Travels with Kimberly: November 2016

The last 24 hours of my life have been characterized by more emotional highs and lows than I think any single 24-hour period of my life, ever.

I left my house yesterday, donning all of my Hillary gear that I could wear at once without looking like a coat rack, bound for a little watch party with my sister and brother in law, Shyawn.

I was so excited that I even stopped for a shit ton of orange snacks (Cheetos, Doritos, etc.) and champagne to help celebrate the victory of our first female president and bid adieu in a YUGEE way to that dumpster by eating his doppelganger; Cheetos.

I was fucking elated. I was so pumped for this day! I have waited my entire life for this.

THE FIRST AMERICAN FEMALE PRESIDENT!

This day was big. And I wanted to do it in a big way. I shed emotional and excited tears throughout the day. We settled in, with our assortment of orange snacks and alcohol, ready to see the results roll in. Let the sea of blue roll in, baby!

As an aside, I know everyone was excited yesterday. But for me, personally, this was so much more. I worked on her 2008 campaign, and have campaigned hard, and donated lots of time and money over the years, to see this victory through.

I am not just an armchair or Facebook impassioned political person.

I sleep, eat, and breathe this stuff. It is part of the fiber of my being. If you know me personally, you know this is true. I have dedicated my entire adult life to fighting for women, women’s health, women’s rights, and policies which shape and impact women’s health. Since I was 18, I have worked for NARAL Pro-Choice Washington, managed field operations for HRC’s 08 campaign in my county, worked for a pro-midwifery advocacy organization, as a Doula at SeaMar Community Health Center for largely undocumented female Hispanic immigrants as part of AmeriCorps, volunteered at a women’s domestic violence shelter, volunteered with a legal aid organization for women, campaigned for Planned Parenthood in Olympia, worked in a health center in Nicaragua identifying strategies to help high risk women get the care they need, when they need it, and have worked for the past four years training healthcare providers to manage obstetric and neonatal emergencies in limited resource settings around the world. I have a bachelor’s degree in Women’s Studies and Law. My Master’s degree is in Sustainable Development, with a focus on women’s international health policy.

I don't say this to toot my own horn, but for people to understand the monumental impact and importance this was to have, and has had on me, personally.

This is my life.

As a human, as a woman, as someone who works professionally to assure women everywhere have better access to vital, life saving healthcare, and that there are policies in place to protect and provide these services, this was personal.

Hillary has also made women, women’s health, women’s rights, and children’s rights and health her life’s work. In 2008 when Obama was running, I don't think my peers understood why I campaigned so hard for HRC. And again last year, I think people were dismayed at, “how I couldn’t be for Bernie.”

I pride myself in being outspoken, and standing up for my beliefs, even when it is not easy, and even when it isn’t popular. I have fiercely loved and advocated and campaigned for Hillary because she gets it: she understands what it is like to fight this hard, why it is so important, why women matter, why women’s health matters, and why women in power and leadership matter.

Women’s rights are human rights, and human rights, are women’s rights.

I studied and wrote about CEDAW (please research this and how HRC was instrumental in this pivotal piece of legislation if unfamiliar), all through my undergraduate studies. Next to Roe v. Wade, it became the single piece of policy I was most familiar with. I knew it backwards and forwards. And more than that, I believed in its importance, and respected that she campaigned and fought so long and hard for it.

Because women’s rights are human rights, and human rights, are women’s rights.

So now, perhaps if you didn't before, you can begin to understand why I have made the choices for her as I have.

Back to last night.

We were in a celebratory mood. Shyawn snapped some photos of me in front of their wall size projection screen next to various state victories. I was giddy! It was like mother fucking Christmas morning.

Until it wasn’t.

As Florida’s results started rolling in, I began to worry. I started to develop this pit in my stomach, and felt like the wind was knocked out of me. I could see what was happening.

I knew.

At times, I retreated to their dark office, alone, and laid on the floor in the dark. I was flooded emotionally and my introverted self needed some decompression time.

When they were finally able to pull me out of the office, I alternated between enveloping myself in a blanket, thinking somehow, that I could shield myself from what I knew was happening.

They told me not to give up hope.

I have an intimate understanding of our dumpster fire electoral system from years of study. I was under my blanket, doing math in my head.

26% in for Miami. What percentage did Obama win that county in 2012? How many thousands of votes? I repeated this math in my head for many different counties, with various permutations of possibilities.

I was trying to find a logical way out of this epic fuckery that I knew was happening.

Math had to be on our side, right?

As the orange Cheeto would say: WRONG.

Wrong.

WHAT THE FUCK.

I kept thinking back to the last SNL skit between HRC and Cheeto (go watch it if you haven’t!). When she does her exaggerated bemoaning scream after he kisses Putin and does other crazy shit that no one notices, and then she says,

“What is happening, has the whole world gone mad?!”

That was me.

What is happening? How is this happening? Has the whole country gone mad?

BAAHHAOOOOOOAOAOAOOAOA. (me, and my unintelligible guttural reaction to the electoral map.).

When they called Florida for Cheeto, I yelled out an epic, long, and guttural FUCKKKKKKKKKKK.

I knew it was over.

My 2-year-old nephew, Hudson, was standing right there.

Sorry, Bubson boy.

Sorry, for so many reasons, and the least of which was the massive F bomb your auntie just bellowed.

I wanted to be in the fetal position.

I managed to get out of my blanket cocoon and collapsed, with my head in my hands.

Shyawn captured a photo of this.

I am actually incredibly grateful for this photo. It captures such a raw, real reflection of the absolute sheer physical devastation I was feeling. It says more than I ever could.

I love photography, but we tend, as society, to only capture the happy moments, and I am also guilty of that. However, I often feel that we can find the most striking images in our lowest points. We photograph weddings, but not funerals, but they both have momentous impacts on your life.

I think it is as important to remember those moments just as much as the happy ones, to have proof of where you were at some of your lowest moments.

It was shortly after this photo that I finally broke down.

Epically.

It hadn’t been called yet, but I knew.

I wasn’t giving up, I was just tired.

After all this, after all these years of fighting, she wasn't going to get it.

I was exhausted, and the floodgates smashed open.

And the tears rolled down my face, at first silently. And then progressed into a deeper, more painful and ugly cry.

Jennifer handed me Hudson, and I held him close, rubbed his back, and I cried.

For him, for me, for her.

For us all.

At this point, Shyawn in horror, stated that unfortunately, if Cheeto gets a second term, Hudson would be 10 when it is over.

10!

A lifetime.

I wanted some of his earliest memories, and those of his peers, to be of a woman in power.

Of female leadership.

Of it being the norm that women are powerful people, and that powerful people are women. Women are important, and important people are women.

I momentarily collected myself by pretending to eat his and his beloved lion’s appendages, and then went to the bathroom to wipe away the snot river that covered the upper half of my body.

I saw myself in the mirror and it felt like my innards were ripped out of me. And I broke down again.

How?

Why?

What?

The.

Fuck.

FUCK.

I was distracted by a little person trying to find his Auntie in the bathroom. So I opened the door after collecting myself, hoping he wouldn't have to see me in that state, and went, BOO! I scooped him up, and he pointed to the Christmas tree, so we went to admire it.

He pointed and showed me all of the lights, and we pretended to be electrocuted, because it felt appropriate.

I told him that Auntie was having a lot of feelings like he had been earlier (he had been uncharacteristically cranky and upset earlier in the evening), because some really sad things were happening. And that I am sorry his first election didn't go as I had hoped. In his little knowing way looked at me and goes,

Oh. Uh huh. Oh. Oh, with big eyes and little nods.

Nodding along, wiser beyond his years. And then he leaned into me, and gave me a cuddle, and then put his lion up to my face, which I proceeded to pretend to eat again. He knew, wise beyond his years, that I needed a little extra loving, so he offered his most prized possession to me. I set him down, and cried again.

Then I made myself a strong drink. But I couldn't drink it. Everything made me feel like I was going to vomit.

They offered me a Xanax, but I refused. I wanted to feel this, all of it, to the depths of my core. I felt it important for me to process it all.

At 9:30, I said I had to go home. Nothing had been called, but I had a 6:00 AM call, and given the fact that I had only slept 3 hours the night before, I knew elation wasn’t going to power me through my lack of sleep, as I had previously assumed it would.

I told Jennifer I thought I was going to throw up. She said, “He’s not worth it.”

I said, it isn’t about him right now, it is about her. And I cried some more.

I went home, and as soon as I got in my car I broke down. Epic, big time, ugly sobbing, shaking cry.

Hands at 10 and 2, face to the ceiling, why? Why?

I let out a guttural scream. The last time I felt like this was the first time I drove home from my parent’s house after finding out my Mom had ALS and was going to die.

I am not trying to conflate that two, nor to say that this loss is the same. It is not. The ALS and my Mom is of course, so much worse. But I merely say this for people to understand the depth of loss I felt, and feel.

I drove home in a daze, and as I pulled up, I knew I was going to puke.

I rushed up our stairs, and barely made it into the bathroom, where I violently vomited, over and over. Like food poisoning violent. It was like there was a toxin in me and it needed to get out.

I have never in my life experienced such a physical reaction to something as I did last night.

I was home alone, as Cris was at work. My net of closest confidants, friends, and Cris were all texting me, knowing what terrible shape I must be in.

And they were right; they all know me oh so well.

Kristina suggested a take the Valium I had planned to take the night before my wedding but didn't. So I did.

I just needed to be put out of my misery.

I slept on and off, restless, drug induced sleep for just a few hours before my alarm went off at 5:45 AM for my 6:00 AM call with our team in Uganda. I had had a dream that Hillary was coming to my wedding, and I was in the process of trying to find a place suitable enough to have her there when my alarm went off.

I was dazed and confused and then it hit me:

The Cheeto won.

That mother fucking dumpster juice Cheeto.

And I cried.

I called in, barely put together, and was able to speak at the appropriate times, but barely functioning.

After it was over, I laid there in the dark. It felt appropriate. The world had gone dark and mad, just like I felt.

You may think I am being melodramatic, but I feel like I have a perspective on this that many do not have, due to my line of work.

I rarely, if ever, talk about my work in the field with anyone unless they can understand it, and almost never, on social media. I generally go into shut down mode when abroad. Why? Many reasons. For one, I don't want to project a white saviour complex thing, and make people think I am the strong one or deserving or looking for praise.

I am just doing my job.

The people I am working with are doing their life.

I also don't want people to get a bad image of life for people in places radically different than ours. I don't want to be a part of it. I have zero desire for poverty porn. This is why you have never (and will never) seen a photo of a woman labouring in a facility, or a crying kid, or me holding a baby or whatever.

Gross.

I did recently, in September, talk a bit about an experience I had while in Kenya. I felt comfortable enough sharing it because it was told to me third party, and I didn't feel like it was patronizing anyone.

One of my Kenyan midwife trainers was making me “pregnant”, with a simulated belly for a fundal height measuring station. While we were waiting, just the two of us, she told me about one of her nurses in her county (she oversees reproductive health services in her county), had just died, and she was going to leave the next day to attend her funeral. She died from a massive post partum hemorrhage, which is bleeding after birth, from her uterus being unable to contract on its own as it should after delivery.

It hit me like a ton of bricks.

Fucking tragically and horrifically ironic that a woman who helps women safely bring babies into the world, died in childbirth.

There isn’t one thing you can point to as to why this woman died. It was a massive systems failure. But one thing? That for sure contributed? They didn't have access to misoprostol.

A 25-cent tablet.

What is misoprostol? How does it relate to this campaign and issues at present?

Well, misoprostol is a medication that is incredibly effective at causing the uterus to contract during a hemorrhage due to atony (“floppy” or “tired” uterus that won’t contract on its own). The beauty of misoprostol is that it is cheap, it is easy to administer and requires no additional equipment that is often lacking (it is administered rectally or sublingually in these settings, so no IV equipment is needed), the healthcare provider needs very little training to use it, and it is shelf stable, meaning it doesn't need refrigeration, which is vitally important in places without electricity. Again, there are many reasons why she didn't get it, and why the facility didn't have it, but the most important one for this discussion:

Misoprostol is also an incredibly effective first trimester abortifacient. It is used to induce abortions, very safely and very effectively.

Misoprostol due to Bush’s bullshit PEPFAR plan, was wiped off of the map in many countries. If you don't know much about PEPFAR, please read about it. (President’s Emergency Plan For AIDS Relief). Sounds good, right?

As Cheeto says: Wrong.

Part of PEPFER made USAID money contingent on abstinent only education and wouldn't fund facilities that provided abortions. As such, many places and countries decided to follow the Draconian policies of the Bush era, and adhere to his personal whims, or risk losing funding all together.

8 years later, there are still many places around the world where misoprostol is still incredibly difficult to get, even though it is no longer a mandate of PEPFAR (thanks, Obama.).

I want the importance of this to sink in:

8 years later, there are still women dying, because of GWB’s policies.

There are still women dying, because of George W. Bush, and he hasn’t been president for 8 years.

I have seen lots of people saying, well, it is ONLY four years, he doesn't have that much power, we will win the presidency back in 2020.

For the love of anything that is holy, I hope so.

However, a single Cheeto can do a lot of damage in 4 years. How long can RBG hang on? How many Supreme Court justices will he appoint?

How many rights and laws and services will be repealed or restricted, because of him?

It is only 4 years, but the echo from four years can last a generation.

Trust me, I have seen it first hand.

And it is not good.

I have oscillated between rage and sadness and depression and pity and fear and darkness and so many things. But I have a few messages—

For the basket of deplorables, I have nothing to say to you. I have a finite amount of energy, and using it on you isn’t worth my time at present. Perhaps later, but not today.

For the third party voters, protest voters, voted for Jack-Wagon-Gary-Johnson or doesn’t-believe-in-vaccines-Jill-Stein, or those who abstained, “on a moral ground,” this is my message to you, I want you to read it all. Every word –

Why?

Were you overly confident that you thought your vote didn't matter?

Did you think this was a joke?

Did you think there was no way that the Cheeto could win?

Was it worth it?

I hope so—because you are responsible.

For every action, there is a reaction.

And I can guarantee with the utmost certainty, that I will see so much more first hand—the devastation, the reverberations for years to come in my career, than you can ever even fucking possibly remotely imagine.

For shame.

This isn’t’ a discussion on the DNC, or the electorate (dumpster fire, we can agree to that). This is a discussion on the fact that people played a game with people’s lives.

People of color.

LGBTQ folks.

Muslims.

Immigrants.

The disabled.

Overweight people.

People who speak out in the press.

Survivors of sexual assault.

Women.

Humanity.

Was it worth it?

For shame.

You just elected a sexual predator, misogynistic, xenophobic, dictator Cheeto who spews divisive vitriol.

Was it worth it?

For shame.

When you hear in the coming years about increases in incidences of sexual assault, including against children, which will undoubtedly increase, because you have now just normalized and legitimized it by voting it into office, this is what I want you to do: