Three years ago, in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, the Supreme Court’s conservative majority enabled states to severely restrict abortion or ban it outright. Since then, 17 states have enacted such limits; infant and maternal mortality have risen in many of them. But the impact of overturning Roe v. Wade extends far beyond medical catastrophes. It also appears in the quieter struggles—a myriad of small, compounding barriers that stand between individuals and their access to health care. Here are some of the stories of people who have stepped up to do what they can to provide care, and some of the women who found themselves trapped in a system increasingly difficult to navigate.

People from the Midwest are often referred to us through their local abortion funds, which cover the clinical costs, but not the travel. That’s where we come in.

I’ve been working on our hotline since the fall of 2016. In the past, when nobody was messaging us, it was kind of nice to have a little break. Now, when there’s more need than ever and it’s calm, I feel anxious. “Why is it quiet?” I wonder. It feels like there’s an increase in people who don’t have funding for the abortion. Often, abortion funds in their state have hit capacity.

Sometimes people have their abortions already scheduled and just need money for gas, hotels, or flights. We might recommend a clinic depending on where they are and how far along they are in their pregnancy. If someone doesn’t know that information, we may suggest a state and clinic that provides care through the second trimester to better ensure they won’t be turned away.

Statistically, most people who have abortions already have children. I am so glad when we can refer parents to clinics with children’s areas. It’s such a relief to parents that they can get their medication abortion while their 2-year-olds are safe in the play place. We also know clinics that excel at advocating for Spanish-speaking folks.

I worry about new barriers to abortion. We have seen in the news immigrant communities reducing visits to doctor’s appointments due to fear of deportation. There’s absolutely no way that isn’t going to impact folks who are trying to travel for abortion care. But I trust that the reproductive justice community will keep finding ways. That’s what this is—people, on abortion fund hotlines, volunteer drivers and appointment companions, doulas and midwives, clinic escorts—people meeting their communities where they are at, and saying, “Yeah, I’m free this Saturday, and I want to help.”

—MJ, director of programs, Midwest Access Coalition

Read more Abortion Diaries here.

This post has been syndicated from Mother Jones, where it was published under this address.

Funder, pilot, survivor, physician: Inside the network assisting abortion journeys

And some women who took them.

^{Mother Jones}

Three years ago, in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, the Supreme Court’s conservative majority enabled states to severely restrict abortion or ban it outright. Since then, 17 states have enacted such limits; infant and maternal mortality have risen in many of them. But the impact of overturning Roe v. Wade extends far beyond medical catastrophes. It also appears in the quieter struggles—a myriad of small, compounding barriers that stand between individuals and their access to health care. Here are some of the stories of people who have stepped up to do what they can to provide care, and some of the women who found themselves trapped in a system increasingly difficult to navigate.

During college, I interned at a hospital in Cairo, where the labor and delivery floors were filled with women who had obtained unsafe abortions. I saw first-hand the repercussions of abortion bans. That, plus my mom’s difficult experience accessing abortion care before Roe v. Wade, made me passionate about helping people access safe care.

I went to medical school because I wanted to be an abortion-providing clinician but ultimately decided to work in research and policy. About 10 years ago, a legal colleague and I founded a nonprofit that developed strategies for delivering safe and effective medication abortion care in legally restricted and low-resource settings, like northern Thailand and rural Pakistan.

Then, in 2022, the US Supreme Court allowed states to ban abortion. The same year, Massachusetts enacted the first comprehensive Shield Law in the country: It effectively redefines the location of telemedicine abortion care. If the clinician is licensed and physically practicing in Massachusetts, then the telemedicine care is considered to be taking place in Massachusetts, regardless of the patient’s location. That legally protects Massachusetts clinicians, as well as helpers and funders, providing abortion care to patients physically located in other states.

We launched The Massachusetts Medication Abortion Access Project (The MAP) in September 2023. It’s an asynchronous telemedicine service that can be accessed through our website. We do a basic eligibility screen based on chronological age, gestational age and geography; most people are eligible based on those criteria, and they get an email with links to the medical questionnaire and consent forms. The clinician can then approve the patient for a shipment of pills or connect with them to talk through concerns. We ask abortion seekers to pay what they can afford—as little as $5.

There are patients that are not eligible for our service, either because of gestational age or because of underlying medical conditions. We work closely with them to try to find clinical care if that’s what they need.

We are very much a part of the formal healthcare system: We work with the state government and comply with all state laws. We provide abortion-seeking patients across the country with an alternative to traveling out of state for in-clinic care. More than half of our patients are from Texas, Florida, and Georgia, and 95 percent are from states with bans or very restrictive laws governing abortion access.

Complications from medication abortion are very, very rare, but we also provide information about what constitutes the need for clinical intervention, and how patients can safely seek follow-up care.

The biggest challenge we face is about our perceived legitimacy. When people learn there’s this group in Massachusetts that will send FDA-approved medications to your home for $5, it sounds absolutely bananas. People think this must be a scam, or that the pills are fake. It’s heartbreaking for us, because we’re real people. We’re a legitimate service. We’ve got highly trained clinicians who are doing this work. Some of our clinicians have been providing abortion care for decades.

—Dr. Angel Foster, DPhil, MD, AM, Co-Founder of The MAP

Read more Abortion Diaries here.

This post has been syndicated from Mother Jones, where it was published under this address.

Funder, pilot, survivor, physician: Inside the network assisting abortion journeys

And some women who took them.

^{Mother Jones}

Three years ago, in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, the Supreme Court’s conservative majority enabled states to severely restrict abortion or ban it outright. Since then, 17 states have enacted such limits; infant and maternal mortality have risen in many of them. But the impact of overturning Roe v. Wade extends far beyond medical catastrophes. It also appears in the quieter struggles—a myriad of small, compounding barriers that stand between individuals and their access to health care. Here are some of the stories of people who have stepped up to do what they can to provide care, and some of the women who found themselves trapped in a system increasingly difficult to navigate.

We had been trying to get pregnant, and in early 2023, we found out we were expecting a baby girl and decided on the name Cielle. (We already had a 1-year-old daughter named Camille.) At 20 weeks, we found out I had low levels of amniotic fluid. In the two weeks before we could get into the specialist’s office, I looked up ways to boost amniotic fluid and stuff and went all in on nutrition, rest, and hydration. I was willing to try anything.

At the follow-up ultrasound, I could see the baby had a strong heartbeat and was moving. She hadn’t been moving much at the previous appointment, so I thought the doctor was about to tell us really good news. Instead, the doctor told me that I went from having low amniotic fluid to having absolutely none. That is when he delivered the worst-case scenario: She was not going to make it, but I would have to carry her until she passed because of our state laws. He told me that intervening would be considered an abortion and that he could face up to 10 years in prison and a $100,000 fine for ending my nonviable pregnancy.

He didn’t mention going out of state as an option. At the time, I didn’t know that could be a possibility, because I was so scared of us getting in trouble. So, I carried her until she passed away five weeks later. I went in for an appointment with my OB-GYN every Tuesday to see if she was alive. Eventually, I went in for my routine check-up, and her heartbeat was gone.

We lived in Fort Smith, Arkansas, at the time—a small community with small hospitals. My OB-GYN told me that he and his colleagues didn’t feel comfortable with me having my stillbirth there since they didn’t have enough staff or a large enough blood supply to accommodate me if something went wrong. I had to drive three hours to Little Rock, to have Cielle—away from family, away from friends. My placenta was moving down to cover my cervix, a life-threatening complication, which is why everything was happening really fast.

On the three-hour drive to Little Rock, I was anxious. I have never been super religious, and I struggled even more with my faith when we lost Cielle. It didn’t help that we got a lot of hateful feedback from Christian people pushing their religion on our experience. I stepped away from even believing that there was a God, but I was listening to worship music the whole way there out of fear and desperation because I thought that I might not make it back home. When Cielle was born, she came out looking so human—she had hair, she had everything. But she was already decomposing. I just didn’t want to see her that way.

We had been told a funeral home was going to take Cielle back to Forth Smith. But the day I was supposed to go home, they told us it would be $1,000 to transport her body. We weren’t expecting that expense. We called other funeral homes, and one of them suggested that we bring her home ourselves. It didn’t cost anything, and the hospital provided us with dry ice.

I am glad I had the extra time with her on my lap on the car ride home, but it was still harrowing. I do not feel like I had an option or choice in anything. It was messy and chaotic and horrible, and I don’t want anyone else to have to go through that.

You have to wonder, are anti-abortion people really pro-life? Because I guess my life didn’t matter when my placenta started to move down and cover my cervix and I risked hemorrhaging. At what point when I’m dying or at risk of dying do you intervene?

—Theresa Lee, formerly of Fort Smith, Arkansas

Read more Abortion Diaries here.

This post has been syndicated from Mother Jones, where it was published under this address.

Funder, pilot, survivor, physician: Inside the network assisting abortion journeys

And some women who took them.

^{Mother Jones}

Three years ago, in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, the Supreme Court’s conservative majority enabled states to severely restrict abortion or ban it outright. Since then, 17 states have enacted such limits; infant and maternal mortality have risen in many of them. But the impact of overturning Roe v. Wade extends far beyond medical catastrophes. It also appears in the quieter struggles—a myriad of small, compounding barriers that stand between individuals and their access to health care. Here are some of the stories of people who have stepped up to do what they can to provide care, and some of the women who found themselves trapped in a system increasingly difficult to navigate.

Back in 2022, I was 17 years old. A box of condoms was $15, and I could not easily afford it. I also didn’t have a car, and the closest place to get condoms was 2 miles away. Realistically, is a teenager going to walk 2 miles in the Texas heat to go pick up a $15 pack of condoms? Plus, we have laws around minors accessing birth control without parental consent—that was another barrier, especially because I lived with a single father.

I had also been dealing with a lot of health issues: particularly nausea and something called Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder. It’s like bipolar disorder or post-partum depression, except that it happens every time you are about to menstruate. It could also be confused for pregnancy-related hormone changes. My cycle also is irregular but averages about 38 days long, so it takes more time for me to realize a missed period. All these factors stopped me from realizing I was pregnant as soon as I could.

When the test came back positive, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to get an abortion in Texas. There was a six-week ban, and I was already past that.

Because of SB 8, a lot of abortion funds weren’t helping patients in Texas. There was that uncertainty about what was going to happen: “Are we going to be criminalized? Are our patients going to be criminalized?” It was a total pause while they were figuring out how to move forward.

I posted a couple of videos on TikTok, talking about having to travel, being pregnant, and what a horrible experience it was, especially as a teenager who was already chronically ill. I got over $400 in donations. Of course, I got hate, but so many people were kind.

My parents took money out of savings, and a few friends and family members contributed to cover the costs of gas, food, and motels. I was feeling a lot of shame, but my mom told me something that helped: “When you are ovulating, when you are fertile, your body is actively trying to get you pregnant. That is the biological purpose of your reproductive system. So, who are you to feel shame for your body working properly?”

Even though it was 700 miles away, my mom and I decided to go with New Mexico, because I have family there.

My mother, my boyfriend, and I left Texas late morning, and we got to New Mexico around 1 a.m. I was constantly nauseous and dealing with awful motion sickness on the 11-hour car ride. My appointment was the next day at 9 a.m.

Our motel was kind of shady—the room smelled weird, and I didn’t feel safe. It was also a quick trip. We left less than 12 hours after the procedure. On the car ride home, the pain and cramping came in waves. But after my procedure, I felt like a weight was lifted off my shoulders.

I want people in similar situations to know there are coalitions out there—people willing to provide legal services or funding. There is nothing wrong with asking for help.

—Dakota B, San Antonio, Texas.

Read more Abortion Diaries here.

This post has been syndicated from Mother Jones, where it was published under this address.

Texas' six-week abortion ban, the most restrictive in the country, is now in effect

The Supreme Court refused to take action.

^{Mother Jones}

Fighting anti-humanism is my life's work. I talk about humanism a lot, an annoying amount, and I name half my internet entities humanissome. I do this because I believe that the problems in our world reflect a pervasive anti-humanism. Standing up for humanism is the ultimate fight, the effort to rescue each individual and simultaneously all humanity.

Examples of pervasive anti-humanism and humanistic attitudes to combat them:

Capitalism. Money-centered existence diminishes individuals & humanity. Center what's natural: the body (including emotions), all humans, animals, plants, the planet. Use labor and capital for the benefit of those.open for longer discussionYes of course this frequent villain tops the list! To the extent that capitalism is a tool in service of humanity it can be neutral. The problem is that it's an ism and isms are systems. Capitalism has proven to be a more robust system than humanism (or communism) for 2 reasons that I can think of. It appears neutral. “Let the market decide,” we frequently hear. There's no central committee determining priorities in who gets what resources; it comes down to having money. If you have it you get things; if you have no money you can rot and die. Objectivity! Of course there is no objectivity when it comes to laws passed, military strikes, humans incarcerated and killed. The appearance of objectivity is that those who have the money (objective!) get to make all the subjective decisions. (“I'm the decider!” in the words of a former particularly powerful, undeserving leader.) The second reason that capitalism prevails is that it depends on greed, a very real, prevalent human vice. (“Greed is good!” said an 80s movie caricature who became a role model for many.) Capitalists might argue that it's a system like democracy, the worst form of Government except all those other forms that have been tried, that has produced humankind's greatest chance of peaceful prosperity. My shortest rebuttal is to ask: Do we want to defend what has gotten us to the way things are or to consider the possibility that we can do better? Incidentally genuine free and fair democracy is the best hope for humanist improvement. The US has never been close to that. This section could expand to its own essay, a book, a lifelong debate. To simplify for this discussion, capitalism is not compatible with humanism because of its numerous anti-humanist outcomes. Considering profits for the wealthy over general wellbeing is dooming humanity. This debate is the existential challenge confronting humanity. How does an individual participate in abandoning capitalism? (Or if you prefer a softer version: How does an individual help improve capitalism to achieve humanist results?) Living is Humanist Job 1. In the current world many are consumed by the struggle to stay alive. Unfortunately existence is a privilege today. I believe the requirements for satisfaction in living (meaningfulness) is proportional to privilege. Life intrinsically has meaning. For many staying alive is all that is possible, and their lives are meaningful. As one's privilege increases expectation grows. “With great power comes great responsibility.” World horrors result from the dysfunction of inordinate privilege not harnessed to commensurate service. The imbalanced selfishness erodes character and satisfaction. I believe that “the modern condition” of ennui is a reflection of unused privilege. It's important to emphasize that this evaluation of sufficient meaning is internal. It's not possible to judge from outside. There is no karmic system in humanissome. It is also impossible to know the life satisfaction felt by another unless they reveal it. We only have results to go on. It appears that those who lead lives spreading vitriol and cruelty are unhappy. In world affairs we cannot know; in personal interactions we may ask others to confide in us their self reported life satisfaction. I have received a great deal of unsolicited life advice from others who admit they are unhappy. Nobody's perfect of course. This paragraph is another that could be a book.I leverage my privilege to extract as much progress as possible toward humanist goals. I do not commit labor to society-harming entities. I minimize consumption. I have managed to stay alive 6 years this way. My next step is to liquidate possessions as I seek greater life satisfaction, reduction in harm, and increased devotion to long-term writing goals. I offer my own work freely, requesting donations in exchange. (If I produce a book I may sell it conventionally but I would still make copies available on sliding scale.)

Perfectionism. “I'm right, they're wrong. They're idiots. What's wrong with those people? They're not like me, they're animals.” · “My mind is terrible, I can't remember anything. I'm so fat now. I was better fifteen years ago.” Ranking and judging damages self worth, deteriorates human community. Settle for less. What is is. What is is good. Diversity is good. Perfection is a delusion. Love all. Ok, now, ya hippie, how can you love all?! Equally?! I'm not concerned about equally, that's a ranking urge. I strive to live centered in love. It's not easy. It's work. I love myself and others in our imperfections. I aspire to love all unconditionally.

Minimizing Feelings. “I'm afraid of looking at certain texts, talking to certain people. I'm pathetic. Worrying makes it worse, I should just...” Hating feelings is hating oneself. Feelings are natural, beautiful, human. Instead of seeing a conflict between feelings and reason I seek peaceful coexistence. (Compossibility is an important word in my philosophy for another time.) Feelings are valid. Feelings are who I am. Reason is too. These provide data for me to consider. I can change any time. I make decisions based on feelings and reason.

There's so much more. I started a weekly blog a couple months ago to force me to write and publish constantly. The work builds. There is no perfect. I'm grateful to be working in a space that collects my efforts (corporate spaces usually throw yesterday's unpopular work away). I hope to keep going.

R-)

This is Rob Middleton's weekly blog.
Find me on Mastodon or on the links.
Follow the blog at dotart.blog/humanissome or on the fediverse @humanissome@dotart.blog or via RSS

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Speech, House of Commons (11 Nov 1947) - Churchill, Winston | WIST Quotations

Many forms of Government have been tried, and will be tried in this world of sin and woe. No one pretends that democracy is perfect or all-wise.

^{WIST Quotations}