If you’ve seen my Saturday Good Reads of the last few weeks, you know I’ve been including the ongoing release of the Planned Parenthood videos by the Center for Medical Progress – even though they are more of an “urgent” read than a “good” read. The subject of each successive video has been getting progressively worse, with the seventh video (posted last week) covering the subject of the process of “harvesting” of a baby’s brain in a late-term abortion.
There are no “key message points” from Planned Parenthood, its allies in “medical research” or the press secretary for Obama Administration sufficient to justify what I can only call a horror – an evil horror. So far, my two U.S. Senators from the state of Missouri have responded as expected – with Sen. Claire McCaskill supporting Planned Parenthood and Sen. Roy Blunt opposing it. At least Sen. Blunt is on record for opposing this evil.
My friend Lynn Morrissey, whose poem “Charleston” I published here in July, has written another poem. It’s not about the videos, but it is about Planned Parenthood, and it asks questions, heartrending questions.
Making a Difference
In recognition of the work of Planned Parenthood
by Lynn D. Morrissey
Before the babies’ demise,
did the good doctors
hear the chilling cries of women
in the inchoate aftermath of their non-pathological operations:
their legal abortions?
Did the doctors warn them that the savagery
of surgery could invite hemorrhaging or ravage them
Did they advise about the post-abortive risk for breast-cancer or suicide?
Did they abide professional protocol to lessen their gut-wrenching pain
from near-disembowelment with a dose of two Extra-Strength Tylenol
or a sympathetic pat on the hand,
and assure them that their pain was all in their head?
Did they avert their eyes
and rationalize that those who shook and sobbed uncontrollably
were just having a bad reaction to sedation?
Did their gaze penetrate the masks of those resolute Stoics?
Did they see that they had absolutely shut down their emotions?
Did they high-five the nonchalants, applauding their cavalier demeanor—
Did they sing their praises with a laid-back, “Good job, babe!”?
Did the doctors practice good patient follow-up through the years
(and years and years),
and prescribe barbiturates—pretty palliatives to deaden unpalatable dreams
about human dismemberment
and to hasten sleep?
Did they keep oft-resulting alcoholism and drug abuse at bay with timely referrals to AA?
Did the doctors prepare their patients for PAS, those frequently assaulting flashbacks
that rear up unexpectedly like wild stallions,
with swift kicks to the gut to
keep the memory alive?
Did the doctors cradle the broken disconsolates,
whose arms ached to rock desolate cradles?
Did they remain conscious of women’s impossible-to-abort consciences?
Did the good doctors do all this as professionals,
committed to the well-being of their patients?
Did they do all this to show how much they cared?
Did they do all this to make an indelible difference in the lives of those under their care,
in a world-turned-cold?
Photograph by George Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.