I’m a care worker, not an activist. I am trying my very hardest, grief and rage and my loud mouth aside, to funnel all of this messy and shout-y and big Supreme Court Darkness outward from my heart and down through my arms and into each finger on both of my hands. In my hands it can be useful. Hands that can hold someone in the way they need; hands that can fill out paperwork and dial a phone for funding or an appointment or a ride share; hands that can organize and distribute emergency contraception and pain meds and RhoGAM shots and supplies and ginger ale and saltines and heating pads.
Later this month I’ll be kissing my baby goodbye in the morning, drinking too much coffee, and returning to the abortion clinic I love so much - its bright walls and comfy furniture and icicle-dripping windows facing the snow-dusted center of my chilly little city. I’m hoping that some direct patient care, within a flow and a schedule less fuzzy and nebulous than that of doula work, will quiet my mind. But I suspect that what will actually do the quieting is the movement of my hands, alongside other hands, working together in collaborative rhythms to help our patients get the abortion care (and any other care!) they need.
When the waves of grief and fear threaten to swallow me and send me to the ocean floor, I look around to everyone swimming in the same direction, friends and strangers alike - the doctors and the midwives and the doulas and the NPs and the organizers and the advocates and the storytellers, and all the community members who are just now stripping off their clothes and diving in to join us in this big cold churning sea. I look to their faces, bobbing above the water and riding the same frightening currents, and I see the shared exhaustion. The confusion, the despair. But also, often, I see joy.
Some doulas like to say that our job is to “reveal, not replace” when it comes to a patient’s coping techniques in a given moment. If you notice they are breathing or moving in a certain way through some pain, tracing circles on your palm or tapping their forehead or flexing and pointing their toes on parallel beats, . Be curious, ask questions. See them. Hear them.
Is that helping? Want to do it together? Do you need more? Less? Want to hold my hand while you do that? Want to hold something else? I’ll do it too. Need to press on something? Ok, this time, do you want to breathe in 4s the same way we did last time? Should we try a different pattern? I noticed that you like the other music - want to go back to that song? Here, you can squeeze this again if you need.
Lately, I’m trying my best to replicate this in moments of joy or peace, as well. Whatever makes you smile—I’ll bring the conversation back around to it if I get a chance. Whatever illuminates you—I’ll try and turn up the brightness on my own dial to let it shine. I’m trying to ask the questions, of everyone in my life but especially of abortion providers and care workers and organizers, that might feel good to answer. What’s some art we could make today? Let’s have a special dinner, what’s your favorite takeout? Will you remind me to drink water, please? Do you have any photos of the baby, can I see them? And when the answers come back to me, if they come with joy, I’m trying—as if cupping my hands around a tiny burning tea light, to shield it from a freezing wind—to help protect that joy. At least the flame will burn for a moment, in that small space we’re holding together, apart from (but still a part of) the rest of the world.
Whatever you’re doing to cope this weekend, however you’re finding peace and warmth and rest, you’re doing it well. And I’ll do it with you, if you want.