slithy toves indeed

Despite my good intentions I haven’t written in a minute. Why?

Migraine. My intermittent yet faithful companion.

I have had migraines … well I don’t really know how long. The first migraine I had that I registered ‘as a migraine’ occurred at the age of 23 or 24, while visiting a friend in New Orleans. I was living in Denver at the time and I think the trip from the Mile High City to the city below sea level triggered the attack. I met my friends aunt while visiting. She was a nurse and said oh you have a migraine. And gave me some ‘medicine’ to combat it. That’s probably a whole different story entirely.

Looking at my symptoms, I think I started having classic migraines in high school and probably abdominal migraines as a child.

For most of my life, when I’ve had my migraines, I’ve just closed up shop. I thought – If I can’t function without pain and to the level I’m accustomed, I’ll stay in bed and cry and wait it out while feeling like I’m on death’s door.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve learned to grin and bear it.

So if I’m not actively vomiting I’m up and about. Squinting, half of my face dropped in a mild palsy, struggling through normal activities, until my soul and body are miraculously restored once again.

I go to work. I bring my son to school and cub scouts and wherever he needs to be. I feed my son. I feed my cats. I clean the litter-boxes. And that’s about it. I do the basics. I do the minimum. While I can’t do it all, I can do these things. I yearn for the end of the day when I can collapse into bed.

I do not write. I do not think I can. If I can, I do not want to. My mind is dull. The thoughts in my mind come out of my mouth as nonsense. One of my migraine symptoms is Aphasia. I intend to ask my son if he has his homework but the words come out as ‘where is the sock?’ It sounds ridiculous that this actually happens but ‘it is what it is’ as they say.

I can only imagine what the written word would be. If it weren’t so painful I might actually try it. Maybe I could create a surrealist masterpiece.

Did Lewis Carroll suffer from migraines?

The Jabberwock was a migraine personified.

   The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, 

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, 

      And burbled as it came!

Creature Comforts

I started a new job recently. I have a very nice office, with a very nice view. However, I spent the first few weeks there convinced I was dying, with an aching back and an everlasting migraine which included severe nausea.

My massive desk only fits in my office in a way which requires my back to be towards the door. This doesn’t sit well with either my Shui or instinctive lioness-like need to have the best vantage point at all times.

The back on my chair is too low and doesn’t support my upper back or neck. I have damaged discs in my neck and therefore am very fussy about having a chair which reaches the back of my head.

Because of my desk placement, which I can’t change, my chair also sits directly below the air vent. The air vent has signs of mold. Also while gazing disdainfully at it one day, I noticed a number of ceiling panels bloated and stained with water damage.

So this is my very longwinded way of saying that my work environment isn’t the healthiest, physically.

I’m currently on a slow quest to improve it.

One of the first things I did was buy an inexpensive fluffy blanket scarf at a nearby boutique while on my lunch break. When my air vent kicks into overdrive I impersonate my great grandmother and and use it to wrap a babushka around my head, neck and shoulders.

I’ve added a silver framed photo of my son, for obvious reasons. I thrifted the frame at Goodwill. It appeared to be new and I think I paid, $2, maybe $3. Life Lesson – Thrift stores are the best places to buy picture frames.

I also have a little little array of scented hand sanitizers from Bath & Body Works, which I have a love hate relationship with. They are inexpensive when on sale and the mild vanilla sugar scents don’t trigger a migraine. However, I still don’t like hand sanitizers. Before Covid I refused to use them, convinced they were destroying all the good bacteria in the world. BB&W also has a really cute Halloween line. I got a gold skull bathroom soap holder from them last year which I use all winter long. BB&W used to contribute to Republican politicians but since the rise of Donald, the CEO openly declared the Republican party nonsense and has dropped political contributions drastically, giving primarily to Democrats or not at all.

I have noticed that most people at my organization have fancy hepa air filters in their office. I may ask for one at the next staff meeting. But I don’t trust those either and get annoyed by the constant ssssssssshhhhhhh noise they make.

In the meantime I have brought in a luscious baby Monstera plant. Since I have great big sunny windows there’s lots of natural light and it gets nice and warm. I keep the blinds partially closed so it doesn’t get too intense. My goal is to work in a jungle environment and I will keep bringing in plants until you can hardly see me camouflaged among them.

I also enjoy relaxing, ambient noise. I keep a youtube video feed going on one of my monitors and the following are my favorite channels:

I’ll try to add to this last as I discover more.

And that’s as far as I’ve gotten in my office redo. On my list to acquire:

  • A soft cushion for my chair, possibly gel. If anyone can suggest something good, please do!
  • Possibly a new chair entirely, unless I can figure out another way to support my neck
  • A footstool, to raise my feet up off the ground a bit while I’m sitting/working
  • A Persian carpet, so I can pretend I’m either on MTV Unplugged or I’m The Dude. It really ties the room together
  • More plants. Many more plants
  • A little diner curtain to cover the window on my office door
  • Framed art for the walls. Thrift-stores will be my primary source. However there are some historic family photos I’d like to bring in, as a reminder of how far my family has come since my ancestors first came to this country
  • Toys. Yes so many toys

This is actually the subject matter that lead to me writing this post, but I got sidetracked and it took me awhile to get to this point. I grew up in the 80s when capitalism was everywhere. So many movies were about work! Wall Street, Trading Places, Working Girl. There must be hundreds. However, the two working movies that stuck out to me, and also featured people I identified as role models were these two: Big and Jumpin Jack Flash. Not only did I love both of these movies but when I saw Tom Hanks and Whoopi Goldberg’s characters on screen I said to myself ‘When I grow up I’m going to be just like them’. Coincidentally, both of these films were directed by Penny Marshall.

What did they both have in common? Toys.

Tom Hanks character, Josh Baskin, is literally a kid in a grown-up’s body. And he gets a computer job, working for a toy company. When I saw this movie I said, ‘That’s it! That’s what I want to do!’ He got to test toys in his office and his magnificent NYC loft was furnished with a bunk bed, a trampoline and soda machine. I could think of nothing better.

Whoopi, or Terry Doolittle, works for a bank, also working with computers. In both of these movies computers were very new, and not many companies were using them yet, and if they were, it was in a very limited fashion and not many people had the skills needed. Terry’s desk is adorned with little toys and colorful items. Her daily outfits are playful and relaxed, and her apartment is a creative person’s nirvana, filled with little treasures. Again as with Big, I saw her in the movie and said ‘That’s going to be me one day!’ Also in this movie she intercepts a message from a British Intelligence Officer and spends the rest of the film tangling with the KGB.

And I have never strayed too far from my idea of what it means to be a happy and self-actualized adult. I am playful. I march to my own drummer. I own toys! I am colorful. I am relaxed. Though I’m not a boy trapped in a man’s body nor do I tangle with international espionage.

But I do keep my home and work environments colorful, comfortable and playful. And I’m currently on the lookout for the inaugural toy to grace my new office.


It’s July! The month which used to bring me such joy.

I was born in July. And I spent (almost) every summer in July with my Grandparents in Sun City, Arizona, which I was certain was the the most wonderful place on earth.

Summers at my grandparents house were spent doing all my favorite things:

  • Eating a fantastic breakfast – aka Cream of Wheat cereal with milk and A LOT of sugar
  • The inaugural trip to Kmart at the beginning of the summer to pick out a new swimsuit, flip-flops and swim-cap
  • Going to the pool every day. I also took swimming lessons for a few weeks at the beginning of the summer but I hated these, so let’s just move on
  • Going to the library with my grandfather
  • Visiting my grandfather’s lapidary studio
  • Digging through my grandfather’s lapidary ‘tool box’ and ogling the polished stones whenever I had the urge
  • Visiting my grandparents next door neighbors Bob and Marguerite. Bob hand painted rocks (way before painting rocks was a thing) with perfect, delicate little scenes and he kept them lined up in their living room. At least once every summer he would let me pick one to keep. The photo below isn’t one of his rocks but a small painting he made for me for my birthday. Also, Bob and Marguerite were square dancers and Margeurite had converted her pantry into a crinoline closet. The shelves were floor to ceiling a crinoline rainbow. And one of my favorite things to do was go in there, neck cracked upwards, admiring them all as if they were Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel
  • Digging in my grandparent’s garden beds and yard, which was landscaped with thousands of smooth rocks. I rinsed them under the garden hose and pretended they were my grandfather’s polished turquoise. I painted them with my watercolor set and pretended they were one of neighbor Bob’s little painted masterpieces
  • Letting the hose drench the hot parched earth and inhaling the intoxicating scent of water hitting the dry Arizona soil
  • Visiting Bill and Mabel, who lived behind my grandparents. Bill used to sit out on his back patio, making crafts with beer can tabs. I remember him making a huge ‘blanket’ which glimmered in the sun. It was dazzling. He taught me how to make my own beer tab projects and I made bracelet after bracelet, bending the tabs and attaching them to the finger pulls. When I got too hot I would go inside and admire Mabel’s fireplace frogs, especially the one with the little rolled up piece of paper in its mouth; a tiny frog cigarette
  • Visiting with Simone and Alec across the street. They were French. She was an artist. They kept sparkling lights up in their backyard gazebo. She taught me how to paint and how to make perfectly delicate tree branches. They had a very fluffy Collie dog named Lassie (what else?) and I would accompany them on their nightly walks, holding Lassie’s leash as we strolled the smooth and perfectly manicured streets in the setting sun
  • Riding my bike with my mum. She wouldn’t spend the entire summer with us but would appear at some point. When she was there we would ride our bikes every day, first on the neighborhood streets which were smooth like glass, until we reached the golf course. There was a sign that said ‘No Bikes’, which we ignored and rode along the paths, under the sprinklers as they turned on every evening, to keep the course unnaturally green and lush. Riding a bike on a deserted golf course is one of life’s great pleasures which I highly recommend to anyone who gets the opportunity.
  • Going to church with my grandparents every Sunday. I loved to see my grandparents and everyone dressed up. Before we left my grandmother would stand before her vanity, long arm outstretched, eyes squinted, gold metal bottle of hairspray uncapped and pointed towards her head. And then she would unleash the mist on her smooth white hair, making sure it stayed in place. My grandfather would wear a suit, with a bolo featuring one of his largest stones, and he would slather on enough Old Spice to make all eyes water within a 15 ft radius. We would drive the few blocks to church, my head swimming with the fumes of hairspray and aftershave. After Mass, my grandfather, beaming, would introduce me to everyone as if I was the most famous person on earth. He was so proud of me. I felt like a star in his presence
  • Drawing and painting every single day. I drew geese. I sketched still lifes. One year my grandmother let me paint her golf cart. I covered it in sloppy saguaro cactuses and men wearing sombreros
  • Playing the piano multiple times a day. I dug the sheet music out of the piano bench, admiring the artwork on each cover. I remember playing a lot of Rodgers and Hammerstein and Bing Crosby
  • Helping my grandmother in the kitchen. I got to make the dressing for Crab Louie. I had the very important job of cutting onions for any meal that required them. Hence the onion cutting sunglasses in my photograph
    • My favorites things she made were her Lemon Meringue Pie and Homemade Chicken Noodle Soup. When she made made Lemon Meringue Pie, she used to give me leftover pie dough to make ‘cookies’. When she made Chicken Noodle soup she would bring out the pasta maker (a gift from my parents) and would run the dough through first to flatten. And then to cut the noodles. Flat dough would be spread on tea towels and laid throughout the kitchen, breakfast nook and dining room in preparation for the most magnificent of meals, the stock smelling of bay leaves and cloves. I could seriously eat her soup every single day of my life from now to eternity and never tire of it
  • Making raisins. My grandparents would lay screens, propped up on workhorses, in the backyard. Scatter grapes along the mesh and then let the sun do its work. Have you ever eaten a raisin made from a fresh grape that you dried in your own backyard?
  • Making sun-tea. Which is of course just (eventual) iced-tea that steeps outside. The Arizona sun is a special ingredient in a cooks repertoire. I think it’s a bit funny and pretty clever that a company from New Jersey named their company Arizona tea
  • Rifling through Betsy McCall magazines and cutting out the paper dolls from the back page
  • Watching Lawrence Welk and All in the Family on their big console tv. There was also a stereo and record player inside the console as well
  • Ringing every single bell in my granny’s bell collection. Examining each bell in fine detail, turning them over and over in my hands, between my fingers
  • Rubbing my fingers over the oil painting that hung above the living room sofa. Secretly pressing my fingernails into the textured paint and leaving little moon shaped dents behind
  • Playing games while sitting around the dining room table. Gin Rummy, Life, Tripoli
  • Setting up a puzzle on a card table in the living room and working on it for days. But if my mum was in town she would obsessively stay up all night long alone and finish it until it was complete
  • Trying on all the sun hats and visors in the hall closet
  • Spending hours in my grandparents walk-in closet
    • My grandmother had so many beautiful shoes. All stored in their original boxes. She had both her shoes and kept some of my Mum’s as well. Beautiful silk shoes with delicate tapered heels like icicles. I would try on every single pair, every single year. She however wore the same pair of sturdy white sandals every day
    • Also in this closet were my mum’s formals. Tulle and silk and crinoline with layers of petticoats and underskirts
    • And of course my granny’s colorful shift dresses. Classic 60’s streamlined shape, sleeveless, filled with riotous color and florals and geometric designs
    • My grandfather also kept his shiny, one of a kind, bolo collection in this closet on a rack against the far wall
  • Smelling every perfume on my grandmother’s vanity/dressing table. I loved the old atomizers with the little bulb that you squeezed
  • My grandmother’s lipstick drawer. She had a drawer filled entirely with lipstick. They all stood upright in the drawer and were separated from each other by individual dividers that she probably made herself. I tried on each lipstick at least once every summer
  • My granny’s nail cart. She turned a rolling brass filigree bar cart into a portable nail station. It kept her hundreds of nail polish shades (mostly variations of frosty pink) and also other nail accoutrements like cotton balls, emery boards and wooden cuticle sticks
  • Taking a bubble bath. With Jean Nate and an inflatable bath pillow, which I thought was so fancy. I take a bath once in a blue moon now as an adult and I always think I really should get one of those bath pillows
  • Dolls. Dolls, dolls, dolls. My grandmother kept all my mother’s dolls and they were so beautiful. Gorgeous, hand painted composite dolls with extensive and perfectly laundered and pressed wardrobes. The full size dresser in my bedroom was a doll clothes dresser and all of their clothes were kept in these drawers, folded neatly, tissue paper protecting the most delicate of items. One of the most momentous events of the summer was the Nancy Ann Storybook reveal. A cabinet in my Mum’s bedroom held every single Nancy Ann Storybook doll, in their original boxes, and every year we would take them all out one by one and spend hours opening them and admiring them all before tucking them back away in their home
  • Going to a baseball game on July 4th. I don’t remember the games and I couldn’t tell you who played but the fireworks were amazing and they had the most delicious hot dogs. There are three places in this world to get a great hot dog: New York City, Home Depot and Baseball Games. I always felt July 4th was the beginning of real summer and also a quiet signal that time would start moving very fast and before I knew it summer would be over and I would be back at home, starting another year at school. My birthday is in July and the fireworks on the 4th announced in my head that soon I would be another year older
  • Celebrating my birthday. Of course the event of the summer was my birthday. Every year my grandparents would invite all their neighbors over, all over the age of 70. My granny would bring out her rose china, and that day I would help her polish the silver in preparation for the event. I would get dressed up and braid my hair and get to wear jewelry and probably some lipgloss as well. Everyone would sit around and talk and they would bring me special little gifts, though didn’t care about the gifts so much. It was the event that mattered. The culmination of my birthday celebration was the cake. It was always a white cake, and always adorned with beautiful pink roses that matched her china. I would cut the cake and everyone would sing me happy birthday and that moment was always the happiest moment of my life until it repeated itself the following year.

When my grandparents died all of these things ceased to exist, except as memories to hold unto as long as I am able.

My parents lived in my grandparents home for awhile and when we were clearing through their things we found pink roses in the freezer. All the pink roses they had saved from each of my birthday cakes. Holding onto their own memories as long as they lived.

Sun City, 1970

to give and receive

I rarely take pics of myself. Let me me rephrase that. I rarely take pics of myself that are fit for general human viewing. I do in fact take copious selfies of myself on the couch, or in bed, with one of my cats sprawled around my neck like a furry scarf. There are approximately 2-3 people that I will send these to. In fact, one friend of mine and I are unofficial cat pic selfie penpals. We have an unwritten agreement that we will send each other cat selfies on a regular basis.

But there are very few photos of me standing upright, wearing shoes, hair brushed, that I would want to have framed and seen and saved for posterity. And just as few of my son and I together. I take millions of photos of him, as you would imagine, but I’m always on the other side of the lens, or the phone, more accurately.

I was just silently lamenting this fact about a month ago, and within a day I got a message from a friend, who is also a photographer, that she has had a feeling on her heart to reach out to me and offer me a photo session with my son. Don’t you love it when the universe reads your mind and hands you that thing you didn’t think you could have?

Now my friend is an amazing photographer. She owns a photography studio and has been professionally photographing people and events for years. But beyond that, she is the type of person who can see someone walking down the street, see something in them, ask to take their picture, and next thing you know have a high quality editorial photoshoot generally only seen in fashion magazines and national publications.

I can’t really remember how she and I met. I know it was online, even though she’s local. And I think our first interaction was me answering a call she put out soliciting donations for refugees resettling in our area. My son was quickly moving out of the baby/ toddler phase and into the little boy phase and I had tons of supplies that needed a home. And she had tons of homes that needed supplies. We have kept in touch over the years and I still donate whenever I’m able. She keeps an ear to the ground and is able to reach out and meet the needs of these families in ways that official rescue organizations sometimes can not.

I think my relationship with her may be the first that developed over the bond of giving to others in need. And I find it appropriate then somehow that she has in turn given me this most amazing gift. My challenge was accepting the gift gracefully. Why is accepting gifts so difficult?

We met last weekend at Ft. Monroe, inside the moat. This setting was my request as my father had two tours there when I was a child and it holds sentimental meaning in my heart. As I drove through the small tunnel that brings you into the Fort, I imagined my dad driving through there about 45 years ago, in his little powder blue Volkswagen beetle.

I don’t think he ever imagined he would have a grandson standing in the same places he stood, as he left for heaven a year before my son was born. I smiled as I watched my son, so playful like his grandpa, who insisted, absolutely insisted, on bringing a hand puppet along to the photoshoot. He doesn’t know it, but what a grandpa move that was. It brings tears to my eyes as I write this.

The photoshoot was quick. My friend is efficient and knows exactly what she is doing, what she is looking for, and exactly where to find the right tones, backgrounds and lighting. Before we knew it, we were done, only briefly interrupted by a very curious dog and his even more friendly owner, who seemed intent on hanging out with us for awhile (the owner more-so than the dog actually).

She captured my son so well, and he had fun. He’s a natural as the saying goes. I myself am not a natural, but she still managed to capture me with open eyes (a challenge) and a genuine smile. I’m sharing a few of them here, though not all, as they feel somehow sacred and very personal. She managed to catch a glimpse of not only his charming personality, but also our close relationship and how intensely protective I am of my son.

I will cherish these photos for the rest of my life. How many gifts can one say that about? Very few.

Thank you.

Stacey Salerno Photography

Fort Monroe, VA

there’s more than one way to save a life

I brought my son to church on Sunday. And I was dreading it.

The court had just overturned Roe v. Wade and our priest it known for giving very topical sermons, relevant to current world events.

The church we go to is Catholic. We are known for our solar panels, environmental consciousness, multiculturalism, and social justice. I have heard people call us the ‘hippie church’. And that’s why I like it. But still, it is a Catholic church, and I didn’t want to hear any sermon about the sanctity of life.

Well, I got my wish. There was no sermon about it, or about anything at all for that matter.

When we pulled up in the parking lot I said ‘oh shoot, I forgot our masks’. Well … I guess we’ll be ok. Conscientious, obsessively responsible in our mask wearing habits, my son and I have been gradually venturing out more and wearing them less and less. So we walked in, sans masks. Most people in our congregation had also abandoned them at this point, though I noticed friends of ours are still wearing them. I felt self-conscious as I smiled and waved as we sat down in front of one family we know, the daughter a classmate of my son, as they waved to us with smiling eyes, N95s still attached to their faces.

Well, we’re here now, what are we going to do but press on.

And the Mass started. Our priest walked in and made an announcement. I noticed he was double masked. It was difficult to hear what he was saying. From what I could gather, he took a train to a conference, someone on the train was unmasked and coughing the whole time, and our priest caught Covid. He was weak and still recovering.

I panicked. Should he be here? Should we leave? Should we take communion? What should we do?

Our priest didn’t give a sermon that day, and he didn’t give communion. He blessed it for the lay ministers to give out and he primarily sat quietly distanced at the back of the altar.

He did tell us, let my illness be a lesson to you. Covid is not over. Wear your masks.

And that is how I didn’t have to listen to a sermon about abortion and the sanctity of life. And this lesson was to me, a more important lesson about life.

Because someone can scream to the rooftops about life inside the womb, but what about the sanctity of the lives outside the womb, that we are experiencing every day?

in which an artist is unable to produce new work or experiences a creative slowdown

When I moved to Virginia over 10 years ago my hair was somewhat red. It is now entirely grey.

At the time my father was still alive. He died two years later. I miss him every day.

I came to Virginia with two cats; Fats Domino and Angelina. They have both crossed the rainbow bridge.

I have two cats currently; Oberon and The Gremlin. I briefly had a beautiful cat named Tahli that left this earth after our one year together.

When I moved here, I had never been a mother, and never foresaw that happening. However in 2013 by some miracle I gave birth to a beautiful boy.

Mother is now the overwhelming meaning of my existence.

I briefly lived in Germany and revisted the place of my birth, before returning to Virginia again.

When I moved here, as throughout my entire life previous, I did not drive. I got my permit within my first year of moving here and finally my license about four years ago.

In these past years I recall starting two paintings, and then stopping. I have sketched less than 20 pages in my sketchbooks. Maybe less than 10 even.

I have written very little. And thrown most of it away.

I have done little treasure hunting and the things I’ve found I have not sold and shared or displayed but rather tucked away in boxes at the bottoms of closets and drawers.

My very nice camera which I used to carry everywhere sits dusty and untouched.

My cocoon has been comfortable. And it has adapted and grown to fit me during my hibernation and complete restructuring of myself. But it has served its purpose.

I emerge as not a beautiful butterfly but as an entirely different creature.

this is the moment

Statue of Liberty

I have been quiet, and in hibernation, for so many years, waiting for the perfect moment to open my mouth and make my voice heard yet again. I have been waiting for the muse, the impetus, the cause, the push … for something I couldn’t identify.

This is the something.

In my downtime, I prefer to revisit old movies or tv shows. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen Moonstruck. I know every nuance of the Inn on Newhart. I sing along to the Love Boat opening theme.

Recently I added the original Dallas tv series to my repertoire. I watched it a bit as a kid, but was never that into it, thank goodness, as I am now learning it was pretty risqué! Revisiting it now though is a wonderful strangely comforting guilty pleasure. The scenery, the clothes, the scandal, the drama! Pamela (Victoria Principal) is like a St Joan of Arc fighting the corruption of the Ewing family from the inside out, in of course the most charming and ladylike of ways.

Her brother Cliff is billed as the left wing radical. As a kid growing up in the South, I thought he was a bad guy. Now I find him incredibly relatable. However, let me say I am only in Season One, so it is entirely possible my take on the characters will change over time.

Last night I put on an episode called “Election”, which turned out to be about abortion. And I thought to myself ‘how strange … how timely’. In this episode Cliff is running for office against a Ewing backed candidate, and in an effort to ruin Cliff’s chances, JR digs up a secret from Cliff’s past which effectively blows the election. It turns out many years previously, Cliff had a girlfriend that had an abortion and died due to not receiving proper medical attention. This was in the world pre Roe v. Wade, before abortion was legal. Cliff loses the election because the public finds it reprehensible that he was involved in such a horrible, illegal practice. Cliff shares in a touching monologue, why he helped his girlfriend obtain the abortion.

Dallas is currently free to view on Amazon, scroll down to Episode 13 to watch this interesting, and frankly, historic episode.

Dallas, Season One

So, that was last night.

Today is Friday. TGIF and all of that. I went to work. It was mostly a good morning. I had a challenging meeting, but nothing too horrible, and the moment my meeting ended (and my brain was a little scrambled) I received a text:

“Have you seen the news?”

No. I had not.

So I googled.

Supreme Court overturns Roe v. Wade


That was my reply to her … Oh. And a few minutes later … Wow.

Because I didn’t really have the words to describe what I was feeling.

Even as I write this, and I have come to this part, I don’t know how to continue.

I am sitting at my kitchen table, eating a late dinner, chewing, staring blankly at my laptop.



Let me say that I have never had an abortion. But let me also say that there were times in my life when I may have considered it. I can’t say for certain because it wasn’t a choice I ever had to make. But … it was a choice.

I never sustained a pregnancy until I was in my 40’s and I very much wanted that child, my child, that is very loved today.

But what if I had gotten pregnant when I was young? When I was unmarried. When I was irresponsible. When I didn’t take care of my body in any way shape or form and made very unwise and unhealthy choices.

I know so many women that have had abortions. People I went to high school with, whose parents secretly flew them away for clandestine surgeries. People I went to college with. Whose abortions were paid by collecting money from other girls in the dorm. People who had abortions young, and then went on to marry and have children later in life. People who probably have never told their husbands of their past. These husbands who are virulently against choice, clueless to the fact their wives would probably not be their wives today if abortion had not been an option for them when they were young.

Abortion is not going to end. Legal abortion may end for some. For young girls, who can’t travel, who don’t have the money, the connections, the resources. Abortion will continue for others. The wealthy, the privileged. Having children will be their choice.

But the poor, the marginalized, the abused, they will be forced to bring children into that world. Into poverty, into uncertainty, into fear.

And will the anti choice movement love these children? The ones that were forced onto mothers unprepared and unwilling?

Who will love these children? Who will prepare their way in life? Who will protect them?