I used to do patient escorting at the clinic in Huntsville. In nice weather, we always had more than our share of picketers – screaming, yelling, waving horrible signs either talking about Hell or showing gory pictures of supposedly aborted fetuses.
“They couldn't begin treatment to save her life while she was pregnant.”
It was through that mob that I helped escort two women into the clinic that particular day. When there was a lull in appointments arriving, I went with the rest of the escorts to the back of the clinic to sit on the steps and relax.
One of the women I had helped escort came outside. She looked at the picketers and began crying. Concerned, I asked what was wrong and if there was anything I could do. “I came with my sister,” she said. “This was a planned and wanted pregnancy.
She and her husband were thrilled, talking about possible names, and all the other stuff you do when you’re excited about a new baby. But then my sister was diagnosed with cancer.” She paused to dab at her eyes, “They couldn’t begin treatment to save her life while she was pregnant.” The sound of the protesters screaming about killing babies and going to hell was still loud. She looked in their direction and began crying again. “They don’t give a damn about my sister.”