Elissa Keeler Miller

Abortions are down and everybody wants credit

The real news is that access to medical abortion doesn't increase the overall rate.

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Abortions are down and everybody wants credit

When the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention released a report last week showing the number of abortions performed in the United States at its lowest point in 25 years, both pro-life and pro-choice advocates rushed to claim credit. A predictable skirmish, but who is really responsible?

No one can say, and least of all the CDC, whose mission is to provide objective health care facts, not to comment on any societal and economic changes that may have caused them. One thing is certain, however: Despite claims by conservatives that this report is proof that family values are on the mend, there’s no evidence that any of us are getting more moral. If anything, we’re getting smarter about birth control and finding it harder to get to a family planning clinic where abortions are performed.

The facts, summarized in the CDC’s recent Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report, indicate that in 1997, as in 1996, the national abortion rate was 20 abortions per 1,000 women. This is the lowest rate since 1975. The CDC also found that, among women who became pregnant in 1997, 305 abortions were performed for every 1,000 live births. This is the lowest ratio of abortions to live births since 1975.

Most important, perhaps, was the inclusion in the report of data on medical abortions — those performed without surgery, using drugs such as methotrexate and the soon-to-be-approved mifepristone (RU-486). This is a first for the CDC, which indicated that 2,988 medical abortions were reported for 1997. This number probably is an “undercount,” says the CDC, since only 16 reporting areas break down data into specific kinds of abortions. Other legitimate researchers, adds the CDC, report that up to 4,300 medical abortions were performed in the first half of 1997 alone.

All of the numbers reported by the CDC are considered to be preliminary; a final report on abortion statistics for 1997 will be available some time this summer. The number of abortions reported by other data-gathering groups, such as the Alan Guttmacher Institute, a private abortion rights research organization, are slightly different because of reporting methods and the years for which the data are available, but all national research shows that the number of abortions performed in the United States is declining. And that is reason enough for both sides in the battle over reproductive rights to claim victory.

In a press release this week, the Family Research Council’s chief spokeswoman, Janet Parshall, claims that the CDC report proves that “the majority of men and women agree that life is a beautiful choice,” and she attributes the decline in abortions to the changes in attitudes “documented” in recent years.

But the “documentation” to which Parshall refers, a privately commissioned 1998 Wirthlin poll of just more than 1,000 respondents, must be viewed with suspicion. Although Wirthlin is an internationally recognized research company, the FRC is legendary for designing its polling questions to solicit a very specific response. (For an example, check out a recent FRC poll, allegedly about hate crimes, which is actually focused on obtaining biased responses on gay rights with questions like “Do you think that homosexuals have suffered the same kind of social injustice, such as not being able to vote, not being able to get an education, earn a living, or having to sit in the back of the bus, that black people did prior to the 1964 civil rights act?”)

The 1998 poll which the FRC uses to “prove” that the country is mostly pro-life produced dubious statistics like “78 percent of Americans strongly agree that women who have had abortions experience emotional trauma,” without actually polling women who have had abortions. (In fact, medical experts report that women experience more psychological disturbance after childbirth than after abortion.)

Meanwhile, pro-choice forces are happily distributing their own press releases celebrating the findings of the CDC report. Planned Parenthood attributes the decline in abortions to increased awareness and use of contraceptives, stating that the CDC study “demonstrates that women make informed and responsible choices, especially when they have access to the full range of contraceptive methods, medically-accurate sex education and abortion.”

While more solid data exists to support this position than the FRC position (for example, other CDC studies show that contraceptive use is up and overall pregnancy rates are down), this statement incidentally contradicts another well-known pro-choice issue that may explain, at least in part, the decline in abortions: Access to abortion is more restricted now than it has been at any time since Roe vs. Wade.

Even the CDC speculates in its report that a possible reason for the decline in abortions is “reduced access to abortion services.” The facts behind this neutral description are appalling: Twenty states require that women receive information against abortion and endure a waiting period before obtaining an abortion, and 42 states require “informed consent” by one or both parents of a minor seeking an abortion.

Since the 1996 Personal Responsibility and Work Opportunity Act (commonly known as the welfare reform law) provides huge financial bonuses to states that can show decreases in out-of-wedlock births and abortions, there’s no real incentive for state governments to make it any easier to get an abortion. And while no data exists on how many women are afraid to approach a clinic for fear of intimidation or assault, no one needs a CDC report to point out that the murder rate for providers of abortion services is skyrocketing.

Clearly, Planned Parenthood and other pro-choice organizations are passing up the opportunity provided by the CDC report to point out how fear and restricted availability may have affected the abortion rate, choosing instead to focus on the positive — although still theoretical — causes for the change.

Perhaps the most relevant — and politically powerful — fact that can be gleaned from the CDC report has been largely ignored in the rush to spin the stats. Pro-lifers have argued, vociferously but without proof, that access to medical abortion will cause the overall rate of abortion to soar. Pro-choice advocates have refuted the claim without statistical proof. The CDC report, which includes very conservative numbers about medical abortion, shows a significant decline in the overall abortion rate. The unavoidable conclusion: Access to medical abortion does not increase the overall abortion rate, it just provides another option.

Any other conclusions that are drawn from this preliminary data are simply examples of Andrew Lang’s old saw: Statistics are most frequently used like drunkards use lampposts — for support, not illumination. In the end, interpretation of the CDC report is a matter of, well … choice.

Where is the dyed-blond stoner chick in the '74 Cougar?

At the moment she's a paranoid mom with white supremacist neighbors.

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Where is the dyed-blond stoner chick in the '74 Cougar?

I used to be a fearless girl.

I left home at 16, took my driver’s exam in the borrowed station wagon of a land surveyor who, in retrospect, had no business hanging out with a teenage girl, and bought myself a 1974 Cougar XR7 from Crazy Johnny’s used car lot, not because it was reliable but because of its cushy leather interior, which could comfortably sleep two, and its affordable $200 down payment.

I can’t count the number of times I visited sleazy yet charming boyfriends in the city jail, poking cigarettes through the tiny hole that had been gouged in the wooden frame beneath the Plexiglas window. I slept on the beach, served drinks in questionable bars and graduated from high school by the skin of my teeth.

Other girls had crushes on the likes of James Dean, but I think I wanted to be James Dean. I may have been a stupid girl, but I wasn’t timid.

Sure, I straightened up and went to college before anything I did could go on my permanent record, but I still never developed any genuine fearfulness. I traveled alone in Latin America, rode the subway at all hours of the night and generally misbehaved in public until I married my wonderful husband and became a slightly more model citizen.

My adult adventures have been much tamer than my juvenile exploits, but that’s more the result of having to get up in the morning for work than any kind of worries about safety on my part.

Even the birth of my first kid didn’t faze me much. I didn’t feel anything irrational beyond the normal overwhelming mix of tender emotions and mama bear protectiveness. I was never frightened or worried that he’d get bit by that little thug in his preschool, and after it happened I was blinded with anger, not with fear for his safety.

Even the six surgical procedures he required in one year (all minor, but nerve-wracking nonetheless) failed to send me into a tailspin of panic or worry. Generally, I was a paragon of mommy cool. You name it, I could cope with it.

Then I moved to a lovely Northern California neighborhood that looks just like heaven. Instead of tasteless new construction and master-planned communities, we found a sycamore-lined block of bungalows built in the 1920s. We now live within walking distance of a restored downtown shopping area with antique shops, independent bookstores and coffee houses, and a farmer’s market every Saturday — a little slice of Brooklyn Heights out here in the land of electric leaf blowers and SUVs.

But there’s a dark undercurrent to life out here. My car was broken into in the middle of the night during our first month in California. All they took was a Kenneth Cole diaper bag. It was the only designer item I’ve ever owned and a gift from a fabulous New York girlfriend. Frivolous as that may seem, I’d been violated, right here in lovely, pleasant, smiling suburbia. (What annoys me the most about this is that no thief in their right mind would keep a diaper bag — they almost certainly tossed it into a ditch after finding not a laptop or wallet but a few Pampers and a ketchup-stained Onesie.)

More worrisome than the minor theft, however, is the fact that our house is two doors down from a skinhead hangout, populated by bald, jackbooted kids and decorated with swastikas on the wall and white supremacist literature in the yard. Three of these Nazi wannabes are now in jail for firebombing the house of another neighbor who they believed to be Jewish. (He’s Catholic, but that’s hardly the point.) Granted, they’re kids who were too dumb to look up how to build a good bomb, not a cult of educated, adult hate-mongers, but they’re still a lot bigger than I am.

I lived for years in dicey neighborhoods that hadn’t yet been gentrified, and never experienced anything worse than neighbors in a drunken brawl. Now I live in the city with the lowest crime rate in the country (for its population) and I’m not only the victim of petty crime but in the same zip code as active neo-Nazis?

We’ve all known that the suburbs aren’t exempt from dark forces and violent crime. We’ve seen it in the movies, from the pure malevolence behind the picket fences of “Blue Velvet” to the lost dreams of youth in “American Beauty.” More to the point, we know the tragic misfortunes of the Klaas, Walsh and Ramsey families. We get on with our lives without being paralyzed by fear, usually by saying “Well, it’s statistically unlikely that it could ever happen here.”

But the relatively minor incidents of the past few weeks show that it can indeed happen here, and at this point, it’s all I can do to keep from escalating these small events into an excuse for full-blown paranoia.

I was never too worried about keeping myself safe, but now I’m almost irrational about how to keep my kid out of harm’s way. Last month I panicked: Should I keep the Chanukah decorations inside, out of sight, instead of in the window with the tree as our bi-religious household has always done? I don’t care what anyone thinks, but hell, we’ve got skinheads down the block.

The problem is once you start worrying, it’s hard to stop. Before you know it, a reasonable concern grows unchecked into larger, unfocused fear. For instance, my kid’s room is in the front of the house, with windows right on the porch. If I keep his windows closed at night, he’ll stifle. But if his windows are open, isn’t that an invitation? (Don’t ask me “An invitation to what?” I told you at the beginning that I know I’m not rational.)

And don’t even get me started about moving cross-country into earthquake territory. How irresponsible is it to drive my kid on a freeway overpass when it could collapse in a matter of seconds?

Some of my friends think this uncharacteristic nervousness is a symptom of some burgeoning clinical depression. After all, I just moved halfway across the country and I’m unemployed for the first time in years. I’m home by myself for much of the day, and I’m pregnant. Could be that my raging hormones have distorted my perceptions as well as my belly. Perhaps it’s no wonder that I’m rapidly becoming crazy as a loon.

So I’m trying to balance my fears with actions that address the problems without making me look like I’ve gone nuts. I’m not getting a car alarm, since I actually want to become friends with my neighbors, but I will park my car in the garage on the weekends and hide the new diaper bag (sadly, not another Kenneth Cole) under the seat.

I’m putting nails in the window frames of my son’s room so that a breeze can get in but the phantom toddler kidnappers are kept out. And as far as the earthquake scenario is concerned, I have convinced myself that if the house has made it for 70 years without falling down in an earthquake, then we’re probably in pretty good shape.

People who knew the dyed-blond stoner chick in high school or the redheaded single gal in her 20s would certainly be shocked to hear that I’m frightened of anything, much less the pedestrian suburban mommy fears that are now taking up my time. Frankly, I can’t really believe it myself.

I have to assume that this uncharacteristic panic attack will disappear as mysteriously as it appeared, and I will be drinking tequila shots and riding the subway at all hours again by the time the kids are out of the house.

Check back in a few decades and we’ll see how I’m doing.

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