I can’t read the news today.  Every time I catch a glimpse of the story of Dr. Tiller’s murder, I get teary.

When we lived in San Francisco, I worked in an abortion clinic.  Actually, it was a women’s health clinic that happened to perform abortions.  Every day, I sat behind to a window of bullet proof glass doing my menial office tasks.  Sometimes we had protesters outside our clinic.  Sometimes those protesters videotaped our cars and license plates as we drove in and out of the parking lot.  Why?  I could only imagine it was because they wanted to trace us and find out where we lived and who we were. One year, we had to close our clinics for a week because the FBI informed us there was a credible threat that we would be bombed.

I won’t lie.  It was scary.  I used to have nightmares.  It was just a tiny taste of our own home-grown domestic terrorism.

Because our clinic had previously received an envelope of white powder that claimed to be anthrax,  I opened the mail while wearing a mask and latex gloves.  Sometimes, we received angry letters, cut up pictures of fetuses and threats, but those were not the items I remember the most.

Occasionally, the checks would be accompanied by a woman’s story.  Why she had an abortion.  How visiting our clinic changed her life.  The stories of abortions in Mexico before abortions were legal in the U.S.

I remember that each month we received an anonymous envelope with two money orders for $10 each.  Usually, there was no note enclosed.  But one month, a piece of paper was tucked inside.  It simply said: “Thank you for being there when I needed you.”   I don’t know that woman’s story, but I know that she sent those money orders religiously.

One of the doctors who performed abortions at our clinic was an older doctor who completed his residency before Roe v. Wade.  At one gathering he told us that when he was training, the GYN students referred to their rotation in the emergency room as being “in the septic tank”.   This was because many of their patients came to the ER suffering the after effects of botched or unhygenic back alley abortions.  Many of them only came to the ER once they were so infected and ill that their bodies were going into septic shock.  Many of them died.

Even when it is safe and legal, abortion isn’t fun.  It isn’t a cause that has a fancy ribbon,  its own theme color or celebrities marketing trendy wristbands or t-shirts.   Abortions are usually necessary because of some kind of tragedy.

Let’s be honest, when a mother simply CAN NOT have her child – for whatever reason be it financial or emotional or for health reasons or for any one of 10,000 reasons why a woman might choose an abortion – it is a choice that woman (that MOTHER) did not want to be in a position to make.  And don’t even get me started on the ways we fail to provide adequate access to reproductive healthcare, contraceptives, safe sex education and prenatal care that directly contribute to crisis pregnancies in the first place.

I can’t imagine the fear that Dr. Tiller and his family lived with all these years of harrassment and threats and even after he was shot.   I do know that Dr. Tiller’s courage provided hope and dignity for women facing a terrible decision.  Women like Susan or Julia or Ayelet or Cecily, each one of whom has some kind of heartbreaking story.

Today, in honor of Dr. Tiller, I am making a donation to the brave men and women at Medical Students for Choice.  These future doctors who will probably work behind bullet-proof glass to make sure that women continue to have access to safe abortions with dignity and respect.   I am also making a donation to the George Tiller Memorial Abortion Fund in honor of Dr. Tiller and all the women whose lives he touched.