***I wrote this when Brett Kavanaugh was appointed to the Supreme Court in 2018.***
In this past week, many women have received a message loud and clear from the United States. This message was sent at the same volume and callousness in 2016. The message is very clear: Women, you do not matter.
Other messages have been sent and received over the course of the entire history of this nation. Other people have dipped their toes in the red-hot river of rage within them. I confess, I did not understand this rage. I am still barely coming to terms with it. I have been able to ignore many of the messages, because they only nipped at my heels or pierced me in non-fatal ways. I was not paying attention. I was ignorant. From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry about that. I will try harder. This week I felt a spear through my body. No more ignoring it, no more brushing it aside and hiding myself inside the safety of the good people around me.
In November of 2016, enough people decided that a man who had a clear track-record of disrespecting, even disregarding the value of a woman, was worth being elected. This man had so many ugly stains on his calendars, and I hated it all, but one that pierced was when his “grab them by the pussy” comment became not only permissible, but not even a big deal at all. Just locker room talk, fit for a president.
Now we have a man that is up for a lifetime appointment to the Supreme Court, quite possibly more important to our nation than the four years of a presidential term. The standards for this individual are importantly high. A woman comes forward (anonymously) before he even makes the final cut, to tell her story of sexual assault by the proposed candidate.
What followed her coming forward (then in name rather than anonymously) showed that a tangible amount of people in the United States do not think that she matters, nor her story. Forget whether she was credible or not, her simply daring to say she had something important to say was immediately not worth listening to, for the sole reason that her story could tarnish a man’s reputation. The reputation was most important, whether she was right was secondary.
There was a moment in the recent Senate hearing, when one white male was “respectfully” lamenting how horrendous it was that this woman should come forward with her story, inconveniencing the entire process… when I felt that pierce to the heart. The spear: Women don’t matter. Thousands and thousands of women had been coming forward with their stories of sexual assaults and abuse, and inside the senate committee and in households nationwide were people saying: “Ugh, but that is not as important as it is to have this man in power… Women, you might have trauma, but don’t let it get in our way.”
People may think that I’m overstating this message. But once you see something, all of a sudden things make so much sense. Details become clear in the light of the new revelation. I was lulled into complacency by the small progresses for women, lulled by my own safety bubble. But this sword in my side broke open my protective skin. Pouring out are the clues that are so obvious to me now that I know the twisted end.
Of course women are not important!
The first clue that came to my mind when I felt the pierce of this message was, strangely, my hospice patients. I am a hospice chaplain. I work part time now but at one point I had as many as 50 patients. As a chaplain I saw varying household arrangements, different races, classes, education levels, family dynamics. Do you know something that did not discriminate in the least? Horrific treatment of women. Rich, poor, intelligent, young, old, all colors and sizes. An odd majority of the women that I sat with while dying, were not only battling their disease, but they were fighting the demons from their past.
When you are aware that you are dying, there are common things that occur. One common response of a person (of sound mind) dying is what we call “life-review.” You mine the years of your life for purpose, closure, love. You reflect on your life and hope that you will find it had been worth living. You learn a lot about a person when they are on their death bed. It is a sacred and unique place to be, one I have been privileged to witness many times. I am still learning from those moments, even years after their deaths.
When a woman with abuse in her story reflects on her life, that abuse acts as either a spiky speed bump in their processing, or depending on the traumatic nature of the abuse, a sharp detour into a pit of darkness, thorns, and hopelessness. It literally affects their death. Women dying are not free of their trauma, they are often confronted with it. The women I describe below were from all walks of life. The information has been combined (some few patients might be contained in one composite) and generalized so that the identities are protected, but all of what I share here is true, some stories were almost identical across patients with minor details separating them.
I had a patient that had been so hollowed out by the men in her life, that my entire focus and purpose of my visits were to help her feel that she was worthy of love. I would rub her feet, read to her, listen, and when I spoke I said only words that centered on this truth: she was worthy of love. I am not sure if I accomplished my goal, but as she lie dying, I remember telling her that I loved her, that I found her absolutely worth loving, and that the God of the Universe loved her without any hesitation. She hoped her death came soon enough for her son’s convenience.
I had another patient who was under the constant vigilance and control of her husband. We weren’t sure she was receiving the pain medication made available to her. The husband was a womanizer, locked the door behind the mostly female staff when we entered, and blustered about the wonderful care he gave his wife. He had set up video surveillance to the point where we weren’t sure if the patient could honestly and safely tell us how she was doing. Her family had been forbidden to see her. I tried to visit when the husband had a regular errand, and on these occasions, she quietly confessed to me her fears of his temper. Her husband told her she was responsible for a family tragedy (an accident that no one could have prevented and she was not present at). Half of my visits were talking through that guilt and shame. The staff was aware that there were weapons in the home. On one occasion I left the home in fear, and the staff agreed we could only visit the patient in pairs for safety.
Another patient had been brutally beaten by her husband, a truth she only confessed cryptically to me. A family member confirmed and elaborated on what the patient was unable to share. This patient ping-ponged between singing the praises of her husband, who had died years before, and secretly sharing that she feared seeing him in heaven. She was afraid of talking badly about him, even when he was dead. She was afraid to die, in part because she thought she may see her abuser in heaven, and in part because she had been told so often how insignificant she was, she thought she might not make it to heaven. I whispered to her as she fought to stay alive for fear of abuse even in death: “You are safe, you are loved, it’s OK to go…” Her dead abuser held power over her death.
Another patient had been successful in the business world. Upon her diagnosis, her life felt apart. Her spouse abandoned her, leaving her sister to bear the burden of the care. She no longer produced income, so she was set aside. The sister faced the disappointment and complaints of her own spouse, who bemoaned her burden without lifting a finger to help.
I could go on. These are composite stories of just a sampling of a larger narrative.
On the flip side, I am trying very hard to remember if there were stories like this of my male patients. I’m sure there must have been, but I cannot recall a single male patient who had sexual or physical abuse as a predominant part of his life review. Most of them reflected on their careers, their experiences in war-time, their families, etc. Some had regrets of not spending enough time with their family, but many had no regrets at all. I am wracking my brain trying to remember one man who had experienced what the women did. It was certainly not a pattern.
Men are not exempt from sexual trauma or abuse, not by a long shot. Women are not unilaterally victims, not by a long shot.
This week I finally allowed myself to see the writing on the wall: that women don’t matter. And looking back, a big clue was the sheer volume of women dying with the scars of trauma, abuse, abandonment. Many of them had never been believed, or even worried about. Many of them had seen themselves as a burden. Some of them were not sure if their life had any worth at all. Some even bemoaned that they couldn’t die fast enough to relieve their family members. I understand this (as being a caregiver is extremely taxing), but I can’t think of a single man who said this.
These women’s souls were opened before me, and in a collective cry they told me: We didn’t matter. I didn’t hear it. I told each of them that no, they did matter. They do matter. I care about them. The God I pray to cares about them. They whispered back, but the rest of them didn’t care. And there, I can’t argue with them.
