When she asked if abortion would make the pain go away, the doctor said no. She decided her daughter had a right to live. Twelve years old, that's bravery.
The people who crafted the Five Cardinals Book™ wanted to make sure that Synod members had copies, at least in English or Italian, as the Synod was starting up. Therefore, they sent copies to every member of the Synod (quite a few) through the Italian post to each member’s personal mailbox near the Synod Hall which was set up individually by the Vatican Post. Remember, Vatican Post is the postal service of a sovereign nation that has laws. The Book was sent in individually addressed and franked envelopes. They weren’t just envelopes with someone’s name on them shoved into the slots by whomever. They were properly sent postal items.
When the organizers of the Synod realized what had been sent to the members of the Synod, someone removed all the envelopes from the members’ mail boxes!
In January 2014, D'Souza was indicted on charges of making illegal political contributions to a 2012 United States Senate campaign. On May 20, 2014, D'Souza pleaded guilty in the U.S. District Court for the Southern District of New York to a charge of using "straw donors" to make illegal political campaign donations. On September 23, D'Souza was sentenced to eight months in a community confinement center, five years parole, and a $30,000 fine.D'Souza is still serving his eight month's sentence and he has admitted publicly that he was wrong to do what he did, although there seems to be some question about whether he actually knew it was wrong to give this running-for-Senator person money. No one seems to question the huge amounts of money given by people like Tom Steyer, environmentalist and hedge-fund manager, to the Democratic Party. No question of anything illegal about that transaction in the millions of dollars, while D'Souza's donation was only in the tens of thousands.
It's not about the money, it's about freedom. It's about my eight kids, and our twenty-three grandchildren, and the future and now. There's not a price on freedom, you can't buy my freedom. It's me now, but tomorrow it's going to be you, you gotta wake up.
On the ubiquitous pornographic nature of modern female vocalists, something that has been puzzling me. I really don`t understand why Beyoncé has to produce videos of herself in these poses; after all, it`s not as if she needs the money or needs to sell an album.Of course this approach takes for granted the sexual revolution’s first commandment, which is that any such act ever committed by any woman is by definition beyond reproach. That said, one can otherwise sympathize with the feminists’ intent here. Spurred in part by heartbreaking cases of teenage girls who suffered catcalling on social media and committed suicide, the sisters mean good. Trouble is, their initiative suffers mortally from the “Don’t think of an elephant” paradox. The more the word “slut” gets hurled around, the harder it is not to think about its meaning, and the more likely it is to stick somewhere unwanted.Even so, something deeper is at work here than ideological tussling over a word that no halfway-civilized person would use anyway. The promiscuous slinging of “slut” is only the beginning of the obscenity- and profanity-saturated woman-talk these days, from otherwise obscurantist academic feminism on down to popular magazines and blogs.
Yet listening in on some of the conversation today suggests an explanation other than simple venality. Something else is up out there making female trash talk all the rage — something unexpected, poignant, and, at the same time, awful to behold. It’s the language of bondage and captivity, told by prisoners of the sexual revolution.
Love that last line, it`s a clincher.And on it goes. Many of today’s so-called feminist singers can’t warble without throwing in a pole dance or an homage to leather. Avril Lavigne, in addition to providing some of the soundtrack of Fifty Shades, has made a sexualized song and video about little-girl icon Hello Kitty. Kesha, Britney Spears, the defunct Pussycat Dolls, not to mention the queen cougar of them all, Madonna: The trick isn’t finding a female vocal artist whose work is enthusiastically pornographic; it’s locating any whose isn’t.
It’s a predator’s market out there. The fact that there’s no cottage industry related to “stud-shaming,” or even such a word, says it all. Many women are now exactly what feminists say they are: victims — only not in the way that feminism understands. They are captives behind enemy lines, but the enemy is not patriarchy or gender-norming. It’s the sexual revolution itself. And like other people held hostage for too long by a hostile force, these women are suffering from a problem that has had a name for some time. It’s Stockholm syndrome.
Feminists are on a constant quest to find double standards, yet they miss the most obvious ones. Women assume the enormous risk and consequence of birth control, and men just get free sex out of the deal.
... in our culture, we often stumble upon the right conclusions, and then point them in precisely the wrong directions. In this case, we’re right to fret about consuming “chemicals” and synthetic hormones, but we ought to be far less worried about the chemicals that make our beef taste delicious, and far more worried about the chemicals that fundamentally alter a woman’s physiology and screw around with her reproductive system. It seems rather silly to get worked up over genetically modified food when we are so eager to chemically modify ourselves.
... is there any other drug where the risks include blood clots and cancer (more on that in a minute) and the primary benefit is to stymie a natural, normal, and healthy bodily function? It carries risks similar to other medications, but unlike those other medications, it wasn’t primarily designed to treat a dysfunction. It was designed instead to cause dysfunction. The pill tricks a woman’s pituitary gland into essentially “thinking” she’s pregnant all the time.
If this happened on its own, without the pill and without actually being pregnant, a woman would go to the doctor and be diagnosed with some kind of disease or disorder. It seems odd, then, that she might also go to the doctor and be prescribed medication to cause the thing that would be considered an illness if it happened without the medicine.
This is one, though not the only, reason why the rates of birth control usage and divorce track almost identically. As the pill gained prevalence, so did divorce. That doesn’t necessarily prove anything, and you certainly can’t blame a pill for your decision to get divorced, but it’s a correlation that no honest person can ignore.
Here’s another interesting correlation: among couples who use natural family planning, the divorce rate is less than 3 percent. Again, does that prove something? No, not on its own, but it gives us something to think about.
... if scientists ever develop a birth control pill for men that renders them impotent, potentially causes cancer, requires them to take a dose every day, and makes their testicles shrivel, I can guarantee that drug would not be among Rite Aid’s best sellers.Read it all, well done Matt.
The struggling channel’s future had been uncertain for some weeks as it negotiated a possible acquisition by ZoomerMedia. Thursday night, however, reports began emerging from Sun News’s Toronto headquarters that the channel had only hours to live.....
In the years since (2011), Sun News has struggled to retain viewers, and in 2013 its application to the Canadian Radio-television and Telecommunications Commission for mandatory carriage was denied.
Since 2008, Fox’s ace in the hole has been Barack Obama. No matter how thin the news may be on a given day, Fox anchors always can wile away the hours reminding viewers of how awful America has become under Obama’s socialist, Islamo-appeasing presidency. In Canada, it’s precisely the opposite. Sun News started broadcasting on April 18, 2011, exactly two weeks before Stephen Harper earned his first majority mandate. The timing couldn’t have been worse. The whole raison d’être of an insurgent network like Sun is to kick the bums out. But Harper had already taken care of that. So what’s the point of watching?
Sun News has none of that. It needed its own trucks, its own journalists, its own resources. It could rely on the Sun chain of newspapers and the QMI Agency wire service, but those resources aren’t nearly as useful for a television news network. And it made a channel that ran cheaply seem even cheaper. Most interviews — even with their own journalists — were done via Skype, featuring compressed images of people holding phones to their ears.
Sun News was right about one thing: It often brought up issues and perspectives that we didn’t see in mainstream TV news. We should do something about that, because being stuck in a left-wing echo chamber is no more healthy for our minds or society than being stuck in a right-wing echo chamber.
"And lest we get on our high horse and think this is unique to some other place, remember that during the Crusades and the Inquisition, people committed terrible deeds in the name of Christ. In our home country, slavery and Jim Crow all too often was justified in the name of Christ." - President Barack Obama at the National Prayer BreakfastThe analogy is deeply flawed. When one looks at the deeds committed in the name of radical Islam, and then look to see what the founder of Islam Mohammed would say about them, you come up with approval.
I’ve asked all of my children’s doctors if it were possible to procure ethically-sourced vaccines, offering to pay out of pocket if necessary (barring anything prohibitively expensive). I was always told they weren’t able to procure any, even prior to 2009 when they were allegedly available from Merck.
At every check-up, I ask my kids’ doctor if he thinks the risk is significant enough that we need to take recourse to the vaccines. (So far, the answer has been no, but my youngest son’s 15-month well-baby check is coming up in a few weeks and I plan to ask again, given some recent cases in our area.) I don’t take measles lightly; I know it is a serious illness that can have serious complications, and it scares me. But I don’t want to ignore my conscience simply out of fear – that can set a bad precedent.
It’s also not helpful to accuse me (or anyone else) of deliberately wanting to kill children, as Mark Shea did in that same Facebook conversation: “Your views are a public menace and a threat to the lives of my granddaughters. I don’t take kindly to people who threaten to blind and kill my granddaughters.” I don’t think this is how Catholics should talk with one another.
That December, I finally had to tell her. Medically, we were beaten. The decision lay with God. She took it quietly, lying there, wasting away, only 23, and the mother of a year-old child. I will call her Eleanor Munro. She was a devout and courageous woman. She had red hair and had probably been rather pretty, but it was hard to tell anymore; she was that near to death from tuberculosis. Now that she knew it, she asked just one thing.
"If I'm still alive on Christmas Eve" she said slowly, "I would like your promise that I can go home for Christmas."
It disturbed me, I knew she shouldn't go. The lower lobe of her right lung had a growing tuberculous cavity in it, roughly 2 1/2 centimetres in diameter. She had what we doctors call open TB, and could spread the germs by coughing. But I made the promise and, frankly, I did so because I was sure she'd be dead before Christmas Eve. Under the circumstances, it seemed little enough to do. And if I hadn't made the promise, I wouldn't be telling this story now.
Eleanor's husband had the disease when he returned to Nova Scotia from overseas service in World War II. It was a mild case and he didn't know he had it. Before it was detected and checked, they married. She caught the disease and had little immunity against it. It came on so fast and lodged in such a difficult place that it confounded every doctor who tried to help her.
To have a tuberculous cavity in the lower lobe is rare. When they took Eleanor to the provincial sanitarium in Kentville, it became obvious that the main problem was how to get at it. If it had been in the upper lobe, they could have performed thoracoplasty, which involves taking out some of the upper ribs to collapse the lobe and put that area of the lung at rest. Unfortunately, this operation couldn't be used for the lower lobe because it would have meant removing some of the lower ribs, which her body needed for support.
With thorocoplasty ruled out, the doctors tried a process called artificial pneumothorax: Air was pumped in through a needle to force collapse of the lung through pressure. Although several attempts were made, this process didn't work either; previous bouts of pleurisy had stuck the lung to the chest wall, and the air couldn't circulate.
Finally they considered taking out the entire lung - but rejected this procedure (rare at the time) because Eleanor was too sick to withstand surgery, and steadily getting worse. The alternatives exhausted, Eleanor's doctors reluctantly listed her as a hopeless case and sent her back to her home hospital in Antigonish.
I was 30 when she arrived. I had graduated from Dalhousie University's medical school in 1942, gone into the Royal Canadian Air Force, and then completed my training as an anesthetist in Montreal once the war was over. A native of Sydney, N.S., I accepted a position with St. Martha's Hospital in Antigonish. I was to provide an anesthesia service and take care of the medical needs of the students at two local colleges. I was also asked to look after the TB annex at the hospital, a place for about 40 patients, most of them chronics with little or no hope of being cured. That's how Eleanor Munro came to be my patient in 1947.
She had weighted 125 pounds. She was down to 87 the first time I saw her. Her fever was high, around 39 degrees. She was very ill, and looked it. But she could still smile. I'll always remember that. If you did her the slightest kindness, she'd smile.
Maybe that encouraged me. I don't know. But I did know that I had to try to help her. I phoned a doctor in New York who was experimenting with a procedure called pneumoperitoneum.
This procedure consists of injecting air into the peritoneal cavity to push the diaphragm up against the lung. If we could get pressure against that lower lobe, we might force the TB cavity shut. If we could do that, nature would have a chance to heal the cavity by letting the sides grow together.
The operation took place the day after my phone call. We pumped air into the peritoneal cavity, but it nearly killed her. It was obvious that the amount of air she could tolerate would not help.
Every doctor in the room agreed we shouldn't try a second time. We were licked.
It was then that I told her medical science had gone as far as it could go. I told her that her Creator now had the final verdict and that it would not necessarily be what either of us wanted, but would be the best for her under the circumstances. She nodded, and then exacted from me that promise.
Amazingly, she was still alive on Christmas Eve, but just barely. The cavity was still growing; she was so far gone that she had already had the last rites of the Roman Catholic Church. But she held me to my promise.
With renewed doubts, I kept it. I told her not to hold her child and to wear a surgical mask if she was talking to anyone but her husband. His own case had given him immunity.
She came back to St. Martha's late Christmas Day, and she kept ebbing. No one could have watched her struggle without being deeply moved. Every day her condition grew just a bit worse, yet every day she clung to life. It went on, to our continued amazement, for weeks.
Towards the end of February she was down to or below 80 pounds, she couldn't eat, and new complications developed. She became nauseous - even without food in her stomach. I was stumped. I called in a senior medical consultant; he was stumped too. But with a grin, almost facetiously, he asked me if I thought she could be pregnant.
I can still remember exactly how I felt. The suggestion was utterly ridiculous. Everything I knew about medicine added up to one conclusion: she was so ill, so weak, that she couldn't possibly have conceived. Her body just wasn't up to it. Nevertheless, I ordered a pregnancy test. To my astonishment, it was positive. On the very outer frontier of life itself, she now bore a second life within her. It was virtually impossible, but it was true.
Legally, medically, we could have taken the child through abortion; it endangered a life that was already in jeopardy. But we didn't do it. Eleanor and her husband were against it. We doctors at St. Martha's were against it, not only as Catholics, but because we were certain that the operation would kill her. Besides, she was so far gone we were sure her body would reject the child anyway.
The struggle went on for weeks, and never once did we doubt that she was dying. But she kept living. And she kept her child. And in late June 1948, an incredible thing happened. Her temperature began to go down. For the first time we noted some improvement in her condition, and the improvement continued. She began to eat, and to gain weight. A chest X ray showed that the growth of the TB cavity had stopped. Not long after, another X ray showed why. The diaphragm was pushing up against the lower lobe of her diseased lung to make room for the child she was bearing. Nature was doing exactly what we'd failed to do. It was pressing the sides of that deadly hole together. The child was saving the mother.
The child did save her. By the time it was born, a normal, healthy baby, the TB cavity was closed. The mother was markedly better, so much better that we let her go home for good within a few months. Her smile had never been brighter.
Call it the will of God; call it human love; call it the mystical quality of motherhood, the turning in upon herself to fight still more because she had still more to fight for; call it what you will. It happened. And I still wonder at the unfathomable force it signifies.
I remember too, with delight, the Christmas cards Eleanor sent me for years afterwards. They were just ordinary cards, with printed greetings and her name. But to me they were monuments to a miracle.