In Her Shoes: Women of the Eighth: A Memoir and Anthology

By Erin Darcy

In early 2018, Erin Darcy created an online art project, In Her Shoes – Women of the Eighth, to safely and anonymously share private stories of the real and devastating impact of the Eighth Amendment to the Constitution of Ireland. In the five months leading up to the referendum on abortion, the project asked a simple
question of undecided voters: put yourself in her shoes. Within weeks, Erin was receiving hundreds of stories from a broad spectrum of experiences of planned and unplanned terminations. By the time Ireland historically voted Yes to Repeal the Eighth on 25 May 2018, the page had gathered over 100,000 followers, was reaching over four million readers each week and had been featured by international news outlets.
What began as a solo act of grassroots activism by a mother and an artist had unleashed a national conversation on human rights that would change Ireland forever. Where once there had been silence and shame, now there was honesty and empathy. For 43 per cent of voters, it was 'stories in the media' that influenced their decision to vote Yes. But for Erin Darcy, In Her Shoes was also a distraction from her own heartbreaking loss, loneliness and depression as she grieved her mother's death and sought a community
of her own. In time, it became an act of healing, as she connected with other women, mothers and campaigners who felt the same overwhelming need to do something.
Here, In Her Shoes: Women of the Eighth reproduces thirty-two of those anonymous stories, representing the entire island of Ireland. Published with their authors' consent and illustrated by Erin, they are powerful testimonies to storytelling as salvation from heartache, stigma and threat. Together, they record lived truths
previously omitted from history and signal a monumental change in the social landscape of our country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Island
• Release date: Oct 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781848407855

Book preview

PROLOGUE

It’s bitterly cold and windy but the sun is shining as I stand on the streets in my small conservative town in rural Catholic Ireland. This town is my home, but not my home place and so my American accent softens to match the gentler way of speaking. I’m asking strangers to support abortion rights in a place where it is illegal. The date is 13 January 2018.

Being a ‘blow-in’ is a privilege in many ways. It’s far easier for me to campaign for choice than it is for the friends who have grown up here. In these small towns, where everyone knows everyone’s business, being openly pro-choice can have both professional and personal implications. Abortion is a word said in a hushed tone, not something for which you broadcast support.

‘Would you like to sign to support women’s rights?’

I look for a way to encourage curiosity, to avoid the recoil the word ‘abortion’ can produce. The man passing by shakes his head automatically and moves on before pausing and doubling back. He’s poised like a gundog.

‘What did you say?’ Furrowed brow, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his tan jacket, jaw clenched.

‘I asked if you’d like to sign our sheet to support women’s rights. We’re looking for signatures of support for repealing the Eighth Amendment.’

‘I have daughters!’ he barks. ‘Did you not hear about the woman who died after the abortion in England?’¹

We’ve been told to move people like this on, but my adrenaline pulses, my heart races.

‘Don’t you think she should have been looked after better? Had she been able to get that help here, she wouldn’t have been rushing out of a clinic to get her flight home. She would have been able to recover and take her time, under supervision of her own doctor.’

‘I just don’t think they should be using it as a form of birth control.’

I try not to feel exasperated and promise him that no one uses abortion as birth control. ‘Do you think anyone wants to have an abortion?’ I tell him how even the morning-after pill impacts our cycle and it’s not a pleasant experience.

‘Well there should be a cap – there’s people that have three, four, five abortions. They need to take responsibility for their actions. They made that mess.’

The women standing at the stall with me continue talking to other people passing by. Trying to keep my voice steady, I ask him: ‘Should she have those babies instead? Is that who you want raising a child, someone who doesn’t want to be a mother?’ I share with him that I have three kids. No one seems to expect a mother to advocate for abortion. ‘Being pregnant shouldn’t be a punishment. Children aren’t a punishment. All children should be wanted, not raised by someone who didn’t want to do this.’

I can see that he understands. ‘I do think that women should be able to get an abortion in certain circumstances,’ he concedes.

‘Well, it sounds to me like you’re pro-choice then,’ I add quickly. ‘The only way a person can get the abortion under any of the certain circumstances is if we vote to remove the Eighth Amendment. If you just put yourself in her shoes …’

It doesn’t come to me as a revelation. It’s a turn of a phrase: don’t judge someone until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes.

His entire disposition changes. ‘I’m not sure I agree with abortion, but you’ve made me think. I need to read some things first.’

Heart racing, I hand him a few of our brochures before he moves on.

Oh my god, Erin, you’re doing it. You’ve got this.

Erin story

SELKIES

It was the selkies that brought me here. Selkies, I learned from The Secret of Roan Inish,² are mysterious mythological creatures, half-seal half-woman, that come to shore and shed their pelts to sunbathe in human skin. If someone takes a pelt home, the woman will stay but forever long for home, for the sea, for belonging. I longed for the sea.

*

When I was seven years old we moved from the Puget Sound of Washington to the purple Rocky Mountains of Colorado. High in the sky, as far from sea level as you can get, I would stand barefoot on boulders, surrounded by pines and aspen trees, making wishes into the wind to go to Ireland, to the ocean with selkies, to the land where my ancestors once lived. I roamed the mountains on horseback. In a small ghost town – population 49 – we lived an honest and simple life. I spent my time digging in the soil for remnants from Gold Rush days. I explored abandoned houses and created stories about pilgrims arriving by boat from far away. The days were endless and vast.

Adolescence smacked me in the face with a move back to my birthplace of Oklahoma. It was nowhere near the ocean and far from the mountains. We settled in a typical American neighbourhood of fenced-in back gardens and a paved road out front. The culture shock of school was immense: groups of jocks and geeks, skaters and preps, goths and band nerds. I craved the naivety and sweet simplicity of vast, wild spaces, although it didn’t take long to find my tribe: the misfits, the shy, the artsy, the awkward, the rebels.

At home we were our own little unit, just the five of us: two older brothers, Cody and Trevor, Mom and Dad. My mother was my best friend. We had little money but lived like royalty. Mom and Dad took us on thrilling road trips: we’d sleep in motel rooms with a picnic spread of crackers and canned meats with cheese in a spray can – the height of luxury, I tell you. Living just above the poverty line in America meant brown paper bags from churches with cans of donated food, and yet we were never without.

I grew up with a passion to follow my dreams, like Mom and Dad. The ocean never stopped pulling me to her and I entertained fantasies of returning to Washington, of living in a houseboat near seals and whales and ocean mist, of becoming a marine biologist – a ‘real job’ with a side hobby of art. I considered the Atlantic and fantasised about Rhode Island School of Design, but art school was an impossible financial ask.

Around that time I began to search for a pen pal in Ireland, with the idea of becoming more familiar with the place and the stories I had grown to love. Dial-up internet churned into life, bringing me to the Irish chat rooms. Here were the poets and musicians, the older women looking for love, the perverts and the craic. Here was my escape from Oklahoma. I found a group of Irish people to chat with – and then I met him: a boy, sixteen and ‘sound’. Here I was, talking to a boy from Ireland.

It wasn’t long until I was in love, rushing home from school to see if Steven was online. Night after night he would stay awake into the early hours of the morning while I skipped homework to scheme out our future together, running up phone bills and a hefty collection of phone cards in the process. I drank in his Galway accent as I sat on the floor in my closet, beaming until my cheeks hurt, making him repeat words over and over again.

For two years we talked every day, sending letters and packages until, in the autumn of 2004, he asked his mom for a Christmas gift of a plane ticket that would bring me to Ireland and to him. I was seventeen. How would I even ask my parents for permission to go to Ireland during Christmas break to meet my internet boyfriend? I prepared the speech in my head. I would sit them down and tell them how important this was to me while guarding my heart for the inevitable no. To my surprise they said yes almost immediately. It was the experience of a lifetime, they conceded.

Mom and Dad’s unwavering trust and faith in me led me to believe I could do anything, that I could be anyone. Yet rumours swirled around in school. I became the focus of our psychology class, the teacher dissecting my long-distance relationship, students joining in with jokes about a fat old sexual predator luring me to my death. I had always wanted to shake things up, so going against the grain of what was expected felt all the more thrilling. I would never be the one to stay in town, go to the local state college, have the two kids and a white picket fence. I wanted more. I wanted to travel to Ireland and meet the boy I was in love with. I counted down the days. I cashed in my fifty-dollar savings and applied for a passport.

The day after Christmas my parents hugged me at the departure gate. I navigated the Chicago layover on my own. On the 4,000-mile plane journey I was too nervous to find the toilets. I wasn’t even sure where they were. I sat for six hours, thumbing through magazines and alarming the Irish man next to me with an account of my endeavour.

We landed in Dublin. My stomach all aflutter, I wheeled my giant bag through the exit doors to be met by a sea of faces looking for loved ones. I scanned the line until I found him: tall, dark hair, bright red cheeks and a giant grin. I was engulfed in his embrace, breathing him in, his shyness, excitement and familiarity. The world blurred around us. We were each other’s first kiss in Dublin airport.

The countryside whirled by in a green fuzz. We held hands in the back seat of his uncle’s car, giggly, delirious and lovesick. We arrived at the house, were welcomed in, and I met the entire family. I settled at the table with a cup of tea and stared at a plate piled high with rashers and sausages, eggs and beans, toast and black and white pudding. Aunts and uncles asked all of the questions. It was overwhelming.

During that magical fortnight we’d stay up until the early fog met the morning sun. It was bliss. I was in love with everything. In love with the damp cold air burning ice into our lungs. In love with the upturned umbrellas shoved angrily into bins. In love with the boy who held my hand and kissed me in public. How would I ever leave? Yet our idyll was fast coming to an end. We clung together, crying until our eyes were raw, not knowing when we would see each other again.

By saving money and travelling back and forth across the Atlantic, Steven got to experience my family and life in America while I continued going to school. And then, in 2006, I graduated high school and booked a one-way ticket to Ireland. Steven and I married within the year with just two witnesses. It was a simple affair, without a dress or a cake.

I was eager to begin our family but my body refused to cooperate and I was diagnosed with polycystic ovaries. The doctor dismissed me. ‘You’re young. You have time.’ Depressed by my perceived infertility, I wrote blogs and took photos, explored art and photography. I found communities of women online where we shared our creative selves. We became fast friends, these women who took up space without apology; who wrote poetry, took photographs and spoke freely. I began to heal my relationship with my body. It shifted a dynamic within myself and clarified what I wanted to achieve.

The big freeze of 2009 brought snow, ice, and morning sickness. Forty-two weeks later I was induced – fortunate to be allowed to go past my due date – and became a mom for the first time. Like a selkie shedding her pelt and leaving her watery world, just minutes before midnight, with dark hair and searching eyes, my daughter was born.

The maternity and labour wards were a shock to the system, understaffed with overworked nurses and midwives doing their best to meet the needs of new mothers and their babies – it is between the lines that we are all failed. Your baby made it out of your body alive. You are alive. Be grateful. What more do you want?

Mom flew over for those delicate post-partum days, to mother and teach me how to nourish my babe at the breast, to coax my intuition into confidence and to make the stew that would always taste like home. After a month-long babymoon, I clung to her as she put her bags into the car for the airport. I took my daughter to the bed that Mom had been sleeping in and curled up in the scent of her.

Building my life in Ireland had been my dream. Now, as a new mother, I was desperate to belong in my new home place. While my online circles of women sustained me, I craved Irish women to befriend. Facebook groups opened up the world as I sat on my couch, baby at my breast, talking to other mothers around the country. Virtual breastfeeding support groups, baby-wearing groups and pregnancy groups – I learned about the politics of breastfeeding and the history of formula in Ireland and was initiated into the revelation of feminism. I learned how deep-seated misogyny seeped through our societies; how it had an impact on my choices as a woman, as a pregnant woman, as a birthing woman, as a mother. I was so angry.

Fuelled by my new-found hunger for change, I took a bus to the city to join a Galway birth gathering. We talked about the lack of choice to give birth how and where we wanted and discussed the rising intervention statistics: inductions, caesarean sections, instrumental deliveries, episiotomies. Around a kitchen table with children crawling underfoot and babies asleep in slings, we proposed ways in which we might improve local maternity services. I wanted to know everything.

I became pregnant for the second time, securing a home birth community midwife with the intention to stay away from the traditional maternity system.

Article 40.3.3 of the Eighth Amendment to the Constitution states:

The State acknowledges the right to life of the unborn and, with due regard to the equal [my italics] right to life of the mother, guarantees in its laws to respect, and, as far as practicable, by its laws to defend and vindicate that right.

Section 7.7.1: Because of the Constitutional provisions on the right to life of the unborn [Article 40.3.3] there is significant legal uncertainty regarding a pregnant woman’s right to [consent].

Savita Halappanavar and I were both seventeen weeks pregnant when she died in University Hospital Galway on 28 October 2012 at the age of 31 from septic shock following what was diagnosed as an ‘inevitable miscarriage’. Savita attended the hospital because of back pain, where she was advised physiotherapy and sent home. She returned to the hospital hours later with more pain. A foetal heartbeat was detected and blood tests later showed key signals of the risks of sepsis infection. However, the blood test results were not followed up at the time.

In the night her waters broke and she was told about the risk of infection. A scan showed the presence of a foetal heartbeat. Savita asked if there was any way to save the baby and was told it was not possible. ‘Inevitable miscarriage’ is recorded on her medical notes. Aware that her baby would not survive, Savita asked her obstetrician for a termination. She was told that in Ireland it was not legal to terminate a pregnancy on the grounds of poor prognosis for the foetus, and as her life was not currently at risk it was not legally possible to carry out a termination. Savita was given antibiotics to guard against infection. Communication broke down between all medical staff; information on Savita’s health was not passed on. It was noted that she had failed to be monitored as often as hospital policy states. The obstetrician decided to carry out a termination, as it was now clear that Savita’s life was at risk. Her condition deteriorated in theatre after the spontaneous birth of her dead baby, and she was moved to the high-dependency unit, where lifesaving measures continued and ultimately failed.

The baby that could never survive outside of the womb took precedence over Savita’s own health. Savita Halappanavar died because the Constitution denied her rights to make healthcare decisions in pregnancy under the Eighth Amendment. Combined with an overcrowded and understaffed health service, Savita was failed on multiple levels, resulting in her tragic death.