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Thursday, October 8, 2009

This past Sunday I was celebrating 100 days in the life of my dear friend's first child, Rainbow, on the west coast.

While not an Abortioneer, my dear friend is overwhelmingly supportive of and curious about me and the work that I do. She is sensitive, empathetic and intelligent. She is married to a kind, patient and jolly man and she is studying to become a practitioner of traditionally Eastern, preventative medicine. She and her partner choose to live their lives consciously and intentionally. We connect, and always have, on incredibly potent and meaningful levels.

I specify her background because many people understand that there are several types of friends in life and many Abortioneers understand that several types of friends receive the nature of our profession in several different ways.

I anticipated meeting Rainbow throughout her mother's gestation, her family's preparation and over the weeks following her birth. I knew I would meet her when September concluded and autumn crested. As the time grew close, I imagined myself succumbing to a weepy, joyful celebration when she was first nestled in my arms.

You see, at my day job, people call me a baby killer, and in fact, I do feel like I assist in terminating potential life almost every day. Despite my unwavering passion and vocal support of abortion, I do not ask those I know and love to discuss the more visceral aspects of my career.

During my most personal and sacred moments, I acknowledge that it is no wonder that I cannot attract a life-long mate, and fear I’ll fail to ever procreate, when I meddle in death daily. If a woman is most naturally desirable when she ovulates, I perpetually skirt around resounding beauty. Potential that never is. The anti-womb in the wombiest sense.

When my discussions regarding abortion with non-Abortioneers turn toward the frightfully unsettling images of dead, darling babies, I know that it is no wonder that the conversations abruptly end because images of dead, darling babies only redeem themselves when you know their stories.

Despite the clear gap that exists between the stark reality and the bigger picture of abortion and our disease with contemplating the steps between, my unconditional friend tasked ME with baby duty as the family prepared for Rainbow's feast at the park amongst the wailing and unlikely Pacific winds.

There was a full moon and I was celebrating 100 days in the life of my dear friend's baby by holding her wee body tightly--her soft, bowling-ball bundle: the crevices of her marshmallow joints—ankles, knees, wrists, arms, neck–the palms of my hands sprawling her ripe, doughy vertebrae from her head to her tailbone.

She pulled down my bun with her bitty fists, identified my cheeks, nose, mouth and eyes with the pads of her miniature fingertips. We bounced and swayed around the park and watched the leaves soar. I embraced the most precious newborn I know, found peace in life’s most anticipated and simple moments. We hugged for a good hour. Her face snuggled firmly against my heart.


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