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
August
2015
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
barren?
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—
for
now?
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.
