I think of them often. The people who told me their stories. Mainly women, but also men.
Their experiences of miscarriage and stillbirth at a time when Irish society didn’t do much to recognise either. If they were told anything at all, it was simply to go home and work on having another baby. Because producing children was clearly their most important job.
Their experiences with mother and baby ‘homes’ and magdalene laundries. These particular stories came from men more often than women. Men who had been born in mother and baby ‘homes’, ending up in orphanages and industrial schools as a result. They were resolute in their support of women having every choice available to them when facing a pregnancy.
Their experiences of travelling for a termination. Often without telling anyone close to them. Often they hadn’t spoken about their abortion in years but felt compelled to share it with us because they were tired of pretending it hadn’t happened. Tired of pretending that Ireland did not turn its back on them by insisting they leave the country to access reproductive healthcare.
Their experiences of seeing friends, family members or colleagues deal with a diagnosis of fatal foetal anomaly and the agonising decisions that awaited them. They still could not comprehend that the Eighth Amendment meant their loved ones could not be given all the help or services they needed. They assumed cases like these were exempt from our abortion laws. They were angered when they realised they weren’t. How could anyone support putting women through that, they wondered.
Their experiences of doctors not taking their decisions about not wanting to have children or any more children seriously. That those doctors refused to carry out the tubal ligations they requested because they might change their minds. Or because their non-existent male partner deserved the right to have children in the future.
Their experiences of not being able to travel for an abortion. Of not having the money they needed. Of not knowing travelling was an option they had.
Their experiences of complications during pregnancy and childbirth, which meant the right to make decisions were taken out of their hands. Their right to informed consent or refusal of care no longer applied as doctors worked under the Eighth Amendment.
Men telling me about their wives experiences and how they desperately wished they could change them. They couldn’t. But they could help ensure that other women in similar circumstances received better care.
Their experiences of being made to feel like their experiences were not valid or were just plain wrong because of everything they have heard from the anti-choice side and anti-abortion politicians.
I think of them often. I wonder how they are doing. I wonder whether the overwhelming Yes vote helped them feel slightly less alone.
I wonder whether they know that we stand with them. I wonder whether they know that we desperately wish things could have been better for them. I wonder whether they have been able to begin the work of healing.
I think of them often and I feel honoured that they felt comfortable telling such personal stories to a stranger in the street or on their doorstep.
Most of all, I hope that sharing their stories lightened their load a little bit, even if only for the moments in which we spoke.