“If a service isn’t offered locally, you have to travel for it and that involves more consideration to things like child care, explanations as to where are you going, why are you going, time away from work - in an area that is not going to necessarily support that decision.Stephanie did a lot of research to figure out how to create a hinge, or sliding mechanism to conceal the hidden TV with art. “This is the ‘Bible Belt’ area of the province. Since 2017, when the first Grand Falls-Windsor clinic took place, the number of abortions in the area has increased. and if any one of those team members weren’t, the service couldn’t be done.” “Everyone involved would have to be pro-choice. “In order to offer this service consistently, it requires a team, as you saw today, and in the hospital that team would be nurses as well as an anesthesiologist,” Monaghan says. Running a permanent abortion clinic in rural Newfoundland would be very costly, however, and there may not be sufficient demand.Īnd offering abortion care at local hospitals requires putting together a team in which no one is opposed to abortion. The procedure is a “run-of-the-mill rudimentary skill for any obstetrician or gynecologist,” she says. Monaghan says, in theory, she shouldn’t need to leave her family once a month to perform abortions hundreds of kilometres away from home. We’re not really quick to share with our friends where we’re to, what we’re doing, and it’s to protect the women that come in here, really.” “Even though we’re not really told, ‘Never disclose where you’re working’ and all that kind of thing, I think the team here, it’s like an unwritten rule…. “There’s been other social issues related to religion, opinions, values, that it’s very obvious that there’s a huge divide when it comes to things like that,” Vokey says. Last year, an LGBTQ group in Grand Falls-Windsor said it was asked to not attend a community event on a church’s property. One town’s initial refusal to build a rainbow crosswalk sparked controversy in 2018. Vokey, the social worker, says the clinic’s local staff, based in an area with a heavy concentration of Pentecostal, Salvation Army and Catholic churches, understand the need for discretion. “When you couple that with a political environment - or rather a theological environment - that is generally dissuasive to people seeking abortion care, it definitely exacerbates the need to make people comfortable your privacy and your confidentiality are paramount for us.” “When it comes to confidentiality and privacy, from an ethical perspective, Newfoundland is challenging, right?” says Janelle Skaerd, a clinic worker responsible for explaining the services and supports available to Juanita after her procedure. Her role: to ensure the people before her have reflected on their decision, but mostly to listen. It’s here, between the fridge and the coffeemaker, that the social worker meets with every patient who enters the clinic, from victims of assault to women like Juanita, who say they have too many kids already. “Who are they really working for?”įirst stop for Juanita: a kitchenette that, for the next few hours, serves as Angie Vokey’s interviewing room. “She said, ‘You’re too young.’ Like, that’s not your choice,” she says. Three years ago, when Juanita tried to have her tubes tied, her local obstetrician refused. Coffee in hand, after travelling seven hours by road the day before, she’s here for her third abortion. “I’m hyperfertile,” laughs the single mom, with a shrug. Juanita, the day’s first patient, already has two children, both conceived while she was on birth control. Welcome inside the only abortion clinic in central Newfoundland, in an area commonly referred to as the province’s “Bible Belt.” In the makeshift OR, the medical equipment rests on a baking sheet laid on top of a TV tray. They have five more abortions to perform in this storage room at the back of a doctor’s office that’s closed for the weekend. She thanks the nurses, who are already preparing for the next procedure. Out of breath, the patient slowly stands up. Sighs of relief emanate from everyone in the room: from the single mother, who travelled 600 kilometres to put an end to an unexpected pregnancy, to the nurse at her side, whose devout family doesn’t know she holds the hands of rural Newfoundland women, coaching them through surgical abortion procedures like this one. A few moments later, the aspirator, a syringe-like tool attached to the transparent tube, sucks out the embryo with a hollow click. The doctor slowly inserts a large tube into the cervix, as the patient’s breath picks up again. “Sixty seconds to go,” says the doctor, laser-focused in the temporary operating room, set up in less than three hours. On her back with her knees in the air, the patient breathes hard. ![]() “You squeeze my hand if you want,” offers the nurse.
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