Link to Iowa County Almanac

http://iowacountyalmanac.blogspot.com/

 

Fried Eggs, the GOP, and IVF

 

Wendy Gilbert Gronbeck

 

Men of the GOP, I know your feelings are hurt. It must be terribly hard to accept that sometimes a syringe works better than your manly parts. How embarrassing to be outperformed by a turkey baster. Is this why Linsey Graham looks so sour and Mitch McConnell so befuddled? If your wife is stepping out on you with a turkey baster, I certainly understand why you have taken up arms (and your other manly parts) to wage war on Petrie Dishes.

 

Long ago you made it clear whose problem infertility is. It’s those women–losing their pregnancies, failing to conceive, walking around with incompetent cervices.

 

But for heaven’s sake, guys–you can do better! You are selling yourselves short. You haven’t begun to take this far enough. Did you know that many fertilized eggs (aka young people) are flushed out naturally during menstruation? Come on, Gyn Masters, I’m sure you know that. All us women washing away the well-crafted products of your manly parts, month after month, year after year? The Vatican says keeping embryos alive is “opposed to human dignity,” and woe unto you if you destroy one. That leaves women with a tough task, expelling unattached embryos every month, worrying about their dignity, performing itty bitty CPR. The Alabama Supreme Court ruled that embryos are children and if you destroy one, you can be charged with wrongful death. So, it is incumbent on you GOP incumbents to put all menstruating women in the pokey.

 

You can put an end to this. How? For starters, you should jail all menstruating women, though some of them might call that respite. And, you could set up inspection stations, sift through things, rescue those little expelled kiddies.

 

One more thing: while you’re all up there in our business, would you mind providing some of those more mature embryos with school lunches, affordable healthcare, and a decent education? And remember to wear your gloves, boys.

 

 

 

 Link to my story in the Bangalore Press:

https://bangalorereview.com/2024/05/still/

Neuterville

 

Non-Fiction--really

 

I grew up in Neuterville. My dad was neuter. My mom was neuter-er. We were as genderless as my doll, Dee Dee Diaper, who had a pinprick hole between her little bowed legs. When I squeezed water into her mouth from the plastic baby bottle, it ran right through onto the ground, but none of us ever peed. Certainly no one pooped or farted. Also, no one in the family wore underwear, none that I ever saw, even in the laundry, because you learned to tuck it down underneath out of sight. My mother gave birth four times but was never pregnant. How could she be, here in Neuterville?

 

For two decades, I completely avoided being naked. I got dressed underneath my nightie, then whipped it off. At bedtime, I put my nightie on over my clothes, then took my clothes out from under. I never saw my dad in an undershirt nor my mother in a slip, because we were never naked. We were neuter. We lived in Neuterville.

 

Not coincidentally, our pets also lived in Neuterville. When Fang mounted the neighbor’s Cocker Spaniel, my mother told me they were playing hopscotch. They were really good at it. When our neighbor girl with the unfortunate name of Rosy Dix, sprouted breasts and appeared at the lake wearing a two-piece bathing suit-but only the bottom piece -  I was banished from the beach.

 

Even in Neuterville, a girl eventually turns 13, and here’s what happens. You are minding your own business in your bedroom, doing homework. Your social studies book is open to the chapter “How the Pilgrims and The Indians Became Good Friends.” You have your PJs on. Your grandfather’s homemade radio, fashioned from a kit, sits on your desk. You wear the same Bakelite headset your grandpa did in 1920 and listen to Jack Benny on Sunday nights. Suddenly, your bedroom door opens. You catch the briefest flash of your mother’s face, and she sails an LP record right over your head and onto the bed and slams the door. Even Donna, the dullard next door, would be curious about this event, so I take off the headset, walk to the bed and pick up the record. It’s in a plain, dark blue jacket with a sticker that says Chelsea Michigan Public Library. Printed in large white letters were these words: “What Every Young Lady Needs to Know.” Even the Princess of Neuterville knew what that meant.

 

But, here was my problem: Let me explain the layout of our house. My bedroom opened to the living room. In the corner of the living room was a grapefruit tree my dad had grown from a seed. It got really tall which made him very proud, and he couldn’t bear to prune it back, so he cut a round hole in the ceiling tile and let it continue growing on up into his bedroom. That wasn’t my problem. In the other corner was the Barkalounger where you’d have to sit carefully to avoid flipping over backwards. That wasn’t my problem either. My problem was in between the tree and the recliner. It was a large walnut box on long legs with brass feet and a cloth front--our HiFi record player. Now you see my problem, me living in Neuterville and all. Imagine playing “Everything a Young Lady Needs to Know” in the living room, right in front of my parents who thought all a young lady needed to know was she better not ever get nekked, pee, or go swimming with Rosy Dix.

 

Post Script: Girl from Neuterville marries man from Let It All Hang Out. They live happily and awkwardly ever after.

No Exceptions? Really?

 

The nurses on our oncology unit cared for cancer patients but also cared for mothers who were losing a pregnancy or who faced terminating a pregnancy gone wrong. Why the oncology unit? Because the last thing a mother losing her baby needs is to be on a delivery unit where she will hear crying babies and joyful laughter. We were accustomed to dealing with loss and grief, so they were sent to us.

Sometimes these mothers were suffering a miscarriage; sometimes the baby was malformed and would die before or after birth; sometimes it already had died. In some cases, this was a danger to the mother. Although some babies might live a few minutes if labor was allowed to continue, they might suffer pain and air hunger during that time.  

A baby born dead or who died just after birth was always treated with respect. Parents were given a little knitted hat that the baby had worn. Families were given a certificate to acknowledge the birth, including footprints that might be a quarter inch long. When possible, a photo was taken. They were encouraged to hold the baby for as long as they wanted. Sometimes we wrapped the babe in a blanket exposing just a heel or glimpse of skin because the rest would have been too disturbing to view. Sometimes, it needed to be fully covered if the anomalies were extreme. I doubt most people shouting about such issues in the political arena could imagine such human anomalies. Most of these pregnancies were greatly anticipated, some were the result of procedures to overcome infertility. Sometimes families opted out of these support measures.

We saw brave husbands sit by their grieving wives, knowing they would go home empty-handed. I also remember those distraught fathers who sat in the waiting room with the couple’s other children. He might be holding a toddler on his knee and watching his other children. He might be struggling with how to explain that no baby will be coming home with them.

In the worst-case scenario, this father and mother faced a gut-wrenching decision about letting the pregnancy or labor continue or ending it. Sometimes a mother’s future fertility was threatened if she continued to struggle against a pregnancy gone wrong. Sometimes the mother’s very life was threatened. Imagine someone saying to that father, sitting with his other children, that the mother must continue such a pregnancy even if it kills her or causes her physical and/or mental damage. I never heard a physician pose such a choice. I certainly never heard anything remotely akin to “No exceptions for you!”

Imagine some politician bursting into the room and saying, “I will make the decisions for your family.” Imagine a politician saying, “I will decide to let this mother to these other children die to save a baby that will live for just a few minutes.”

 No exceptions? The ignorance! The arrogance! The utter mean-spiritedness! “No exceptions” is not born of love or concern or any reasonable resemblance to Christianity. At best, it’s the result of misinformation and at worst, the result of a corrosive desire for power and control. It’s also a sleazy means of pandering to a political base for personal gain. “No exceptions” is anything but pro-life.

Maybe this issue doesn’t seem pertinent to you right now. Just wait until people who use such strong-arm tactics set their sites on something you do care about. It’s only a matter of time.

If you want “no exceptions,” how about equal public education, equal health care and equal school safety for all children–with absolutely no exceptions. That, my friends, is pro-life.