Skip to main content

"You get Plan B, and you get Plan B, and you get Plan B!"

It's like an Oprah-fest: a federal judge has ruled that females of all ages must have access to Plan B or the "morning after" pill. This means that  your 13 year old daughter, who can't go on the school field trip without a signed permission slip, can toddle on over to the clinic and get a handful of hormones.

Our daughters' health is at stake. Read this woman's account of her "easy, pill" abortion:

I was screaming and crying, writhing in agony on the floor. I couldn’t move; I was on the verge of passing out; I couldn’t even see – blinded by the pain.
 
My boyfriend picked me up and rushed me to the emergency room, where I waited, still sobbing and thrashing with pain. When the triage doctor finally saw me, my blood pressure was dangerously low, and my heart rate was all over the chart.

When I told him about the abortion, he callously said that I would be “fine” and pricked me with a needle to jolt my blood pressure higher – but still dramatically low. I was sick for two more days, drugged up on the heavy-duty painkillers that the ER doctor had prescribed for me.

When I returned to the OBGYN a week later and told him about my ordeal and severe reaction, he just looked at me questioningly and said, “You seem all right; you didn’t bleed out.” No sympathy, no concern.

These “convenient,” “safe,” and “easy” medical abortions are downright dangerous.

I wrote, about 15 months ago, about my decision to not give Plan B to my daughter after an assault, and let's just say that I was treated non-too-kindly in the blogosphere. Apparently, being pro-abortion also means being cruel, and wanting this type of callous, dangerous medical crisis for all females.

We have to keep up the fight, folks!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Trying to "end run" God

If you're a football fan, you know what an end run is. From Merriam-Webster:
a football play in which the ballcarrier attempts to run wide around the end of the line We try to "end run" God a lot. I do. I figure I know better. I've got this - no need to worry the Big Guy about such a trivial thing.

Of course, it never works.

Like the puppy above, when we try and evade the tough obstacle (even though we KNOW we will eventually have to do it), we end up - well, off in the bushes.

But oh! How I wished my way worked. I'd love to take a flying leap and land smoothly and gracefully. People would be in awe, as if watching Simone Biles nail a balance beam routine that no one else would even attempt. I would shyly look down and blush - just lightly - and acknowledge (But humbly! Oh so humbly!) my achievement.

But no: I am the one pulling myself out of the bushes, scratches all over my legs and twigs in my hair. I'd hear that gentle but loving voice of God saying, &quo…

Secret Santa!!

Too old for Santa? I think not.

Yes, there are discussions as to whether we should "lie" to kids and tell them that Santa brings them gifts vs. We can't lie to the kids; it's wrong.

There is also the "Christmas is about Jesus" vs. "But Santa is magical!"

You know, we have so few magical and joyful moments, and less and less as we get older. Santa is fun. And the kids usually figure it out, and no one I know was ever scarred for life for believing that Santa brought them and every child everywhere a toy for Christmas.

It's the magic of looking up at the sky on a clear December night, thinking "I'll wait up to see Santa" and later, as you fell asleep at the window, being in your daddy's arms as he carries you to bed.

It's the magic of putting out cookies and milk (or beer, because Santa does like beer) and maybe some carrots for the reindeer, and then checking in the morning to make sure the food was all consumed.

It's…

Advent Brokenness

It was a lovely May evening, the kind we in Michigan savor like honey. After the brutal cold of winter, flowers blossomed, grass greened, mosquitoes flocked. School was almost done for the year - just the formalities of 8th grade graduation were ahead.

Why not saddle up the horse and go for a ride? Why not, indeed. So my sister and I did. I took Prince out across the road from our house, to romp through the weeds on a path my father mowed for us. The view from horseback on a spring night - well, nearly Heaven.

Until Prince bolted. He spooked. I fell. And my arm broke. Compound fracture.

My dog, a collie, had followed us out. He was not particularly trusting of Prince, as Prince would never allow himself to be herded, and this vexed my collie. My dog, channeling his inner Lassie, ran home without me.

My sister had been in the yard with her boyfriend at the time, Gary, waiting for me to come back. Instead, it was just the dog loping across the road. That didn't seem right, so my si…