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We were living in Virginia then, sometime in 1971 or early 1972. It was a nice enough day that we were outside, and I was walking behind my father and one of his co-workers as we strolled through the grounds behind our townhouse.
I don't know how the conversation started, but suddenly I heard my father say, "If it happened to Martha, I'd demand that she have an abortion. She almost died once. I'm not going to risk her life!"
I didn't know what he meant. It wasn't until several years later, after Dad had died and I was an adult, that I learned that my mother had had a difficult pregnancy, including a bad reaction to a prescription medication, and that she had nearly bled to death about a week after my birth thanks to a sudden hemorrhage. Her gynecologist told her at the time that she was lucky to have survived, and when she asked about more children he said something along the lines of "you have a healthy daughter. Don't push your luck."
That was why Dad was adamant that if Mum had become pregnant with a second child and things had started to go wrong again, not only would he have consented to an abortion,* he would have raised holy hell to make sure that she got the medical she needed. The joyous birth of his only child had nearly cost him his wife, and he was furious at the mere idea that the state could allow her to die because she counted for less than a fetus in the eyes of the law.
I've been in favor of reproductive rights ever since. No woman should have to depend on her husband's goodwill or the willingness of the local hospital to receive the healthcare she needs and deserves.
*This was in the bad old days, forty years ago, when many states required women to get their husbands' permission to have an abortion, open a separate bank account, purchase property in their own name, or use birth control. Yes. Really.
I don't know how the conversation started, but suddenly I heard my father say, "If it happened to Martha, I'd demand that she have an abortion. She almost died once. I'm not going to risk her life!"
I didn't know what he meant. It wasn't until several years later, after Dad had died and I was an adult, that I learned that my mother had had a difficult pregnancy, including a bad reaction to a prescription medication, and that she had nearly bled to death about a week after my birth thanks to a sudden hemorrhage. Her gynecologist told her at the time that she was lucky to have survived, and when she asked about more children he said something along the lines of "you have a healthy daughter. Don't push your luck."
That was why Dad was adamant that if Mum had become pregnant with a second child and things had started to go wrong again, not only would he have consented to an abortion,* he would have raised holy hell to make sure that she got the medical she needed. The joyous birth of his only child had nearly cost him his wife, and he was furious at the mere idea that the state could allow her to die because she counted for less than a fetus in the eyes of the law.
I've been in favor of reproductive rights ever since. No woman should have to depend on her husband's goodwill or the willingness of the local hospital to receive the healthcare she needs and deserves.
*This was in the bad old days, forty years ago, when many states required women to get their husbands' permission to have an abortion, open a separate bank account, purchase property in their own name, or use birth control. Yes. Really.
