The Parade of Horribles

Here are the facts that I found on the internet:

An Indian surgeon used infected instruments to sterilize 83 women in about six hours, according to a local medical official, leaving 10 of them dead and another 69 hospitalized in the central state of Chhattisgarh.

-Bloomburg

India sterilized over 4 million people last year, about 97% of whom were women.

-Time Magazine

R.K. Gupta, 59, operated on 83 women in five hours on Saturday, according to the BBC. Dr RK Gupta and his assistant carried out tubectomies on 130 women at two separate camps on Saturday and Monday.

-BBC

The women, who were each paid $10 to undergo the operation, were sent home Saturday evening.

-USA Today

Now, here's the advantage of being an artist; I don't have to stick to the facts. I get to tell you a story.

Wednesday morning, I wake at 5am, when the alarm goes off. My husband set it, so he could get up early and edit a paper for our daughter, a junior in college. Normally, we wake at 5:30 to the Bob and Tom show (don't judge; it has sentimental value to us from when we were dating). At 5am, the radio reports the news. In my half-wake state, I listen to a broadcast about doctors rushing to India where 11 women have died and 63 are hospitalized after undergoing voluntary sterilization, for which they were paid approximately $10, or 600 rupees.

I get out of bed, after about 20 minutes buried beneath the covers on the first truly cold morning this season, went downstairs to make breakfast and feed the dog. I make egg sandwiches, but I break the yolk on the first egg and give it to the dog. My husband offers (read: is coerced to leave a little early so I don't have to go out in the cold) to take the kids to school.

13 is on the bus by 8:15.

In the 2 hours between shifts, I decide to fold the mountain of laundry at the foot of my bed. I turn on the news (yes, we have a tv in our bedroom. Again, don't judge; if you had seven kids and wanted to watch an episode of Parenthood without being interrupted to braid someone's hair or go pick up posterboard for a project due the next day, you would too.). I want to hear more about the women in India who have died.

By the time the laundry is finished and put away, I have heard the results of Robin Williams' autopsy, seen the Rockettes preview their new holiday show, and watched an interview with Jon Stewart. I see numerous accounts of an early snow storm. Not one newscaster mentions the deaths in India. Later I troll the internet to find more information. I try to find the value of 600 rupees to a young Indian mother. The only thing I find are tourist sites with details on how eat a good meal in India for less than $10. I want to know how $10 can change a young woman's life so much that she is willing to offer up her body for her country. In the United States, you can get $25 for donating plasma. $25 could take my entire family to lunch buffet at the local Indian restaurant.

I do find a photo of young mother, recovering in a hospital bed while she breastfeeding a toddler who lies beside her. Beds line one long white wall of the sterilization camp. The mother wears brightly colored clothing and gold bangles and wraps herself and her child in a red blanket.

I am angry at a government that sterilizes young married women but leaves their husband virile, while a young woman, who went to the police station in June to beg for her husband's release, is allegedly gang raped by four police officers when she refuses to pay a bribe (How much is the bribe I wonder? The value of 600 rupees comes to mind.)

And I am angry at a male doctor, who when I was 25 and had an irregular Pap smear, put his hand on my knee, bare below the hem of my paper gown, and told me to let him worry about whether it is anything to be concerned about.

And at the young doctor in Anna Karenina, who insists on examining Kitty naked. She is suffering from depression; she has turned away the man she loves for someone who she thought would be exciting and thrilling to spend her life with. And this young doctor cannot understand why anyone would question his hands on her body. In fact, she should consider herself lucky to be examined by him.

And at a pediatrician who tells me I should start my 11-year-old daughter on the HPV vaccine in case anything ever happens to her.

And at a husband who goes to bed at night while his wife stays up for hours copying his manuscript.

 

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