortunate girl is humiliated by
pro-life people as she rushes into the clinic to get the dee done. In every
telling, this girl is always the victim and the boy the culprit or some other
version where she is a woman of colors, raised in a poor family without father,
sometimes raised by an elderly grandmother, leaving her few or no resources to
raise the child if allowed to be born.
Yet no matter how pro-abortion advocates paint this girl,
she is still a victim of her own choices, engaged in an act of sex for which
she is partly responsible.
Being a single mother is difficult as I well know, since my
mother dragged me everywhere with her when I was young, struggling through low
paying jobs to feed and cloth me. My ex-wife suffered a similar fate after she
fled west and had to fend for herself and our child – as have many brave women
who have resisted the easy way out, choosing to raise their kids rather than
kill them. But we have raised a society of cowards, who take pleasure in the
sexual act, but no responsibility for its outcome, who would rather murder
their off spring rather than raise them, many leaving a trail of body parts
behind them as if from war.
One of the hardest moments in my life came when my daughter
asked me to pay for her abortion, even though her boyfriend wanted to marry her,
and her mother wanted to adopt her child if allowed to be born.
I keep thinking of the doctors who engage in these mass
murders, violating their oath to save lives by taking lives instead, doctors
who live in fancy houses behind a façade of righteousness, who kill and kill
but never get punished, upstanding moral citizens with blood dripping from
their fingers, deluding themselves and us into believing they are doing
something to help humanity.
I still divert my gaze when I walk past that house in
Paterson, even though the doctor who lived in it is long gone, the vicious
memory of what he did inside that place still haunting me as it did my mother.
I divert my gaze going passed Planned Parenthood as well where mass murder is
performed with such efficiency, Nazis would envy them, mass murder without
shame or remorse.
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