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No, Trump, Doctors Aren’t Executing Babies You Fucking Liar

Fuck you for saying so and fuck those of you who believe him and all the other abortion liars.

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My sons Nicholas and Zachary would be turning 15 right now. But they aren’t here. They aren’t here because in 2004 —when I had just entered the third trimester of my pregnancy—I developed severe preeclampsia.

The disease had already killed one of my boys by the time I was admitted to the hospital, and during that first night there I got sicker and sicker until I was almost dead too.

I could tell you all about it.

I could tell you about the procedure I had — it’s the big one, the one the abortion foes get all upset about. Yes, I had what’s commonly called a “partial birth abortion” — except I won’t call it that because that medical procedure doesn’t exist.

I could tell you about how my liver and kidneys stopped working. I could tell you about my terrifyingly high blood pressure. I could tell you how my head felt it was being split in two because of the pain.

I could tell you how terrified and grief-stricken I was that night as I thrashed in agony in that hospital bed.

I could tell you how I spent that night desperately hoping beyond hope that the doctors could do it and that they would stabilize me and save my surviving son.

I could tell you about the horrible moment when seven doctors stood around my hospital bed and told me I was dying and my son was nearly dead and the only way I’d survive was to terminate the pregnancy.

I could tell you how more than anything I wanted to leave that hospital with my babies.

I could tell you why labor and delivery wasn’t an option for me. That my surviving son was too tiny and sick himself to live outside the womb, and if I’d delivered him I would have had a stroke or heart attack and probably died, and soon after he was born he would have died too — and painfully.

I could tell you AGAIN that late-term abortions are exceedingly rare and are only done to save the life of the mother or because the baby is incompatible with life.

I could tell you about how ten million women get preeclampsia during their pregnancies and how it kills 76,000 women around the world every year.

I could tell you about how I’ve written article after article about what happened to me because I believed if people just heard my story, they might see some shades of gray in an issue they believe is black and white.

I could tell you if I hadn’t had that procedure, my delightful and amazing twelve-year-old daughter wouldn’t be here because I wouldn’t be here.

But you know what? There’s no fucking point.

Because none of you motherfuckers care.

That’s the worst part of being a woman who has survived a harrowing pregnancy loss that ended in an unwanted abortion. Yes, I said unwanted.

BECAUSE YOU DO NOT FUCKING CARE.

You do not care about women’s lives. Not you, Trump, not Pence, or any of those people who cheered Trump on last night at his rally because they’d rather believe a confirmed liar than women and the doctors who serve them.

For fifteen years I have endured ignorant fucking people and politicians calling me a murderer.

For fifteen years I have had well-meaning people tell me, “Oh honey, the doctors were wrong, your baby could have survived.”

It would be less painful if they literally stabbed me in the heart.

For fifteen years I’ve trotted out my trauma hoping to change minds. I have relieved the horror and grief of losing my sons over and over as I try in my small way to fight against the tyranny and lies that politicians and religious zealots tell people about abortion.

For fifteen years I had hope that people would be willing to honestly look into the realities of late-term abortion and they’d realize that it is a valuable medical procedure that saves women’s lives.

I no longer have that hope.

In fact, I don’t know why I’m even fucking writing about it again except that I’m sitting here full of grief and helpless rage.

Grief because my boys, who were due on March 1st, would probably be celebrating their birthday about now because twins tend to come a bit early.

Rage because I am so goddamned tired of people hearing the truth and calling it lies because it fits neatly into their idea of abortion and of women.

Rage because people believe women are feckless sluts who randomly get pregnant and change their mind at the last minute.

THIS LITERALLY NEVER HAPPENS.

Rage because there are people who believe that there are doctors who work hard taking care of women and babies but are also somehow eager to kill newborn babies. Like, have you ever actually met a doctor? Because that’s sixteen kinds of bullshit. My doctor told me my procedure was the worst moment of his career because his whole life is dedicated to saving women and babies.

Helplessness because nothing matters anymore.

Helplessness because there is no longer any such thing as truth.

If you’d rather believe I’m a murderer instead of a grief-stricken mother who mourns her sons every single day, FUCK YOU.

If you’re a politician who is routinely lying about the realities of late-term abortion because it scores political points, FUCK YOU.

If you’re shaking your head as you read this and are thinking about looking up articles about how babies born at 21 weeks are surviving outside the womb to send to me? FUCK YOU IN PARTICULAR. Because those are LIES. Cruel, terrible lies that break my heart.

I no longer believe there is any hope.

Women’s lives will continue to be sacrificed on the unholy altar of politics + religion in order to gain power until the end of goddamned time. We do not fucking matter.

If I’d refused my doctor’s advice and continued the pregnancy until I died, I’d be a fucking hero to abortion foes. How fucked up is that? I’d be dead, and my surviving son would be dead, and my daughter wouldn’t exist. Three lives snuffed out of existence.

Pro-life my fucking ass. FUCK ALL OF YOU. I’m done.

Writer. Recovering Mommy blogger. People pay me to put words on pages and I’m pretty good at it.

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