Fannish stuff, mostly hockey (Pens, Stars, Avs).
1999 posts
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I would have bled out in the parking lot
Amber Nicole Thurman's death is on Trump's hands
Bess Kalb
Sep 17
In 2019, about six weeks after my first child was born, I found myself on the bathroom floor in a small, but nonetheless unsettling puddle of blood.
“Oh no,” I remember thinking. “I just did the laundry.”
I called out my husband’s name, but the sound caught in my throat. The pain I felt inhaling to get enough air out of my lungs to yell the two syllables in “Char-lie” jabbed my guts like a bicycle spoke to the abdomen.
So I was quiet, trying to keep breathing in a way that didn’t move anything inside me, and the pain pulsed a bit, then steadied, then dulled, then evaporated into whatever hell ether it came from.
Because there is no G-d (unless there is, in which case I abbreviated His name so as not to desecrate it, and also thank you, King of the Universe, for subscribing to this newsletter) this was the one time in my life I hadn’t brought my phone with me to the bathroom.
I decided to sort of slither-lumber to the door like a lame harbor seal, because I didn’t want to stand and loosen the spoke that had just stabbed me. I reached for the knob and let the door creak open.
The cat was there, looking at me right at eye level, keenly aware what was happening, and completely unmoved by it.
“You are dying,” he blinked, “Pity. Have a nice time.” He sashayed away.
Fortunately, our house in Los Angeles was small enough that from the bathroom door one could see everything. My husband was sitting on the couch with our infant, and I knocked on the open door to summon him. Within one one thousandth of a second, he set the baby on the (since-recalled) donut pillow and was holding my head.
I sat up. I breathed. No pain. I took a picture of the bloody mess on my husband’s phone, texted it to myself, he found my phone, then I texted the picture to my OBGYN.
Apologies for being graphic, but within the puddle there was something roughly the size and shape and color of a fig.
“Is this ok?” I said to my doctor, the bicycle spoke scraping lightly at my insides again from all the lumbering.
“Come in,” she replied.
Within two hours, I was in the waiting room of her office, accompanied by my terrified but SMILING mother, who was still, as is the Jewish custom, in town for “a few days or so” after the birth.
An ultrasound which felt like the finger of Satan himself revealed there was retained placenta in my uterus. If I hadn’t come in, there would have been more hemorrhaging, then sepsis, then whatever the cat foretold.
The next day, I was in surgery getting a Dilation and Curettage.
I went home, pumped the anesthesia milk, then fell asleep perfectly fine, my sweet newborn cooing merrily in the bassinet next to his alive mother.
Amber Nicole Thurman’s story was the same as mine, but it happened to her in Georgia in 2024, not California in 2019. She was a Black woman in a healthcare system that disproportionately kills Black women, especially postpartum. In 2021, the Black maternal mortality rate was nearly three times the rate it is for white women. Post-Roe, the toll is and will continue to be staggering.
Because post-Roe, the procedure that saved my life, the D&C, is something doctors cannot perform in states where matters of life and death have been left up to non-medical Christian-supremacist superstitions.
I know the pain Amber Thurman felt when that placenta dislodged and carved its tiny, treacherous hole in her uterine wall. I know the terror she felt when she saw the blood, and the rush of dread when she thought of what her child would do without her.
And when I vote in November for Kamala Harris and every progressive down-ballot candidate, I will do it because she can’t. And I will do it so that women in Georgia and Idaho and Texas and North Dakota and South Dakota and Utah, Arizona, Nebraska Iowa, Missouri, Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee, Kentucky, Indiana, Florida, South Carolina, and West Virginia won’t have to meet the same completely preventable doom.
This election isn’t just about Amber Thurman. Every day of my lucky, breathing life is about Amber Thurman. Because the only thing that separates us, is one of us bled out under the right Supreme Court.
Let’s raise absolute federal hell about it.
-- From Bess Kalb's newsletter The Grudge Report. I pay for this substack -- though it's free-- and think this is a message worth sharing far beyond her newsletter.
This is just to say
I have not read
the new fic
you posted,
and which you were
probably hoping
would have more
comments by now.
Forgive me–
it looks so cool and delicious,
but this week
is the worst,
and I need more brain
to devour your
plummy purple genius.
randomly generated seating plan for a 12 hour flight:
(insp by this :3 )
in a kinder world i live in an i spy page
it’s kinda fucked up that you’re only an age for a year. I didn’t know how to be 23 yet, let me try again
As someone who works with social history for a living, I feel like I’m the aggressive opposite of an anti-vaxxer
I fucking LOVE vaccines, friends. Give me the science stab. I’m so ready. it’s a beautiful day to not die of a Bajillion and one diseases that carried off like half the population before they had even reached age 10, and a significant portion before they made it to old age, 150 years ago
I go to the old cemetery. I see the vast numbers of infant and child and young adult graves. And then I go to my doctor and get injected with Potion of Fuck That Noise. This is beautiful and miraculous and I do not remotely understand how some people can reject it – not just for themselves, but for their children
I love you thunderstorm lullabies. I love you foggy mornings. I love you misty days. I love you birds playing in puddles. I love you raindrop-bejeweled blades of grass. I love you cool breeze.
rb to give the previous person a fucking break because life aint life-ing the way its supposed to life and it fucking sucks.
Reblog if you’re 30 or older
This is an experiment to see if there really are as few of us as people think.You can also use this to freak out your followers who think you’re 25 or something. Yay!
reblog if your inbox is always open for new members of the fandom who may be a little shy or intimidated. doesn’t matter whether or not you’re a “popular blog”; everyone here is equal and if you’re reading this as a new person/someone considering entering the fandom, we will not turn you away!!!! talk to us!! make friends!! i more than understand being shy but trust me this fandom is chill come join us in this hellhole
As long as they’ll keep calling I’m there, you know… but I don’t know… I get old too. Like everyone in the world I age! I don’t know what that means. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything? I have no idea.
HAPPY 39th BIRTHDAY SEBASTIAN STAN — b. August 13, 1982
I want everyone to know that this is me every time someone drops a comment on something I've written:
@ people who carry bags everywhere what do you put in them what is there to bring other than chapstick, keys, phone and maybe a tampon why are you packing a suitcase to be outside for 5 hours
So that poll - marry your blorbo or get a billion dollars - makes me think of how kids, pre-teens, daydream about their crush noticing them and falling in love and how that fantasy is just as plausible at a certain age as "have a billion dollars."
Those of us who are older, recognise that our fictional blorbos are horrible people who a) need therapy, b) need jail sentences and c) a punch in the nose. Often all three. But what about a realistic choice for those of us for whom marrying the Celebrity Crush isn't the dream?
What if the choice was a modest, but good amount of money or the chance to go on an adventure with the fictional character of your choice to their realm, from which you return safe and sound but with nothing but memories. You would return the moment after you leave, so your cat won't starve. (Sorry, you can't go into the future and get cured of your ailments, either.)
I asked an elderly man once what it was like to be old and to know the majority of his life was behind him. He told me that he has been the same age his entire life. He said the voice inside of his head had never aged. He has always just been the same boy. His mother's son. He had always wondered when he would grow up and be an old man. He said he watched his body age and his faculties dull but the person he is inside never got tired. Never aged. Never changed.
Our spirits are eternal. Our souls are forever. The next time you encounter an elderly person, look at them and know they are still a child, just as you are still a child and children will always need love, attention, and purpose.💙🦋💞
underrated type of friendship is just sending each other things related to current fixations or special interests. hi we haven't talked a real convo in months but i love you here is a picture of a crab i know you love an image of a crab. hi we've never had a conversation but i see you posting a lot of new video game, and i dont go to new video game, but this seems like a funny shitpost and i love you. such specific things remind me of you and i am sharing it with you and i love you.
Do you ever get reminded of that one really intense longfic that you had every intention of writing and had meticulous notes and complicated outlines for but then something happened and you aren't in the fandom anymore and you still have the desire to write the fic but it's slightly hollow now because it's a good idea and you think it would have been a great fic but you haven't been in the fandom for literally years and you don't have that bit of passion for it that you did when you were writing it and have just a weird moment of nostalgia where you want to reread it but it never existed
@ august please be a little gentle with me I’m so tired