The longest journey of any person is the journey inward.
--- Unknown
Prologue
I am an indecisive person, and I noticed that a lot of my tweets ask questions or feel unsure. I grew up in a Republican home (very pro-life), and this has definitely shaped me as a person. However, as I grow more and more into my own person, I find some of my views changing: no longer am I passively accepting values. I am looking at the reasoning behind my beliefs. In my twitterive I follow a girl named Aria who faces some tough decisions as well.
The inspiration for my twitterive came from the recent news article about a doctor in Philadelphia. This "doctor" is facing murder charges for the deaths of eight babies; he conducted late term abortions and then severed the babies' spinal cords with scissors. This article made me wonder what it would be like to be a woman who had gone to this man for help: what it would be like to have been in his care and the emotions she felt.
For my twitterive I have created a fiction piece that explores the life of a woman named Aria who travels to Philadelphia to meet with this man. At first, she goes very early in her first trimester to see about an early abortion. However, on the train, an event causes her to change her mind. Yet, in her sixth month of pregnancy, Aria finds herself back on the same train to get a late term abortion. In this twitterive you will follow Aria as she struggles with herself to make the "right" decision. Her story, though, inevitably fades into the background as she struggles to make her decision in a world full of such harsh views and opinions. Crushed under the weight of indecision and opposing views, Aria makes her choice. The genres included contain an article, prose style fiction, quotes, videos, and pictures. What will she choose? Or, more importantly, what will you choose?
The inspiration for my twitterive came from the recent news article about a doctor in Philadelphia. This "doctor" is facing murder charges for the deaths of eight babies; he conducted late term abortions and then severed the babies' spinal cords with scissors. This article made me wonder what it would be like to be a woman who had gone to this man for help: what it would be like to have been in his care and the emotions she felt.
For my twitterive I have created a fiction piece that explores the life of a woman named Aria who travels to Philadelphia to meet with this man. At first, she goes very early in her first trimester to see about an early abortion. However, on the train, an event causes her to change her mind. Yet, in her sixth month of pregnancy, Aria finds herself back on the same train to get a late term abortion. In this twitterive you will follow Aria as she struggles with herself to make the "right" decision. Her story, though, inevitably fades into the background as she struggles to make her decision in a world full of such harsh views and opinions. Crushed under the weight of indecision and opposing views, Aria makes her choice. The genres included contain an article, prose style fiction, quotes, videos, and pictures. What will she choose? Or, more importantly, what will you choose?
"As narrative inquirers we are not alone in this space" --Clandinin & Connelly
Self Correction
The Middle
The cold blusters around Aria’s face and ears, forcing her to dig her chin into the collar of her worn coat. Without moving her head, her eyes glance in the direction of the train. The ticket, clasped tightly between her two pink thumbs, reads Philadelphia, PA. A friend had told her of a Doctor in Philadelphia who specialized in situations like Aria’s. She closes her eyes, knowing that this is her last chance.
The Beginning
The night it happened, Aria lie awake, staring out her trailer window. The blue from outside cast a shadow on her face: not yet morning, not night. There was a light tap on her window, and Aria recognized this as a sign he was there. Her childhood friend: they had done everything together. From creating a whistling call so that they could find each other on the playground, to pretending they could read each other’s minds.
The cold blusters around Aria’s face and ears, forcing her to dig her chin into the collar of her worn coat. Without moving her head, her eyes glance in the direction of the train. The ticket, clasped tightly between her two pink thumbs, reads Philadelphia, PA. A friend had told her of a Doctor in Philadelphia who specialized in situations like Aria’s. She closes her eyes, knowing that this is her last chance.
The Beginning
The night it happened, Aria lie awake, staring out her trailer window. The blue from outside cast a shadow on her face: not yet morning, not night. There was a light tap on her window, and Aria recognized this as a sign he was there. Her childhood friend: they had done everything together. From creating a whistling call so that they could find each other on the playground, to pretending they could read each other’s minds.
He was lucky enough to get out of there. At age fifteen, he’d moved in with his father, a wealthy man who never enforced any rules in his house. Aria had heard stories of parties with college kids, all of them dancing by the pool and drinking alcohol that his father provided for them. Lost in thought, and remembering Ray was waiting, she quietly gets out of bed and tiptoes past her mother’s room to the door.
Once she lets him in, she begins the routine. It’d been like this ever since he moved. Ray would come over on the weekends, and they’d sit down and just talk about their lives in the confidence of each other. Aria takes out a pot and fills it with water.
“I came as fast as I could,” Ray says, sitting down on the couch. “What’s up?”
Aria had scrounged up enough change to call him from a nearby payphone. She strikes a match and lights the burner; she places the pot on top and then pulls out two tea bags from the top cabinet.
“We’re losing the trailer, Ray,” Aria says, her voice cracking. “I’m so embarrassed.” She sits down on the couch beside him, burying her head into his chest. But he feels different; he smells different. There is something off about the way he puts his arm around her.
“I know, Ar. I saw the eviction notice last week when I went to get the tea bags.”
“I don’t know what to do. Where are we gonna live?”
Ray sits forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His face scrunches up the way it always does when he is deeply troubled by something.
“I can fix this, Ar.”
Aria sits taller on the couch. Ray reaches for her face, wiping away tears that she didn’t even know had formed. He places his hand on the side of her head and runs his fingers through her wavy black hair.
“I can fix this,” he continues, “If you sleep with me.”
Once she lets him in, she begins the routine. It’d been like this ever since he moved. Ray would come over on the weekends, and they’d sit down and just talk about their lives in the confidence of each other. Aria takes out a pot and fills it with water.
“I came as fast as I could,” Ray says, sitting down on the couch. “What’s up?”
Aria had scrounged up enough change to call him from a nearby payphone. She strikes a match and lights the burner; she places the pot on top and then pulls out two tea bags from the top cabinet.
“We’re losing the trailer, Ray,” Aria says, her voice cracking. “I’m so embarrassed.” She sits down on the couch beside him, burying her head into his chest. But he feels different; he smells different. There is something off about the way he puts his arm around her.
“I know, Ar. I saw the eviction notice last week when I went to get the tea bags.”
“I don’t know what to do. Where are we gonna live?”
Ray sits forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His face scrunches up the way it always does when he is deeply troubled by something.
“I can fix this, Ar.”
Aria sits taller on the couch. Ray reaches for her face, wiping away tears that she didn’t even know had formed. He places his hand on the side of her head and runs his fingers through her wavy black hair.
“I can fix this,” he continues, “If you sleep with me.”
The Middle
The train slows to a stop in front of Aria, and she walks towards the door, stepping onto the slate floor and scoping out her options. Her eyes dart around the train and spy an empty seat. It wasn’t that easy to find a seat three months ago. Three months ago in late November, the train was packed. She’d had to wiggle up and down the aisles until a mother spotted her and told her she could squeeze in with their family.
“We’re reading a story,” a little girl had said. “I picked it out.” She pointed to her mother’s lap, shuffling her knees up and down and nearly bouncing out of her seat. The mother smiled at Aria warmly and continued with the story.
“If you become a bird and fly away from me, I will be a tree that you come home to.” The mother gently placed her left hand around her daughter’s brown hair and stroked her wavy locks, bringing her lips to the crown of her head. And right then and there, in that moment, Aria knew she couldn’t do it. Tears welled in the underbelly of her eyes, spilling onto her cheeks and down to her jacket collar.
But that was three months ago. Finding a seat she slides in, one hand on her belly, the other on front of the scratchy, brown pleather.
The train slows to a stop in front of Aria, and she walks towards the door, stepping onto the slate floor and scoping out her options. Her eyes dart around the train and spy an empty seat. It wasn’t that easy to find a seat three months ago. Three months ago in late November, the train was packed. She’d had to wiggle up and down the aisles until a mother spotted her and told her she could squeeze in with their family.
“We’re reading a story,” a little girl had said. “I picked it out.” She pointed to her mother’s lap, shuffling her knees up and down and nearly bouncing out of her seat. The mother smiled at Aria warmly and continued with the story.
“If you become a bird and fly away from me, I will be a tree that you come home to.” The mother gently placed her left hand around her daughter’s brown hair and stroked her wavy locks, bringing her lips to the crown of her head. And right then and there, in that moment, Aria knew she couldn’t do it. Tears welled in the underbelly of her eyes, spilling onto her cheeks and down to her jacket collar.
But that was three months ago. Finding a seat she slides in, one hand on her belly, the other on front of the scratchy, brown pleather.
No woman wants an abortion. Either she wants a child or she wishes to avoid pregnancy.
--Unknown
The Middle—before the train
The rain pummels down on Aria’s window, reminding her that there is nowhere she can go: no way out. For a moment, she can’t remember why she has such stomach pains, but then it hits her. Last night’s pill binge comes flooding back. Her head starts to pound, blood rushing--pumping in her brain and poking her skull with every thump of heated blood. She can picture the swelling in her brain. In fact, she’d rather focus on the pain in her head than the pain lurching in her stomach.
Suddenly, it’s too hot. It feels warm between her legs. Pleasepleasepleaseplease, she prays to God. Lifting the covers, she looks down and slides to the side of the bed. But there is nothing there. She feels the white sheets with her hand, and then places her hand between her legs. She pulls her hand up, and its cleanliness confirms her worst fears. It didn’t work? Tears swell in her eyes, and this newfound realization causes her stomach to twist worse.
Head pulsing and stomach aching, she gets up and walks to the bathroom. She pulls down her underwear, her pointer finger nails on the outside lining. Her heart drops into her stomach, like an anvil plummeting in a cartoon. This time, the tears begin pouring. In a surge of anger, she rushes to the medicine cabinet and pulls out the Vitamin C bottle. She heard somewhere that when you’re sick, it’s okay to take up to 2,000 milligrams, even though the recommended daily dose is 500 milligrams, or one orange tablet. But she took 7,500 milligrams-- or one tablet every hour since she woke up yesterday. A friend had told her about this “home remedy,” or self-correction for abortions.
Still in the bathroom, she opens the bottom doors that house the underbelly of the sink and reaches all the way in the back, underneath the loop of a pipe. Tucked there, she pulls out a folded piece of paper, crinkled and bumpy from water drippage. She opens the paper, and begins to read.
· Make sure the vitamin C doesn’t have bioflaviniods in it, because they help to prevent miscarriages.
She turns the green bottle in her hand and peruses the ingredients. Dextrose, Turbinado Sugar, Cellulose, Artificial Flavor, Acerola, Black Currant Powder…No bioflaviniods. She continues reading the paper.
· Success in this remedy decreases after the fourth week of pregnancy.
She looks down at her belly. How could she be sure how far along she was? Her mom didn’t know she was pregnant, and First Response certainly couldn’t be the one to tell her first. She was always irregular with her periods, too, which didn’t help. She lifts up her shirt and turns to the side in the mirror: no bloating, no bump. She couldn’t be that far along. She closes her eyes. In her mind, she can see the morning playing out differently. She wakes up feeling uncomfortable, and uncovers her comforter to reveal a mass amount of blood. Thick, sticky, sweet blood. She thanks God for his kindness and mercy, and proceeds to strip the sheets from the bed. When she opens her eyes she is brought back to reality: the pounding of the rain reminding her of the pumping in her head, and the headache reminding her that she now has another decision to make.
The rain pummels down on Aria’s window, reminding her that there is nowhere she can go: no way out. For a moment, she can’t remember why she has such stomach pains, but then it hits her. Last night’s pill binge comes flooding back. Her head starts to pound, blood rushing--pumping in her brain and poking her skull with every thump of heated blood. She can picture the swelling in her brain. In fact, she’d rather focus on the pain in her head than the pain lurching in her stomach.
Suddenly, it’s too hot. It feels warm between her legs. Pleasepleasepleaseplease, she prays to God. Lifting the covers, she looks down and slides to the side of the bed. But there is nothing there. She feels the white sheets with her hand, and then places her hand between her legs. She pulls her hand up, and its cleanliness confirms her worst fears. It didn’t work? Tears swell in her eyes, and this newfound realization causes her stomach to twist worse.
Head pulsing and stomach aching, she gets up and walks to the bathroom. She pulls down her underwear, her pointer finger nails on the outside lining. Her heart drops into her stomach, like an anvil plummeting in a cartoon. This time, the tears begin pouring. In a surge of anger, she rushes to the medicine cabinet and pulls out the Vitamin C bottle. She heard somewhere that when you’re sick, it’s okay to take up to 2,000 milligrams, even though the recommended daily dose is 500 milligrams, or one orange tablet. But she took 7,500 milligrams-- or one tablet every hour since she woke up yesterday. A friend had told her about this “home remedy,” or self-correction for abortions.
Still in the bathroom, she opens the bottom doors that house the underbelly of the sink and reaches all the way in the back, underneath the loop of a pipe. Tucked there, she pulls out a folded piece of paper, crinkled and bumpy from water drippage. She opens the paper, and begins to read.
· Make sure the vitamin C doesn’t have bioflaviniods in it, because they help to prevent miscarriages.
She turns the green bottle in her hand and peruses the ingredients. Dextrose, Turbinado Sugar, Cellulose, Artificial Flavor, Acerola, Black Currant Powder…No bioflaviniods. She continues reading the paper.
· Success in this remedy decreases after the fourth week of pregnancy.
She looks down at her belly. How could she be sure how far along she was? Her mom didn’t know she was pregnant, and First Response certainly couldn’t be the one to tell her first. She was always irregular with her periods, too, which didn’t help. She lifts up her shirt and turns to the side in the mirror: no bloating, no bump. She couldn’t be that far along. She closes her eyes. In her mind, she can see the morning playing out differently. She wakes up feeling uncomfortable, and uncovers her comforter to reveal a mass amount of blood. Thick, sticky, sweet blood. She thanks God for his kindness and mercy, and proceeds to strip the sheets from the bed. When she opens her eyes she is brought back to reality: the pounding of the rain reminding her of the pumping in her head, and the headache reminding her that she now has another decision to make.
The End
After a ten block walk, she finally arrives in front of a building. A couple of the windows are boarded up, and half of the building is charred with what looks like smoke damage. A sign affixed to the building reads, ‘Family Practitioner.’ Fighting the urge to cry, she walks in the front door. Sitting at the reception desk looks to be a girl of no more than fifteen. Her hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, immaculate curls spilling out of the hair tie. Her jeans are low, and her hoodie is cropped, revealing heart tattoos on either hip.
“Can I help you,” she asks, smacking her gum, eyes glued to a bulky computer screen.
“Yes, I um, I’m here to see Dr. Sang,” Aria says, rubbing her hands on her stomach; it’s a habit she hasn’t been able to stop. It’s as if the baby carries her, instead of the other way around.
“I’ll buzz ‘em,” she says. Red and white heart candies, littered with cute sayings, are open for the taking at the reception desk.
“Thanks,” Aria says as she eyes the sayings. At random, she plucks a heart from the bowl before sitting down in one of the fold out waiting chairs. ‘Be Mine,’ it says on a white heart. And as soon as she chews and swallows it, as if on cue, she feels flutters in her stomach. She places a hand on her belly and looks around the room. On a card table adjacent her sits a tattered story book. She leans over to get a closer look at the title: It is The Runaway Bunny. She picks it up and flips to the first page. It reads: Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away. So he said to his mother, “I am running away.”
“If you run away,” said his mother, “I will run after you. For you are my little bunny.” And with those first words, she flips the book shut, her heart dropping into her stomach. She throws the book on top of another book called Are You My Mother? and clasps her hands together.
After a ten block walk, she finally arrives in front of a building. A couple of the windows are boarded up, and half of the building is charred with what looks like smoke damage. A sign affixed to the building reads, ‘Family Practitioner.’ Fighting the urge to cry, she walks in the front door. Sitting at the reception desk looks to be a girl of no more than fifteen. Her hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, immaculate curls spilling out of the hair tie. Her jeans are low, and her hoodie is cropped, revealing heart tattoos on either hip.
“Can I help you,” she asks, smacking her gum, eyes glued to a bulky computer screen.
“Yes, I um, I’m here to see Dr. Sang,” Aria says, rubbing her hands on her stomach; it’s a habit she hasn’t been able to stop. It’s as if the baby carries her, instead of the other way around.
“I’ll buzz ‘em,” she says. Red and white heart candies, littered with cute sayings, are open for the taking at the reception desk.
“Thanks,” Aria says as she eyes the sayings. At random, she plucks a heart from the bowl before sitting down in one of the fold out waiting chairs. ‘Be Mine,’ it says on a white heart. And as soon as she chews and swallows it, as if on cue, she feels flutters in her stomach. She places a hand on her belly and looks around the room. On a card table adjacent her sits a tattered story book. She leans over to get a closer look at the title: It is The Runaway Bunny. She picks it up and flips to the first page. It reads: Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away. So he said to his mother, “I am running away.”
“If you run away,” said his mother, “I will run after you. For you are my little bunny.” And with those first words, she flips the book shut, her heart dropping into her stomach. She throws the book on top of another book called Are You My Mother? and clasps her hands together.
“Alright, I’ll take you back,” the girl says. “Follow me.”
Aria pushes herself up, bracing herself with one arm on the back of the chair. She follows the girl down a tight hallway, with twists and turns almost every five paces. It is dim, and the fluorescent lights flicker incessantly, giving the walls an eerie, meat factory-like glow. As she walks, she looks to the left and right, but all of the doors are closed, leaving her to ponder what lies behind every entry.
Finally, after traveling this maze, the girl opens the door to a room at the very end. Inside, it is freezing, and Aria gets goose bumps as soon as she steps in. She isn't sure, though, if it is because of the chill or for other reasons.
“You can take your pants off and cover yourself with that robe there. I’ll be back in a minute.” And the girl exits, leaving Aria alone. She looks around the tiny room, but there isn’t much: white walls, a cot, a chair. There is what looks to be a syringe in the back corner, but Aria shuts her eyes and tells herself she is seeing things. Then she notices the machine. She walks over to it, her fingers trembling as she touches what looks like a dental drill connected to a large rectangular can. Suddenly, the door clicks open and the girl walks back in.
Aria pushes herself up, bracing herself with one arm on the back of the chair. She follows the girl down a tight hallway, with twists and turns almost every five paces. It is dim, and the fluorescent lights flicker incessantly, giving the walls an eerie, meat factory-like glow. As she walks, she looks to the left and right, but all of the doors are closed, leaving her to ponder what lies behind every entry.
Finally, after traveling this maze, the girl opens the door to a room at the very end. Inside, it is freezing, and Aria gets goose bumps as soon as she steps in. She isn't sure, though, if it is because of the chill or for other reasons.
“You can take your pants off and cover yourself with that robe there. I’ll be back in a minute.” And the girl exits, leaving Aria alone. She looks around the tiny room, but there isn’t much: white walls, a cot, a chair. There is what looks to be a syringe in the back corner, but Aria shuts her eyes and tells herself she is seeing things. Then she notices the machine. She walks over to it, her fingers trembling as she touches what looks like a dental drill connected to a large rectangular can. Suddenly, the door clicks open and the girl walks back in.
“Oh,” the girl says. “That’s not for you. It’s a bit late for that.”
Aria retracts her hands and places them behind her back.
“Alright, I’m gonna give you the anesthesia. You can take your pants off now. Believe me, ain't nothing I haven’t seen.”
“But…but you’re only a teenager,” Aria says in disbelief. “Isn’t there a nurse?”
“Look, I’m good at what I do. Just get undressed and lie down.”
There’s nothing left for me, Aria thinks. She pulls down her stretchy pants and lies down on the bed.
“I’m just gonna put this needle in the top of your hand. Try to relax. When you wake up, your problem will be gone.”
Aria looks up; the lights rimmed with yellow blind her. She thinks of the conversation hearts in the bowl on the counter: Ur Mine, Love Ya, My Baby, Ask Me. But there was one red heart that she hadn’t seen before. It said Good-Bye. Aria lifts her finger to tell the girl something, but the blanket of sleep rushes over her before she can open her mouth to speak.
Abortion Doctor in Philadelphia Facing Murder Charges of Woman, 8 Fetuses: Bottles of Aborted Full-Term Fetuses Found Lining Doctor's Office Wall
By Elena Arteaga - Web Producer
Wednesday, January 19, 2011 - 3:07pm
PHILADELPHIA— An abortion doctor is facing murder charges after a woman in his care died, leading investigators to find bottles holding aborted full-term fetuses in his office.
Kermitt Gosnell is facing eight counts of murder in the deaths of a patient and seven babies whom prosecutors said were born alive and then killed. Gosnell operated The Women's Medical Society clinic in west Philadelphia for several years. Police said most of Gosnell's patients were lower income, minority women.
Gosnell is charged with third degree murder for the death of 41-year-old Karnamaya Mongar. Mongar died on November 20th, 2009, when she was overdosed with anesthetics prescribed by Gosnell. Gosnell also faces charges for the deaths of infants who were killed between the 6-8 months of pregnancy and then killed with scissors shortly after birth.
"Bags and bottles holding aborted fetuses were scattered throughout the building,” said District Attorney Seth Williams. “A row of jars containing seven feet lined a shelf. Furniture and equipment was dusted, broken, urinated and blood stained. Untrained and unsupervised workers injected dangerous drugs into women undergoing illegal, late term abortions."
Wednesday, January 19, 2011 - 3:07pm
PHILADELPHIA— An abortion doctor is facing murder charges after a woman in his care died, leading investigators to find bottles holding aborted full-term fetuses in his office.
Kermitt Gosnell is facing eight counts of murder in the deaths of a patient and seven babies whom prosecutors said were born alive and then killed. Gosnell operated The Women's Medical Society clinic in west Philadelphia for several years. Police said most of Gosnell's patients were lower income, minority women.
Gosnell is charged with third degree murder for the death of 41-year-old Karnamaya Mongar. Mongar died on November 20th, 2009, when she was overdosed with anesthetics prescribed by Gosnell. Gosnell also faces charges for the deaths of infants who were killed between the 6-8 months of pregnancy and then killed with scissors shortly after birth.
"Bags and bottles holding aborted fetuses were scattered throughout the building,” said District Attorney Seth Williams. “A row of jars containing seven feet lined a shelf. Furniture and equipment was dusted, broken, urinated and blood stained. Untrained and unsupervised workers injected dangerous drugs into women undergoing illegal, late term abortions."
