Papa Don’t Preach, Repeal the 8th


There are some stories you really don’t want to be inspired by but this week I have been inspired, induced even, to write, by the appalling case of the HSE taking an adult woman to the High Court in an attempt to force her to have a C-Section.  The judge had the good sense to refuse the HSE any such application because he said it would amount to a “grievous assault” on her person. If you haven’t already read the details of the case you will be interested to know that the unborn child had its own legal representation in the court. Which brings me neatly to the point of this piece. The 8th amendment does not just affect women who want to have abortions. It does not just affect rape and incest victims  or parents of unborn babies diagnosed with FFA. The 8th amendment to our Constitution affects all persons who engage with the maternity services offered by this state. All persons. When an unborn baby has separate legal representation to its mother – a mother who wants this baby very much and a baby still occupying its mother’s womb – then surely the notion of equal right to life of the unborn becomes absurd.

Amid all the noise of the #repealthe8th campaign and its pro-life opposite #savethe8th (and no I’m not tone policing) the unforeseen consequences to maternity services and their primary users – WOMEN- have gone largely unnoticed . I’ve been Pro-Choice since I was a teenager but you might be reading this as a pro-life voter. You might be reading this as somebody who really doesn’t know how to feel about what is perceived as an abortion referendum. I encourage you to visit the AIMS website and see what it’s like to be pregnant under the shadow of the 8th amendment. Ireland needs to realise that the repeal of the 8th amendment is for all of us. A woman can be taken to the High Court to be forced to have a major abdominal surgery because of the 8th. That must not be allowed to continue.

I am a veteran of 3 Caesarean Sections. When I read the phrase “grievous assault”, my blood ran cold and my uterus contracted because that’s how I felt. Assaulted. I was not too posh or too old to push. During my first labour I was told that if I didn’t push the baby out by 5.30pm the doctor was going to come in and give me a section.  I was lying on a bed strapped to a heart monitor with a clock ticking down the next 30 minutes. I was tired, drugged and scared and was in no state to make a stand.  I consented to a section. The notion of that consent was completely compromised by the behaviour of the medical staff that day. But they had the 8th amendment to back them up. I had nothing but a vagina that was dilating too slowly..

Pregnant with Baby Number 2 five years later  I resigned myself to the “treatment” as I called it. It had taken me 5 years to risk the treatment a second time.  On a clinic visit  I refused to be admitted to a ward for high blood pressure. I had been fine at my GP appointment and I knew it was anxiety related.  The midwife had assured me I would be fine but when the registrar and another doctor arrived everything changed. The door was blocked.  It was in a very small exam cubicle. I had nobody else with me and I was extremely intimidated. I tried to explain that my blood pressure would only go up even higher if I was admitted because I was terrified of the hospital and I had another child at home. The registrar screamed at me that I was killing my baby and that my liver would explode. I wondered was I hallucinating. I wasn’t. I was in a very small hospital room surrounded by 3 people I’d never met before. I realised they did not see me Niamh. They did not know Niamh. They saw a problem to be solved, a difficult woman refusing to do as she was told. I literally fought my way out of that room. I went pure Limerick on their medical arses and roared my way out of there. I still don’t remember how I got home. I have a vague memory of the Junior Doctor following me to the carpark. I think he was worried about me. He didn’t like what he’d witnessed. Later on after the birth of Baby Number 2 I read in my notes that I was a “difficult patient”. I was not a negligent parent. I was under the care of my GP who understood my fear and supported my decision not to be admitted. The hospital saw a “difficult patient”who did not consent to treatment. Again they had the 8th to back them up. The 8th gave them authority to describe a grown woman as difficult simply because she wanted to go home.

One year later I was back for Baby Number 3. My lovely GP had phoned ahead to the clinic for me. He also armed me with a letter to show the doctor, any doctor, that I had severe anxiety related to the hospital and it was to be taken into account when reading my blood pressure. The booking midwife was lovely. She put it all in my notes. I never saw her again. The doctor looked at the letter and said ” if you don’t like hospitals then you shouldn’t be here having babies”.  I asked for a different doctor. You can imagine the rest. Once again I’d marked my own card. The maternity equivalent of Asking For It. I wasn’t allowed a trial of labour for Baby Number 3. They would NOT allow me to attempt a natural delivery so I had an elective section. I am down in the statistics as having chosen that operation. At no time when I was pregnant did I actively chose to give birth by abdominal surgery. My choices were handed to me by medical staff.  I survived the third birth with my sanity intact by leaving Niamh at the gates of the hospital on the day I went in. My Grandmother had told me to put myself into the arms of the Blessed Virgin. I didn’t quite do that but I knew what she meant. Niamh was left at the gates and I collected myself on the way home.

The Eighth Amendment to the Constitution of Ireland is the ultimate patriarchal tool. It allows the state to treat women as children, incapable of consent. Our pregnancies are a matter for the Constitution. We don’t complain because we are grateful to have survived and brought home a healthy baby. We give birth in battery farms where the midwife has no power and the Doctor’s rule is law. My Grandmother might not have had access to contraception but she had more choice than I did about where to give birth. Under the Eighth Amendment Women cannot say NO. They can only say YES. We need to think about that. Ireland might not be ready for abortion on demand but we are way past ready to look after our pregnant citizens properly.


I Am What I Am: A Rant



Twitter got weird this morning. Weirder than usual. I got my first death threat on the back of a months old tweet about everybody’s favourite Irish Senator and then managed to embroil myself in an argument about trans identity and bathrooms. Some people think that people who identify themselves as trans ( I hope I’m wording that right) are deluded, mistaken, disordered or even “fashionable”. Obviously the opinions of wilfully unkind and ignorant hate-mongers mean nothing next to the lived experience of trans men and women but I still got angry and engaged with the trolls. Trip trap and all that. However it did get me to thinking about my “identity” and how it shapes our world view and those of the haters.


I’m a white, Irish, cis woman. I’m heterosexual but definitely have girl crushes. Big ones. I used to be a Catholic but I don’t feel like one anymore. I still like hymns and I pray sometimes but I’m not fussy as to who is listening. I collect rocks because they make me feel safe and I have been known to worship them in a slightly religious way. I talk to a magpie I’ve made friends with when I go running and I have conversations with my Grandad about life at Barrington’s Pier. He passed away in 1996 but he listens and has on occasion answered me back. I suffer from depression, anxiety and bulimia. I can’t drive because I’m too scared and I think music makes most things feel better. As long as it isn’t Bryan Adams. I drink a lot of tea and eat too much toast.  I wear sunglasses all year round because they hide my face. That’s my identity. Am I deluded?

I’m married to a white, straight male Irish man. He doesn’t understand twitter. He’s from Tipperary but is glad he doesn’t live there anymore. He’s relatively normal compared to me. He knows nothing about sport and likes atrocious Heavy Metal music. He says he’s a Catholic but he wouldn’t know when to sit down or stand up at Mass. He loves engines and thinks he will one day own a HUGE motorbike (I have news for him). He can fix anything or try. As much as any of us can, he knows who he is. Is he deluded?

I have 3 Irish children. During the census discussions at home, my oldest child said she wanted to tick “no religion” but she felt that category didn’t really represent who she is either because culturally she is a Catholic and she doesn’t believe in nothing. She loves drama, rock music and her phone. She’s forming her own identity. My younger children believe in all sorts. They like hymns and Green Day and One Direction. One wants to be an artist when she grows up and plant all the flowers she can possibly plant. The other one thinks she’d like to be a waitress. Or a computer engineer. I don’t know yet if they will be gay or straight. They seem straight. However that would seem. All three of them go to school with people I would never have encountered in my youth. A quick list of the countries their friends are from would include : Kenya, Somalia, South Africa, Liberia, Belgium, Canada, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Cambodia, China, Russia, Poland, Lithuania, Belarus, Moldova, USA. Oh and Cork. They know that some of their friends pray to the Buddha, some believe in Mohammed and some have no religion at all. This gives them no cause at all for concern. They accept it as part of their friends’ identities and go back to their skipping games ( not the Teen on that one, but you get me).

The point I’m trying to make is that my identity is as valid as yours. I own my own personality and what’s made me who I am. This is as true for the trans woman in a public bathroom in this country or North Carolina  as it is for the haters in the media, social or otherwise. I have never questioned my gender or my sexuality because I have been sure of them always. Other aspects of myself have not been as kind to me. But again I am what I am. People who love me accept me. Or put up with me.  I’m not always sure which. The hate just saddens me and then makes me very mad. Incredible Hulk level mad. What part of the typical troll identity makes them more right and more worthy of rights than those of us with a slightly different life experience. We are not all the same. But we are equal.   I am lucky enough to have a wonderful friend who is trans. She is one of the kindest, sanest and most genuinely decent people I have ever encountered. I’ve learned a lot from her about lots of things. She inspires me.  Her identity is bloody wonderful and if you want to hate her you’ll have to take me and all the rest of her crazy friends on too.

Rant over #LetUsPee

Copyright 2016

Who Runs the World …….Girls?


Who Runs the World…………..Girls? #IWD2016

It’s 2016 and some people are wondering why we need an #InternationalWomensDay at all.  Maybe someday we won’t need a day to make people aware of women-centric issues. That day has not come yet.

I realised I was a Feminist (capital F) when I was 8 years old. My mother, who had her own income from work, took me with her to a local department store to apply for a store card. All went swimmingly well until the very nice woman behind the desk said: “And your husband needs to sign here”. Suitably chastened by her gender, my mother took the form and went home. Now my mother does have a husband, known to me as my father, but he was not likely to sign that form. So my mother did what any slightly rebellious woman might have done…… if you catch my drift.

But so what right? Times have moved on. Women, even married ones, can have jobs and overdrafts and credit cards no matter what name they use. And what name do you choose? When I got married I kept the name I was born with because I’M A FEMINIST. It still confuses people. They assume either I am not married to my husband or that indeed my surname has already been changed and he is in fact Mr. Niamh. He doesn’t mind too much cos ya know #NotAllMen!! Again, so what. I’ll take the cheque made out to either name but isn’t it the extremely thin end of a massive wedge?

When my middle daughter was a baby she had very little hair. Just a brown tuft in the middle of her head. Her favourite coat was a dark grey wool jacket with cat ears on the hood. She also had an extremely funny and smiley face so when we were out and about strangers would stop me to speak to her. She was invariably mistaken for a boy child. The friendly strangers were in no way trying to insult me by telling me what a lovely little boy I had; my point is that her little grey coat was such a signifier to them of maleness that it never occurred to them the funny little boy could be a girl. If the coat had been pink, they would have instantly known.

I like to run and so does my husband, but he has never once come home from a run crying or phoned me half way through a run because he was afraid. I gave up running in the dark early evenings of winter because I was sick of being scared. I’ve had “c**t” shouted at me. I had a bottle thrown at me out of a car. I’ve been followed. A very well dressed man once barked at me as I ran past him near my house. I’ve had a car full of young men drive along side me jeering and hooting the car horn. People tell me to join a running group. “Don’t run alone. That’s asking for trouble.” But I like running by myself. It’s my THING. I think. I talk to myself. I pretend I’m being interviewed by Oprah. But it’s not worth the pain. I am over 40 and I won’t run alone in the dark.

Let’s not forget that I’m an Irish woman so even God can’t help me if I’m pregnant and don’t want to be. The Queen might though.  Read this piece by Kitty Holland about the horrific treatment meted out to Ms Y, if you haven’t already, and tell me we don’t need #InternationalWomensDay.

I have a list of things much less important than #repealthe8th but no less representative of how women are perceived.  I challenge you to watch the genuinely funny buddy movie The Hangover and follow it up by the “female friendly” companion piece that was Bridesmaids. One was a hilarious tale of friends getting into trouble and looking out for each other til the very end; the other was a tale of jealousy, vulgarity and backstabbing best friends. Hollywood really loves women. Star Wars and Superhero fans I challenge you to find a Princess Leia or Wonder Woman  doll in a high street toy store. They just don’t have a place in the Boys Aisle and don’t start me on Lego Friends in the pink aisle. Parents, are your female children allowed to wear trousers to school the same as the boys?

These are just a few concerns of a white, Irish, middle class (ish) cis woman with an honours degree in English. I’m lucky. My children have access to education and medical treatment. We have warm beds, food and clean water. I am free to travel.  I’ll leave you with this article from the Huffington Post on access to female sanitary products in the Third World. I might not feel compelled to go horse riding, swimming or play tennis once a month but in relative terms I’m a very lucky girl. Periods matter. But that’s a blog for another day. November 19th maybe, #InternationalMensDay!

#IWD2016 💋