I would be most remiss without starting this one off with a dead-bang, no-shit, barf-making article linkage and content WARNING !!!!!!  

If you’re in anyway easily overwhelmed emotionally to the point of nausea, move right along and don’t EVEN think about continuing this post.

You know, I’m hardly one that is sickened by much of anything, too many runs in the back of the bus and too many fatal MVA scenes desensitizes one of necessity. But once in awhile something painted entirely on my mental canvas becomes utterly revolting and this article literally brought on waves of personal nausea.

This is what did it: Working At An Abortion Clinic Challenged My Pro-Choice Views And Confirmed Them

Salon really outdid themselves publishing this garbage. I just can’t imagine the mind-set of the virulently pro-choice crowd, in this case with an Amy Beeman byline. I at least try to have some understanding of progressive ideas for the comedy of their foolishness if nothing else, but this is beyond the pale by a few thousand parsecs.

I was startled by the realities of the procedure, but profoundly moved by the women who needed it.

Go on, please do explain exactly how you were moved by those women.

The first woman I ever saw have an abortion was a young, petite blonde. She was already on the table when I came in the room. She wore only a thin blue blouse and socks. A medical paper cover draped over her from the waist down. The doctor told her to put her feet in the stirrups and scoot her bottom down, much like every GYN visit every woman has ever had. The assistant, my trainer, stood near the doctor and chatted with him about weekend plans.

The girl was quiet and kept her wide eyes fixed on the ceiling. I stood above and to the right of her head, feeling like I had no right to be there. Before long the girl began crying out in pain as he did his work between her legs. The assistant explained to her that the doctor was manually dilating her cervix. She was moving around a bit as if her body was rejecting the pain and discomfort and the doctor and assistant told her in serious tones that she needed to be still. Once she was dilated enough, the doctor began the vacuum aspiration, which pulls the embryo from the uterus. The sucking noises during the aspiration sounded much like when they suck your spit at the dentist. Then, just like that, it was done and the noise stopped. The girl lay still, sobbing softly.

Notice the author is trying to evoke immediate sympathy for the poor thing, being young, petite and blonde is obviously more than enough reason for her sexual indiscretions to by solved easily using a gruesome procedure and we haven’t even reached the sickest part yet. Don’t fucking tell me about failed birth control, no access to the “morning after pill”, there is a 100% fail-safe method of birth-control, it’s called abstinence, perhaps you fell asleep during that portion of getting your education Amy. I see you back there waving your hand wildly you fuck-nozzle. You’re going to tell me “What about rape? Neener…Neener”….It’s called the morning after pill. I know you morons tend towards ADD, especially when losing arguments, so I repeated it for you. This is one of the few  times in this piece she even uses the medically correct term “embryo” as we’ll see shortly, a new acronym has entered our lexicon. The proggie brain just loves to create euphemisms for anything they might conceivably have shoved up their asses repeatedly by use of the proper King’s English or in this case medical terminology.

Here we go…one last WARNING for y’all….

I followed my trainer to the lab where products of conception (P.O.C.) were inspected to make sure the doctor removed all the bits that, if left behind, could cause an infection. My trainer made a point to show me the tiny arms and legs floating in the glass baking pan. At 10 weeks and beyond, those appendages are formed and clearly recognizable.

It was all so heavy. The loneliness of those little arms and legs. That girl, so clearly suffering during the procedure. Before my job at the clinic, my stance on abortion had been so black and white. I had been firmly pro-choice for as long as I could remember. Was it possible that working here could change my mind? [All Emph Mine-JB]

Dear L-rd above, referring to what was undeniably a human being in the early stages of development as a product of conception. See what I said about euphemisms? Clearly it would be most uncomfortable for the lib/proggie brains to actually say “the dismembered pieces of a human being”, voluntarily made so. It’s as if they can avoid real thought about their handiwork by coming up with cute names for it. I’m sure it’s a pathology that should be listed in DSM-5 under a new category.

Let me pose a question here Amy. What if those little arms and legs would have been a little girl? Now we have heayah what might be called a dilemma of morality. Let’s assume the aborted child (see I can say it quite well Amy), was in fact, female. Statistically the changes are pretty flippin’ close to even that it was. Assuming that to be the case, isn’t your entire premise conflated? After all, in our little test case here, both parties, living and deceased were female. Therefore who actually suffered more from the macabre procedure?

Back to the revulsion:

When I started my job at an abortion clinic, I had recently graduated college with a creative writing degree, but finding a job was hard, and finding health insurance and benefits was even harder. When a friend asked me to work with her at a well-known women’s clinic as an assistant, I thought, sure. It was a grown-up job, and she assured me I didn’t need medical experience because they would train me. I’d worked in hospitality as a waitress, and she said my people skills would be one of the most important things I’d bring to the job. Besides, I agreed with the mission of the organization. I was a feminist.

Tuesdays were abortion day at the clinic, or A.B day, as we called it. But the rest of the time it was mostly basic GYN care, STI testing (we termed it “sexually transmitted infection,” not disease) and providing birth control. I was to be the front desk girl, but would be trained to assist the medical staff in various ways when needed.

On A.B day, I assisted the doctor. In truth he needed very little other than for his sterilized tools to be ready and for me to quickly grab the jar of P.O.C as soon as the procedure was done, remove the tubing, cover it so the contents are not visible and usher it out of the room to the lab.

Yay, what day is it? And it isn’t hump day, it’s A. B Day. !!!  Yipeeee..!!!!

Did it even remotely occur to you, that perhaps your difficulty in finding employment might just have been related to taking a useless baccalaureate? Isn’t it a shame that health care and benefits are difficult and pricey since your Omnipotent Hopey-Changey Deity’s healthcare plan turned into one of the biggest, if not THE BIGGEST scam foisted on the taxpayers evah !!! Imagine that. I’m very pleased she found a grown-up job. Obviously her GPA was rather low if she couldn’t pen that sentence better. I being the nasty-old fuck I am, would have written it like this: “It was a job for an adult on par spiritually with Josef Mengele.” I’m sure it’s a comfort to your victims ‘patients’ to know that butchering fetuses only requires some OJT for the assistants. People skills? Maybe I missed another euphemism there, the wholesale execution of innocents could be considered people skills (See reference to that butchering Nazi bastard above), but your “feminist” creds are allegedly a de facto “Get Out Of Jail Free Card” for worrying about the consequences in the after-life or even Karma for that matter. Again, I ask the question, doesn’t abortion hurt women even more by denying what may be other women life? What is the value of an female infant vs. a 30 year old female? Please be specific and include footnotes and cross references…thought so….*crickets chirping*.

Hah !!! She use the term “front desk girl“. I thought the feminazis hated that term and wouldn’t a creative writing gradjeate use the term “receptionist” instead. Ooooh another euphemism…STI is so much more pleasant than STD. Lemme think, infection is symptomatic of a disease process, be it bacterial or viral, so changing a letter does bugger-all to actually change anything, again I submit for your consideration another example of the prognazi penchant for avoiding having to face their own hypocrisy and pathology, by the use of language.

But my real job, the one I grew to feel proud of, was to support the women. Some had boyfriends, husbands, friends, sisters or mothers with them. Some patients were alone. I felt especially compelled to help them.

The doctor would inject Versed, a common sedative to help people relax during surgical procedures, into a vein in their arm. Then, as he took his place and unwrapped his tools, I would focus solely on the patient.

Yes indeed she supported women, pieces of them floating about in that baking dish about to be thrown in the trash, but I digress. This is just another point in the article where she’s baldly attempting to cushion the real horrors about to occur.

“Are you doing OK?” I’d ask.

“I”m OK.”

“I’m going to be right here the whole time,” I would tell them. “I’ll let you know what the doctor is doing. If you want to hold my hand you can.”

She would nod, not eager to be so chummy.

“Where do you work?” I’d say, and we’d go from there, until time for chit-chat was obviously over. Then I would shift the conversation. “The doctor is going to manually dilate you now, which we explained in counseling. You’ll feel some cramping.”

When it was really starting to happen, she would usually take my hand. As the procedure continued, she would squeeze tighter and tighter until sweat formed under my polyurethane glove.

“It’ll be over soon,” I’d say. “You’re doing fine.”

Then came the low hum of the aspiration machine and the sucking noises. Sometimes she would moan in pain or emotional release, or she would just squeeze her eyes shut and turn her head to the side, tears running over the bridge of her nose and toward her ear.

“This is the last part,” I’d say. “He’s almost done.”

The physical part of the procedure is almost done, but I doubt if our “supportive” friend here gave much thought to the long-term emotional consequences of that which she is apparently proud to be part of. After all it is a grown-up job and only a child would worry about how those patients felt years afterwards, right? Would the former mother-to-be ever wonder what that murdered fetus might have grown up to be?

Then the sucking noises stopped and the hum of the machine stopped with a flick of a switch and I’d have to let go of her hand and tell her, “It’s done,” and I’d hurry to get the P.O.C. out of the room so I could get back to her. I’d help her dress and put my arm around her to steady her as we left the procedure room to go to the recovery room.

It was intense, to say the least, but I felt like I was helping people get through one of the most scary and awful experiences of their lives. Holding a woman’s hand through her abortion became oddly rewarding. They often thanked me and the other staff at our little clinic, who were really quite amazing, including our gentle and warm doctor.

We must, we absolutely MUST hurry to get that P.O.C. out of the room, however I don’t think it was out of any hurry to get back to the patient. I imagine they would go to great lengths to ensure the patient didn’t get to see those tiny limbs in the dish. I suppose my intolerant, evil conservative self is too stupid to understand how that job could be “rewarding”. The gentle und varm doktor had to get his props of course.

Yanno, I’ve had about enough of working my way through this article, since I still have the urge to vomit bile editing it. Do read the rest if you have the stomach for it. It’s a glimpse into the mind of an inhuman pathology. She goes on equivocating and contradicting herself, but in the end talking herself into the real ideology at play, by clearly stating that “the woman’s life trumps the embryo or fetus.” Really now????

But then again, I’m not enlightened enough to even understand.

-Carry On


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