Parts of Conception

It all began when I read Planned Parenthood’s Mission Statement:

“Planned Parenthood believes in the fundamental right of each individual, throughout the world, to manage his or her fertility, regardless of the individual's income, marital status, race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, age, national origin, or residence. We believe that respect and value for diversity in all aspects of our organization are essential to our well being. We believe that reproductive self-determin-ation must be voluntary and preserve the individual's right to privacy. We further believe that such self-determination will contribute to an enhancement of the quality of life, strong family relationships, and population stability.”
(ttp://www.plannedparenthood.org/ppneo/mission.htm)


It was the clarity of their commitment that hooked me. I wanted to be a part Planned Parenthood’s belief “in the fundamental right of each individual, throughout the world, to manage his or her fertility, regardless of the individual's income, marital status, race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, age, national origin, or residence.” I wanted to stand up for reproductive rights, because there was a day, when I looked down on a pink + sign, showed to my boyfriend, who yelled, “No! Hell no!” just after he threw me against the book shelf. I wanted to stand for what I believed to be my right to take control of the situation, the control I needed when he said “No!,” and I didn’t know which fight to fight.

I wanted to “believe that respect and value for diversity in all aspects of our organization are essential to our well being.” I wanted to be the advocate for the woman who walks in the clinic shaking in fear, sobbing in shame; I wanted to be the advocate for myself, when I had done just that. I thought by accepting Planned Parenthood’s mission, I would help heal the parts of me that were still wounded. I wanted to stand up for “reproductive self-determination,” and that “such self-determination will contribute to an enhancement of the quality of life.” It was going to be my way to reconcile with myself, my way of clasping my hands together, squeezing them gently, whispering for my own forgiveness.

But I would not heal so easily. I would be broken even further, and the wounds for which I was searching aid, would be ripped open even more savagely, when I learned that “Planned Parenthood’s Mission” wasn’t designed for me, or for any other woman searching for an answer “to an enhancement of the quality of life.” Planned Parenthood’s mission is to fund careers by de-humanizing abortion, where it becomes a viable, even practical option, rather than saving a woman from suffering the most devouring experience I can imagine.

Incredibly enough, I did not have a clear memory of the abortion through which I had gone, until I began working at Planned Parenthood. My memories consisted of only the days prior and the days after. I remember taking a cab to the doctor’s office, alone. I remember shaking and crying hysterically when he asked me why I was choosing this option, because I didn’t have a reliable answer that would convince him, not to mention myself. When he asked me if I was sure, I remembered the bruises on my back, envisioned the bruises to come, and answered in the affirmative. After, I remember lying on the medical bed, face to the wall, trembling with shock and fear; shock because I was bleeding heavily, my sugar was low, and I was freezing. Fear because I didn’t know how to see myself anymore, I was different now, and nothing could be done about it. I didn’t know whether I was a murderer, a martyr, or both. Because I didn’t want to be either, I left my experience behind in the cab as it drove off leaving me to believe that it was all over. Behind me. Or, so I thought.
During my second interview for employment at Planned Parenthood, I told the director of the clinic, let’s call her Adelle, that I had had an abortion, as if it was some badge of honor that might further qualify me to work for them. It was an aloof statement, an out of body propositional fact, issued as some sort of moral victory. When she looked at me as if I had just told her I had the ability to do 50 push ups, I then realized she didn’t care. I mean to say she didn’t care in the sense that I cared when my friend Joe told me his cat was killed. When I heard such, I hurt for Joe, I expressed my sympathy. She would have simply told Joe, “You can always get another.”

Walking away from that interview, my emotions were bubbling up in my throat, yet, reflecting upon the Mission Statement, I was able to swallow them back down and anxiously await a phone call from Adelle. The call came, as did an offer for employment, which I whole-heartedly accepted.

Instead of Planned Parenthood using my post abortion existence to help our patients through to theirs, they took hold of my ability to speak Spanish, and did something unforgivable. A young woman, let’s call her Liz, who spoke almost no English, and who had just turned 18 the day before, came into the clinic for her pregnancy termination. She was in the procedure room crying hysterically when Adelle came asking if I might join the doctor to assist in translation. Inspired by the Mission Statement, I immediately jumped at the opportunity to participate in the” enhancement of the quality of life” for Liz.

The unforgivable part was they didn’t tell me I was going to have to hold her hips down, or that a needle as long as my forearm was going to be inserted into her uterus, and most of all, they forgot to mention the noise. They didn’t tell me about the noise. In one moment I went from ignorance of my abortion, to total recall. It was the sucking noise that did it. It is a noise about which I cannot speak, only write, because if I were to verbalize it, I might get sick. Liz was sobbing as the contents of her uterus were sucked through a clear tube into a jar. Staring down at her, to avoid seeing the blood, I saw myself, the girl who would never be the same, the girl whose sunshine in youth would be chased forever by an impending storm. Her brown eyes now carried the same sorrow as my blue eyes. I whispered, “todo estara` bien, amiga,” (everything will be fine, my friend) and I knew I was lying.

I have always respected janitors. They really are the people who keep the institutions I love functioning. I always ask, “Who is more important, your trash man or your congressman?” It was with this mentality that I accepted a position within Planned Parenthood that ultimately lead me to think differently about my abortion. When a woman has an abortion, the contents emptied from her body must be inspected to ensure the aspiration was successful in removing all the fetal tissue, and placental sack. If any parts of the pregnancy are left inside, it can lead to infection and possible death. The person who does this job aquires the title, POC (Parts of Conception). Adelle asked me one day if I wanted to become more involved, take a greater responsibility in the fundamental right of each individual, throughout the world, to manage his or her fertility. She told me the POC position had opened, and would I like to take it? “Like to take it?” “Like?” I learned that there was nothing to “like” about having the POC position.

The tissue is brought to the Parts Of Conception person in either a small plastic container; a specimen cup, or a large glass jar. It all depends on the gestation length. For example, the doctor would use the specimen cup when performing a termination on a woman 4-8 weeks along, and the large glass jar for women over 9 weeks. The contents (Parts Of Conception) of these containers is then dumped into a strainer, over which water is ran to clean off all the blood, then dumped into a glass 8 x 8 dish, which sits atop a light box, so as to help the POC person navigate through the tissue to find the appropriate parts, relative to her gestation length. I learned that I would only be looking for eye-spots and a sack in terminations 8 weeks and less. In terminations 9 weeks and over, I could expect fetal parts, “lowers and uppers.” The first time I saw an “upper” I started sweating, “There’s a hand,” to which my trainer responded, “No, it’s an upper.”

At Planned Parenthood, surgical (vacuum aspiration) abortions can be performed up to 13.6 weeks. That is one day short of 3 1/2 months. This information is determined by two things; the first day of the woman’s last menstrual cycle, and the ultra sound. That gestational length found by the ultra sound is the definitive length by which the clinic approves or disapproves the termination.

Often, as in many medical clinics, interns would come to observe the practice of our doctors performing abortions. They came to observe the POC person too. That their medical training did not prepare them for the contents through which I searched gave me comfort. Their sharp inhales, their steps back from the light box, grounded me somehow. When a specimen, say 11.6 weeks, came through, I often found little hands, little legs, “uppers and lowers.” Most importantly, I had to find all four limbs, because the presence of only three suggested that one was left behind. To verify the ultra sound’s credibility, the POC person has to measure the fetal foot length, compare that with a chart hung on the wall, and report to the doctor how closely related the two were. Often my hands would be shaking so badly I would ask the doctor to measure it for me.

When I told people what I did at the clinic, I almost always heard, “How can you handle that?” To which I responded, “I am not sure.” That I could do the job and still sleep at night baffled many. It wasn’t that I could do the job and that same I would go to sleep guilt free. The reason so, was simple enough, the “J” sleeping at night, was not the same “J” working at the clinic. I didn’t know it at the time. It wasn’t until my last day working at the clinic that I came to understand the dualistic life I had been leading.

“13.6,” the doctor said as she set the jar down for me to investigate. I had come to hate, truly hate anything over 9 weeks. When I peered into the glass dish, over the light box, and saw a fully formed headless body, my life changed. Both J’s changed; one was no longer apart from the other. I was whole. And I was mortified. The intern next to me gaped and gasped. We both stepped back. I began to cry. I began to shake. I began to sweat, my knees weakened, my heart rate increased, and all the previous terminations I had sifted through, all the terminations that I had set so far away from my conscience, came racing into my brain, and the slow crack from which I had been racing, finally broke.

After, I went outside, sobbed, shook, and screamed, I saw the reality of my world. Back in the clinic the abortions continued and my supervisor had taken over POC. She had told me to go home for the day, that she was worried about the interns, that “they need to have an unbiased environment in which to learn.” She then added, “If you feel your emotions creeping up, you must find someone to cover for you.” I told her what I had seen, that that was over 13.6. I had seen the limbs (uppers and lowers), that it had to be. I told her there was no way for me to have anticipated such a reaction because it was the ultra sound on which I had to rely to protect me from seeing what I saw. She stared blankly at me as I stammered, “Are you asking me to apologize?” To which she fired back, “J, I think you should just go home for the day.” I heard her message loud and clear.

Two days later when I called the clinic to ask what time they would like me to come in, Adelle, said, “J, we don’t need you today, but will you come in early Saturday, I would like to speak with you.” The following Saturday, I was fired from Planned Parenthood.

I have no political agenda. My politics have stayed the same, and are, irrelevant to my goal in my words shared. Rather, I wrote this essay to help myself navigate through the reality of my experience. It was the middle of December when I stopped working at Planned Parenthood. I was enveloped in the Christmas season, completely disenfranchised by the reality of what my abortion was, as well as the abortions I had seen. They had all become one and the same. This was and is a reality that terrorized me, that had infiltrated my dreams, and had, in the end, actualized my abortion. I had seen what I had done.

There’s a disconnect from reality within which we all safely live. We drive cars yet want a cleaner environment. We preach moderation, but order the large number 7 at the drive thru. We stress about bills but buy on credit. These contradictions are ones, that if ever actualized, can be easily rectified. Our actions can lead to a better future. Abortion, once actualized, becomes less of a question of murderer vs. martyrdom, and becomes more a question of “where do I go from here?” It is no longer a matter of exploratory justification, but rather, a cold hard fact that must be cremated and set out into the sea of my past, the past that I had to let go. And it’s getting there. A valuable component of this process is that I realize had I not worked Parts Of Conception, my abortion would linger in the un-tangible, never forgiven, and never would have been brought out of the darkness into which I once hid it--when the bruises he had produced were the only pain through which I could suffer to survive. But I did survive him, and I finally survived, my abortion.

~ Jamie Lange