As an old but practicing psychiatrist, certain thoughts, patients, and situations still haunt my dreams. Recently, I find both sadness and anger triggered by the political discourse of the election. Women and some men are marching and finding some consolation in the strength of their numbers and the truth of their message:
“I own my body, it does not belong to some paternalistic politician.”
I need to share some of my anguish over old times because it is different having actually been there than just reading about the bad days when ending a pregnancy was legally almost impossible. I think the anger over the injustice keeps the faces of these women still so strongly in my mind and the flame burning in my gut.
In 1968 I was assigned as a senior Psychiatric Resident to the University of Michigan’s Medical Center Abortion Committee. The function of the committee was to decide if a woman applying for an abortion would be able to have it done. My job, was to give input to the five senior obstetricians on the emotional state of the applicant. I only attended one meeting.
The young woman was a student nurse who had been raped at a party while passed out, drunk. She had no financial resources and was desperately afraid her family would disown her. She had no idea who the father might be. I informed the committee of five men that having to proceed with the pregnancy would be of great emotional damage to her. The five men conferred for about five minutes and denied the abortion. They stated since it was her own fault for getting drunk, she should have to bear the consequences. The men were smug, condescending, and joking over their coffee. Two of these men had been my respected professors in medical school. They ranged in age from young to very old, black beards and grey beards. How could they not see the pallor of this girl’s skin, the trembling of her jaw, her shaking hands and the fear in her eyes as she sat before them? I never found out what happened to this poor young woman. I knew I could never come back to this kangaroo court.
—–
“No, no doctor, not a needle, I’m scared to death of needles.”
The fifteen year old girl was bleeding to death following a back alley abortion attempt with a knitting needle. Her eyes were round in terror the whites visible all the way around; like a doe caught in the headlights of an onrushing truck. Unless we could get an IV in quickly we might lose her.
I was an intern at Philadelphia General Hospital working the emergency room; it was 1964. I recalled from my undergrad psych classes the power of suggestion.
“Honey, I’m going to give you a pill that will take away all your pain, you won’t even know a needle went into your arm.” I gave her a single aspirin with a sip of water. I told her to close her eyes and slipped the needle into her vein without even a wiggle.
“Did you do it yet, doc?”
“Yep, you’re going to be fine.” I didn’t tell her yet that in all likelihood she would have to have a hysterectomy to stop the bleeding and she would never be able to have children.
—–
The next day I went up to the GYN floor to see my new patient, a thirty-five year old policewoman. She had come in with a raging fever following a septic abortion. She was a beautiful but stern looking lady with two IVs going, with massive amounts of Penicillin in one and saline solution in another for rehydration. She was on the ward with ten other PID (pelvic inflammatory disease) patients.
“Doctor, how am I doing?”
“You’re doing fine, the fever has come down from 105 degrees to 101, so the antibiotic is working well. How’s your stomach feeling?“
“Still hurts like hell but better than yesterday.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“Sorry, doc, I really can’t tell you about it.” Her face turned stony and the anger was reflected in her gritted teeth. “Will I have any problems after the infection clears up?”
“Well I won’t lie to you. You may get chronic infection with recurrent pain and need for treatment. It’s also possible your fallopian tubes, the ones that carry eggs from your ovaries, will be scarred and won’t be able to function.”
“Does that mean I won’t be able to get pregnant?”
“It’s one of the possible complications of your infection. I recommend that you see an OB-GYN specialist after you get out of here.”
She pulled the sheet up over her face. “Thanks doc,” she mumbled from under the cover.
