Sheila Quirke

July 17, 2013

Feminism, Abortion, Politics and Other Things Women Don’t Talk About

I’m angry, so expect a bit of a rant with this one. And if listening to an angry woman’s rant is not your cup of tea, well then, it’s probably time to get out of this here parlor. Move along, little doggie. There you go.

Now that everyone who’s here wants to be here, let’s have a bit of a chat, okay? I am sick and tired of what is happening to women in America today. Sick and tired. Our rights are being torn apart, with surgical precision, law by law, state by state. Are we angry about this? No. We are too busy to be angry. We’ve got Pinterest to peruse and anonymous cyber bullying to attend to on the Internet.

There is so much, so much, time and energy paid to blaming and judging our sisters. Why do you not serve your kids organic oranges? Don’t you love them? Why on earth would you disfigure your baby boy at birth when circumcision only encourages self-hatred? Don’t you know not to vaccinate your kids — do you really want them to get autism? Don’t you know how crucial it is to vaccinate your kids — why are your choices putting my kid at risk? Breastfeeding your child past two is gross and immoral. Breastfeeding your child for anything less than three years is placing your needs over the child’s needs. And on and on and on. And on and on . . .

Sad trombone, ladies. No matter how much time we bicker about leaning in or leaning out (and I am so, so guilty of this myself), there is some serious shit happening in state capitals around the good old U S of A. Here is a recent sampling:

Texas passed some epic legislation this month that greatly curtails abortion rights. The news that a lot of folks are focusing on, and don’t see any problem with, is that Texas has effectively banned abortions after 20 weeks. Now lots of folks have lots of problems with late term abortions. The reality is that very, very few abortions occur this late in pregnancy. 2003 stats from the Center for Disease Control (CDC) tell us that in the US, 1.4% of all abortions occur after 21 weeks and that figure drops to .08% after 24 weeks, or 1,032 abortions. Many of those 1,032 abortions involve babies who have been found to suffer from great genetic or physical abnormalities, where it is scientifically deemed that the child, if born, would suffer terribly before dying. These are not abortions taken lightly or without significant consideration, esp. given that many doctors already refuse to conduct late term abortions, even outside of legislation preventing them from doing so.
The real issue in Texas, I believe, is that the number of abortion clinics across the state will drop from 47 to 5. Five. In a state the size of Texas, our second largest state behind only Alaska. FIVE. This is because the legislation would now require all doctors who perform abortions to have admitting privileges to hospitals and be within a certain distance of a hospital. The politicians stand behind their great concern of a mother’s safety, but abortions have been legally performed in this country since the Roe v. Wade Supreme Court ruling in 1973. That is 40 years of abortions that have been performed safely without requiring the docs to have admitting privileges to local hospitals. The great irony no one seems to be talking about is that Roe v. Wade was a significant victory for the safety of women, because like it or not, abortions will keep on occurring. Now, suddenly, a group of politicians, not physicians, are so concerned about the safety of women, that they want to stand behind their cloak of exaggerated concern, and use that concern to ensure many women will be significantly less safe.
The good politicians (and, yes, they happen to be Republicans) of North Carolina snuck, yep, snuck, anti-abortion legislation into a motorcycle safety bill in the past couple of weeks. Three minutes before a committee hearing on a new bill addressing motorcycle safety, a political reporter Tweeted that the committee would be, in fact, reviewing new anti-abortion legislation. The sitting committee members did not even have knowledge of this. They walked into a committee room, briefed and ready to discuss motorcycle safety, and were instead met with a bill that was 100% gutted and now specific to limiting abortions in the state of North Carolina. Even Republican Governor Pat McCrory took issue with this legislative hijacking tactic, the exact same tactic that had been used the previous week under anti-Shariah law legislation. No medical professionals were consulted, yet the passed legislation would now require a doctor to be present for the ingestion of RU-486, an abortion pill used in the first few weeks of pregnancy. Interesting that toxic chemotherapies are administered without the presence of a doctor, but now a woman swallowing a pill will require medical supervision.
Ohio’s latest budget bill really, really takes the cake. Signed by Governor John Kasich, the Ohio law now prevents publicly funded hospitals, which is basically ALL hospitals, from making arrangements with abortion clinics to accept their patients should a crisis develop in the midst of the abortion procedure. As I read the law, a woman is now responsible to find her own private medical care should a health crisis develop during her procedure. The juxtoposition between the Texas politicians worried about women’s safety and the Ohio governor now making it illegal to treat a woman in medical crisis, well, I honestly have no words. Oh yes, and lest I forget, publicly funded rape crisis centers are now in danger of losing funding if they inform impregnated rape victims about where or how to get an abortion, the rapist’s parting gift, if you will.
A number of states, West Virginia, Wisconsin, Alabama, Idaho among them, have been monkeying with the idea of mandated transvaginal ultrasounds before an abortion is allowed. Critics call it “state rape,” as transvaginal ultrasounds are performed with a phallic shaped tool inserted into the vagina to provide images of the fetus. They are not medically necessary, but meant to force the woman to “see” her baby before she chooses to abort it.

So you see why I am angry, ladies? While we’re busy fighting one another and yammering about what age is appropriate to stop breastfeeding and whether or not working moms or stay at home moms have it worse, politicians across the country are working diligently to limit our rights. Politicians across the country are working hard to tell us what can and can’t happen in our uterus.

Now I know many of you do not consider yourself feminists. The word leaves a bad taste in the mouths of many. Not me. I am a proud feminist. If there were a card, I would carry it. Honestly, it’s not as scary as Rush Limbaugh would have us believe, and yes, I shave and wear lipstick and underwire bras. And I know full well that many of you might be pro-life. I love life, and I love babies. I also believe it is possible to be anti-abortion and pro-choice. Why do I believe that? Because somehow, my very Catholic, very traditional 80 year old father tells me so. While he does not believe in abortion, he recognizes that it is solely a woman’s right to choose what happens in her body. Case closed.

While we have opted to focus on one another and our differences, many, many politicians have taken the opportunity to legislate what should be most important and sacred to us. Our bodies. Bloggers are at the crux of this issue — guilty as sin, if you will — in promoting woman on woman hate. We shout to get our point across and to drown out those who make different choices. This noise in the blogosphere works beautifully for those wanting to take our rights away while we’re not paying attention.

So let’s pay attention, shall we? This is epically important for us, our daughters, our sisters, our granddaughters, our nieces. Take a look at what’s been happening in this here U S of A these past few weeks. Because, whether you realize it or not, it impacts you. And the politicians are not done. They will chip and chip away, and one day we will all wake up and it will be 1958 again. All the choices the women who came before us fought so hard for will be gone.

For whatever reason, we’re not talking about it. And that scares the hell out of me. And I hope you, too.

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July 15, 2013

This Woman Is Not Allowed to Cry

This is a photo, a mug shot to be precise, of Helen Ford. I don’t know much about Helen Ford and the first I heard of her was yesterday. Helen was arrested and charged for the murder of her eight year old granddaughter.

Helen Ford, charged and arrested for the murder of her eight year old granddaughter, Gizzell Ford. *Photo courtesy of the Chicago Police Department.*

The little girl’s name was Gizzell. Remember that name, because chances are, she does not have an adult in her life that will work to tell her story and honor her the way I do my own dead daughter. Rest in peace, Gizzell.

The details about the incident are horrifying. I read about it in a Chicago Tribune article written by Rosemary Regina Sobol and Geoff Ziezulewicz. They write:

The prosecutor said Gizzell had injuries old and new over her entire body: Cuts, bruises and scratches to her face, ears and lips, bruises and puncture wounds on her back, chest and abdomen and bruises on her arms and legs.

Her neck showed signs of hemorrhaging and fractures and broken cartilage, Pillsbury said. The girl also suffered deep lacerations to her buttocks and had ligature marks on her ankles and wrists, as well as circular burns on her body that may have been cigarette burns, Pillsbury said.

When they examined the home for evidence, police took a pole, twine and cables, some of them smeared with blood. In the bedroom where the girl was found, investigators found blood splattered near her body, Pillsbury said.

Investigators also determined that Gizzell had suffered trauma to her head long enough ago that maggots had hatched in the cuts and spread to the front of her scalp while she was still alive.

Reading that description made me weep. Maybe it had the same effect on you, too. The details, specific and grotesque as they are, are important to recognize, though, as a means to bear witness to Gizzell’s suffering. Imagine an eight year old girl, defenseless, in her family home, abused and murdered at the hands of her own grandmother.

I live in a big city, so stories of child abuse are not unfamiliar to me. They can be seen regularly peppering the headlines and newscasts. In the moment they are wrenching, and then you watch a commercial, or click to a gossip column, the sad tales of abused children forgotten. After my daughter was diagnosed with cancer, though, and after four miscarriages, I value the life of a child, any child, more deeply, more profoundly. I am ashamed to admit that. The stories, the headlines, the names seem to stick with me now in a way they never did before.

When I see a story of extreme child abuse and neglect, I tend to click on it, steeling myself for what is certain to turn my stomach. And sure enough, my stomach is always turned. My eyes tend to well up in response to a child who is missing the must fundamental things a child requires from the adults in their life — love and protection. I think about my own daughter, who was surrounded by boat loads of love and protection, and yet those were not enough to save her from cancer.

Child abuse is preventable. Every time, every situation, every whip and slap and burn and cut and chain and restraint is preventable. The prevention gets mucked up in bureaucracy, to be sure, but the presence of bureaucrats is no excuse for the suffering of an abused child. If anything, it only adds to the manner in which that child was failed.

Seeing this mug shot makes me angry. You are not allowed to cry, Grandma. What are her tears about, I wonder. Is Helen Ford sad she went one step too far this time? Is Helen Ford sad she was caught? Is Helen Ford wondering how she ended up in front of a police camera? Is Helen Ford resentful that she was straddled with the care and feeding of the eight year old daughter of her bedridden son? Is Helen Ford weeping for herself and what has become of her life?

I don’t know. And truth is, I don’t care. Wipe your tears, Grandma.

Rest in peace, Gizzell Ford. May you know peace, for what surely must be the first time, in death, if not in life.

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July 11, 2013

Coming Out of the Closet II: Donna’s Things

Closets are very personal spaces. Even anonymous ones, like hotel closets — cool and spare, empty as they are, offer glimpses of passing guests after adding their clothes and shoes. We know something about the person behind those clothes and shoes just by looking at them.

Donna’s closet is the same. As I look through the bins and hangers and boxes, Donna’s things spilling out, those things lead me to memories. So many memories. Wonderful memories, bittersweet memories. They are visceral reminders of the person who was, but no longer is. Our Donna.

The closet. Donna on the left, Mary Tyler Son on the right. Hats and blankets and baby things interspersed.

Donna didn’t love the typical pink and purple choices offered for girls. She loved black and navy right along with her pink. And she was particular. And delicate. I could buy her a white cotton broadcloth blouse and not worry for a moment about stains. That is a rare quality, indeed, in a two, three, and four year old.

These are a few of her favorite things. Stacked in big bins, never to be worn again. — These are a few of her favorite things. Stacked in big bins, ready to be worn.

In the bins above, I remember the sweaters, some hand knit, that she wore so well. There is the pink ombre skirt she rocked with black Cons and a tank top. There is the blue floral blouse that she wore to pre-school and ran around the front yard chasing bubbles in, laughing all the way. There are the striped leggings that always reminded me of the witch from the Wizard of Oz. She was bald when she wore those. And so very tiny.

On top is the baby blanket our dear family friend knit her. The blanket came with a hat to match. We didn’t know if Donna would be a boy or girl, so the colors are sweet and pastel. We wrapped Donna in that on the way home from the hospital. Her little two day old self refused, absolutely and loudly, to wear the matching hat. Pffft. She was smarter than us even then. Who needs a hat in the middle of July?

Hair bows and floral fleece. I love that the bows look like they are in prison. Donna hated hair bows. The only one she would wear was a black crochet spider. She was never a princess, more like a tough little cookie. — Hair bows and floral fleece. No boys allowed.

Donna hated hair bows. Hated them. When you are a Cancer Mom, the hair on your child’s head is a big deal. A very big deal. Donna lost her hair three times. She had beautiful curls to start, just like her brother. Beautiful curls.

In the midst of treatment, I always imagined a long haired Donna sitting on my lap hearing stories about how she was so sick as a young child. That was never to be. When Donna’s hair would grow back, it was not the same. It was straight and the texture was much stiffer than her original hair. We have science to thank for that. Her treatment was strong enough to permanently change the texture of hair that grew on her head.

The one hair decoration Donna would consent to was a black crochet spider. She was so her own little being.

Hats, hats, and more hats. Three bins of hats, many handmade and given with love. A kid with cancer needs hats for warmth and sun protection. Donna had a whole wardrobe in every color and for every season. — Hats, hats, and more hats. Three bins of hats, many handmade and given with love.

Thank goodness Donna loved hats. Hats are crucial to a kid going through cancer treatment. They are worn for both warmth and sun protection. Donna had dozens of them, some mailed to us by strangers, their love in every knit stitch.

I remember well Donna’s big, almond shaped eyes peering out from under the brim of whatever hat she had chosen that day. She had the most lovely eyes. Piercing and knowing and wise. And so blue. Just beautiful. I miss those eyes staring back at me, twinkling at me. I even miss the tears flowing from them. Under the hat, too, was always the surprise of a bald child.

Donna's clothes. Tulle and kimono and sailor outfits and felted wool coat with velvet collar. Donna wore her clothing so very well. — Donna’s clothes. Tulle and kimono and sailor outfits and felted wool coat with velvet collar.

And now my tears flow. Each of these hanging pieces have meaning to me. I have this odd knack of recalling exactly where we were when Donna wore what. Maybe it is from all the photos we took to document a girl we knew wouldn’t always be there with us. Regardless, I am so very grateful for the memories.

The pink tutu was a gift from Grandma. Donna loved to wear it inside over her shorts or jeans or pajamas and dance. She always loved to dance around the house, wherever there was music. The kimono was a gift from a dear friend who lived in Japan. The toys in Japan are about a thousand times cooler than the toys in the States. So are the kimonos.

The green fairy dress brings back lovely memories. In June 2007 Donna wore it at home when she was so sick from her first dose of chemo. We had no idea what we were in for at that time, but there is a video of Donna coughing and wiping her dripping nose as she retrieved plastic fruit hidden all over the living room. All the while in her green fairy costume.

The next year, on Halloween day, Donna decreed she wanted to be a Fairy Flower. Out came the green dress. With a few felt flowers and green leggings, POOF, Fairy Flower she was. What a glorious day that was, Halloween 2008. Perfection in every single way. I was deep into my pregnancy with Mary Tyler Son. The sun was bright, the temperature unseasonably warm, the light delicious. And there was our little Fairy Flower, working hard to climb every stair to get her sweet treats from the kind folks charmed by her. My Dad and sister joined us. Halloween 2008, despite sensing it would be our last Halloween with Donna (and we were right, as Halloween 2009 was Donna’s memorial service), goes down as one of my best days ever.

There is the red floral broadcloth shirt Donna wore to her first and only school picture day. The navy blue knit and pleated dress worn on the first day of school. That same day the teacher pulled me aside, complimented Donna’s dress, then gently informed me pre-school was no place for dainty dresses. Sigh. I chuckle at the memory.

There is the sailor suit Donna wore to my Dad’s 75th birthday party. She had had brain surgery, her third tumor resection, just ten days earlier. Didn’t matter. She sauntered into the party loving her frock. There is the floral dress worn on the 4th of July when we were guests of the Mayor of Downers Grove, Illinois at their annual parade. There is the canvas jacket that looked so hip on her. I always wondered how Donna did hip so effortlessly. You can’t force hip. It just is.

Finally the teal wool coat with the velvet collar bought by our friend in Iowa from her local thrift shop. She saw it and said it screamed DONNA to her. It did. It still does. Donna wore it to the North Pole Christmas party at O’Hare Airport, a guest of United Airlines. It was snowing that day and as Mary Tyler Dad carried Donna to the car, the snowflakes were big and delicate and sat perfectly against the blue wool and the red beret she wore to match. She smiled, held in her Daddy’s arms, safe and warm in the snow.

So many memories, all lovely, in this closet. So much Donna. And still, it is time. As we grieve our girl, our hearts flutter with the thought of a new baby. How happy that would make Donna, another brother to love. She knows. She always did.

We love you, girl, still and always. We’ll meet you there.

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