Commentary from inside the clinic

As many of you who have read here before surely must know, for ten years I worked for an organization that is commonly known for being a low-cost, sexuality-positive place for women (and men) of all ages to get information and services regarding reproductive health. I worked, as we say, "the front lines" in a clinic.

Chances are you have either been a patient there, or the parent of one, or the sibling of one, or the spouse of one, or the dorm-roommate of one. Or the pastor of one, or the parishioner of one.

It was a low-paying, stressful job, but at the end of the day, I went home knowing that I had done something good for someone, and had made a difference in someone's life-the kind of difference I believed in. (Sound familiar?)

I also worked with some incredible, dedicated, smart, funny women (and couple of men) who also could have made more money for less hassle working somewhere else. In our upwardly-mobile suburb there weren't a lot of places where a diverse group of women: gay, straight, mothers, grandmothers, childfree, of all races and traditions and aged roughly, over the 10 years from 25-70 could work together for a purpose in such a non-judgmental, positive atmosphere.

Not that it was always fun. We had kooks parked outside our door on a regular basis. Our landlord did not always respond when we called to complain that our door was blocked by a 13 passenger van, the driver of which was carrying a grotesque protest sign on the sidewalk while her eight small children literally played in the center a busy parking lot.

Once we called the police because a developmentally challenged patient had a meltdown over a misunderstanding and threatenend me, pulling a knife out of her bag. A few of the patients I got to know very well died during my tenure there. Three of them, all sixteen years old, died in the same car crash. One woman, 40 and pregnant for the first time, died in a freak farming accident. I had given her the clinic test results, and a high five, just two months before her death.

Once I sat with a mother and her twelve-year-old daughter as they tearfully told me about how the girl had been assaulted two weeks prior at the State Fair by a carney. I helped them call the police, and social services, and stayed in the room during her exam and held the other hand not being held by her mother.

I got obscene phone calls at work a lot. Somehow people (read: men) confused clinic worker with sex worker and somehow thought I would help them get their happy ending. Over the phone. For $5.17 an hour. Um...no.

I heard stories that made me cry and I met people who made me angry at their cruelty and ignorance. I heard the funniest reproductive myths ever. (Yes, there are still people who think you can't get pregnant from Doing It standing up. Some of them were over the age of 30.) I explained the Ortho Novum instructions at least ten thousand times, unrolled a few thousand condoms onto the um...demonstration-model made of wood. Yes, wood. When new flavored condoms came into the clinic, we each opened one up and tasted it, fresh out of the package. How else would we tell patients what it tasted like? (They taste hideous, by the way.)

I learned not to make assumptions about the people who walked in the door, and I learned that there are a few characteristics of being human that are universal: we all want to be loved, we all are sexual beings, and the best we can hope for is for those two things to intersect. But sometimes they do not. And sometimes that is perfectly okay--better than okay, in fact.

I learned that the health care system in this country is horribly broken, that people are often actually afraid of information, and that sometimes women get pregnant under circumstances that are untenable.

I never met George Tiller. But I faxed his office about a dozen times in ten years. I sent ahead medical charts of our patients who desperately needed his services. When I say desperate, believe me.

His death is a tragedy. That he died in his church saddens my soul more than I can express. I believe God was weeping as he welcomed George home. Even those of you who did not believe in what George Tiller did for a living should be outraged if you are a follower of Jesus of Nazareth.

I plan to express my outrage by writing a check to that organization for which I used to work. If you cannot do that, or do not wish to do that, please be kind and gracious to a woman you know who is having a rough time, who needs a friend or someone to talk to. Help a young teenage girl by showing her how to be assertive in her own life, and to dream her own dreams, not somebody else's ; teach her to love herself as a beautiful daughter of God and that loving herself is enough.