metalcatholic:

soundlessdragon:

tradcatwalrus:

simul-justus-et-peccator:

ravenamore:

soundlessdragon:

Toxic pro-choice culture is:

A client of mine’s daughter had pregnancy complications and ended up miscarrying in the hospital. When she was discharged, heartbroken, she and her husband were leaving to begin to make plans for a little funeral when one of the hospital staff stopped them and said “here it is,” handing them a brown paper lunchbag with the body in it, and walked off without any kind or consoling words. Striken by the indignity of it, left without instructions, and still recovering, they didn’t know what else to do except take it home and put it in their refridgerator so that it wouldn’t decay as fast while they tried to make funeral arraingements.

Can you imagine the horror? You just unexpectedly lost your child, and it’s body is handed to you in a rude sack, leaving you with no other options except to keep it in your fridge?

And my client, as she was telling me this traumatic story, tearing up herself because she shared her daughter’s grief and loved the grandbaby that didn’t make it, thought she needed to emphasize to me how much of a loss it was because “it was a wanted baby.”

The pro-choice culture where I live is so vulgar and prominant that hospitals toss the remains of your unborn child to you as if it was nothing, and a greiving grandmother feels like she has to justify her sorrow by clarifying that it was a “wanted” child, to not go against the culture of “it’s perfectly fine to abort your pregnancy if you don’t want a baby!” But there is no difference between an unborn child who is wanted and one who is not. They are the same from every biological and moral standpoint.

It’s simply alien how much more acceptable it is to talk about supporting abortion rights than grieving the death of a “wanted” unborn child. In their hearts they know the dichotomy, but it isn’t okay to try to address it and solve it, since pro-choice is the only acceptable stance to most people.

When I had my first miscarriage, before I was taken in for surgery, I was handed a form to sign acknowledging that I knew the hospital didn’t return remains that were under 20 weeks.

“What do they do with them?“ I asked. I wish to God I hadn’t, because this was the answer.

”Medical waste.“

Those were my babies.

And even worse:

Not a single person at the hospital acknowledged I was hurting. That this was clearly a wanted child. I sat there in pre-op with tears staining my face, and not a single person expressed anything even remotely resembling sympathy.

When my cat died a few years ago, the vet and multiple techs said they were sorry for my loss.

In the hospital, I was literally hemorrhaging my hopes and dreams and no one even asked if I wanted to talk.

Pro-choice is anti-woman, ableist, and anti-science. You can’t change my mind.

When I, heartbroken and still raw from the grief of my miscarriage after years of infertility, told my now ex-friend that we had gotten pregnant and lost the baby her response (because it was before 20 weeks), “Oh, that’s not a baby. That doesn’t count.” She proceeded to tell me about an ectopic pregnancy she had, also stating it wasn’t a baby.

When my friend was actively going through a miscarriage her boss didn’t want to let her leave. She was fired because she did. Let me make this clear, she wasn’t just waiting on the baby to pass, she was actively cramping and bleeding and passing the baby at work.

Pro-choice culture is part of the culture of death.

Another story to add to this tragic list was one I read on BBC this morning about a mother who lost her baby just days after an apparently healthy birth. He died from a rare metabolic disorder called 3 methylglutaric aciduria (3MGA). https://www.bbc.com/news/stories-45398894

My baby died. Please ask me his name

Excerpt:

This was compounded by a phone call I received from my obstetrician’s secretary asking me if I wanted to make an appointment to discuss the delivery of my baby. “I had my baby, last week, and he… he died,” I managed to stutter. There was silence on the end of the line and a garbled apology. A follow-up letter arrived a few days later which read: “I am very sorry to hear about the unfortunate outcome of your pregnancy.” Teddy had apparently become an “unfortunate outcome”, rather than a person, my son.

I call myself a quadruplet, really I’m a quintuplet. One of was stillborn. My parents named her Grace. We still visit her grave when we get the chance. I also have two siblings that were miscarriages. It’s actually quite hard knowing that there should be three other siblings in my life. That I should’ve graduated high school with four other siblings not three, that I would’ve had 7 people nagging me to drive them places. 

But what makes it really hard is that when there was a mass for stillborn, miscarried, and aborted babies a couple towns over I suggested to my mother that we attend. It was a small ceremony in the side chapel of the church. Parishioners put pieces of paper with details about the children they lost in a basekt which was then brought to the altar and the priest offered mass for all the children who’s name were written down and those who weren’t.  When leaving my mother began to cry and she told me “I wasn’t alone, I could actually grieve for them”. It had been over 17 years and now my mother felt she actually had a space where she could grieve. Hearing that was heartbreaking.