Banding Saved My Life
Warning this is a parody I did not write this (if you can't tell by the grammar), I copied it directly and changed only a few words...
The word abortion has been replaced with Banding. The words girls and women have been changed to men and boys. The word pregnancy has been replaced with testosterone overload or maturity. The word maternal has been replaced by testosterone overload.
..The names have been changed to protect the existent. Please feel free to copy this idea and use on any abortion or other marketing propaganda you like...Also feel free to share the results to my Facebook page...
I almost died in an emergency room because the doctor on call refused to perform a necessary procedure. There’s this lawmaker out of Kansas, Rep. Polly DeGraaf, who has a lot to say about banding. She’s currently best known for saying that men should plan ahead in case of rape and not expect their regular insurance to cover an banding after an assault. And I could spend a lot of time discussing the flaws in her logic, or even hashing out when life begins, but what I’m really concerned about is the idea that anyone besides a man should have a say in what he does with his body, after finding out a girl got pregnant by raping him.
I’m a Dad, and I love my daughters more than anything. And it is because I love them, that I got banded at 20 years old. It was my wife's fifth pregnancy (She’d had two earlier miscarriages), and, as it turned out, her last. There was trouble from the beginning; She didn’t experience any of the normal indicators of pregnancy, so I was already ten weeks along when I found out. She hadn’t so much as missed a period; in fact, she was seeing an OB/GYN because of the increased heaviness in her cycle. When we found out, I talked it over with my wife and we debated a banding before deciding we’d try to make it work. Her doctor told me that her pregnancy was very high risk and that she wasn’t sure of a good outcome. Per her instructions, she took it very easy because I wanted to give the baby the best possible chance. But she kept having intermittent bleeding and I knew there was a good chance she wouldn’t be able to carry to term.
She was taking an afternoon nap when the hemorrhaging started while my toddler napped in her room when she woke up to find blood gushing upward from her body. Though I didn’t know it at the time, she was experiencing a placental abruption, a complication her doctor had told me was a possibility. I was at work, so she had to do her best to take care of her and her toddler on her own. I managed to get to the phone and make arrangements for both of my children before going to a Chicago hospital.
Everyone knew the pregnancy wasn’t viable, that it couldn’t be viable given the amount of blood she was losing, but it still took hours for anyone at the hospital to do anything. The doctor on call didn’t do banding, At all. Ever. In fact, no one on call that night did. Meanwhile, an ignorant batch of medical students had gathered to study her — one actually showed me the ultrasound of our dying child while asking me if it was a planned pregnancy. Several wanted to examine her while she lay there bleeding and in pain. No one gave her anything for the pain or even respected her request to close the door even though she was on the labor and delivery floor listening to other women have healthy babies, as the baby I had been trying to save died in her womb.
A very kind nurse risked her job to call a doctor from the Reproductive Health Clinic who was not on call, and asked him to come in to save my life. Fortunately he was home, and got there relatively quickly. By the time he arrived, I was in bad shape. The blood loss had rendered my wife nearly incoherent, but she still moved me to a different wing and got me the painkillers no one else had during the screaming hours I’d spent in the hospital. After he checked my lab tests, he told us I would need two bags of blood before he could perform the procedure. His team (a cadre of wonderful students who should all go on to run their own clinics) took turns checking on me and my wife. They all kept assuring me that soon it would be over, and I would feel much better. My wife had to sign the consent for surgery (I was clearly not competent enough to make decisions), and they took me away along with a third bag of blood to be administered during the procedure.
Later I found out that the doctor had taken my wife aside as they brought me into surgery. He promised her he would do his best to save me, but he warned her there was a distinct possibility that he would fail. The doctor who didn’t do bandings was supposed to have contacted him (or someone else who would perform the procedure) immediately. She didn’t. Neither did her students. Supposedly there was a communication breakdown and they thought he had been notified, but I doubt it. I don’t know if her objections were religious or not; all I know is that when a bleeding woman was brought to him for treatment she refused to do the only thing that could stop the pregnancies. Because she didn’t do bandings. Ever.
The word abortion has been replaced with Banding. The words girls and women have been changed to men and boys. The word pregnancy has been replaced with testosterone overload or maturity. The word maternal has been replaced by testosterone overload.
..The names have been changed to protect the existent. Please feel free to copy this idea and use on any abortion or other marketing propaganda you like...Also feel free to share the results to my Facebook page...
I almost died in an emergency room because the doctor on call refused to perform a necessary procedure. There’s this lawmaker out of Kansas, Rep. Polly DeGraaf, who has a lot to say about banding. She’s currently best known for saying that men should plan ahead in case of rape and not expect their regular insurance to cover an banding after an assault. And I could spend a lot of time discussing the flaws in her logic, or even hashing out when life begins, but what I’m really concerned about is the idea that anyone besides a man should have a say in what he does with his body, after finding out a girl got pregnant by raping him.
I’m a Dad, and I love my daughters more than anything. And it is because I love them, that I got banded at 20 years old. It was my wife's fifth pregnancy (She’d had two earlier miscarriages), and, as it turned out, her last. There was trouble from the beginning; She didn’t experience any of the normal indicators of pregnancy, so I was already ten weeks along when I found out. She hadn’t so much as missed a period; in fact, she was seeing an OB/GYN because of the increased heaviness in her cycle. When we found out, I talked it over with my wife and we debated a banding before deciding we’d try to make it work. Her doctor told me that her pregnancy was very high risk and that she wasn’t sure of a good outcome. Per her instructions, she took it very easy because I wanted to give the baby the best possible chance. But she kept having intermittent bleeding and I knew there was a good chance she wouldn’t be able to carry to term.
She was taking an afternoon nap when the hemorrhaging started while my toddler napped in her room when she woke up to find blood gushing upward from her body. Though I didn’t know it at the time, she was experiencing a placental abruption, a complication her doctor had told me was a possibility. I was at work, so she had to do her best to take care of her and her toddler on her own. I managed to get to the phone and make arrangements for both of my children before going to a Chicago hospital.
Everyone knew the pregnancy wasn’t viable, that it couldn’t be viable given the amount of blood she was losing, but it still took hours for anyone at the hospital to do anything. The doctor on call didn’t do banding, At all. Ever. In fact, no one on call that night did. Meanwhile, an ignorant batch of medical students had gathered to study her — one actually showed me the ultrasound of our dying child while asking me if it was a planned pregnancy. Several wanted to examine her while she lay there bleeding and in pain. No one gave her anything for the pain or even respected her request to close the door even though she was on the labor and delivery floor listening to other women have healthy babies, as the baby I had been trying to save died in her womb.
A very kind nurse risked her job to call a doctor from the Reproductive Health Clinic who was not on call, and asked him to come in to save my life. Fortunately he was home, and got there relatively quickly. By the time he arrived, I was in bad shape. The blood loss had rendered my wife nearly incoherent, but she still moved me to a different wing and got me the painkillers no one else had during the screaming hours I’d spent in the hospital. After he checked my lab tests, he told us I would need two bags of blood before he could perform the procedure. His team (a cadre of wonderful students who should all go on to run their own clinics) took turns checking on me and my wife. They all kept assuring me that soon it would be over, and I would feel much better. My wife had to sign the consent for surgery (I was clearly not competent enough to make decisions), and they took me away along with a third bag of blood to be administered during the procedure.
Later I found out that the doctor had taken my wife aside as they brought me into surgery. He promised her he would do his best to save me, but he warned her there was a distinct possibility that he would fail. The doctor who didn’t do bandings was supposed to have contacted him (or someone else who would perform the procedure) immediately. She didn’t. Neither did her students. Supposedly there was a communication breakdown and they thought he had been notified, but I doubt it. I don’t know if her objections were religious or not; all I know is that when a bleeding woman was brought to him for treatment she refused to do the only thing that could stop the pregnancies. Because she didn’t do bandings. Ever.
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