Why I Plan to Emulate Dr. George Tiller

If I'd passed her on the street, I probably wouldn't have known her. Her gait is a bit stiff and her left eye somehow different from her right. She's not famous, exactly, but some people might know her name: Emily Lyons. She's the nurse who survived the 1998 bombing of an abortion clinic in Birmingham at the hands of Eric Rudolph.

I was 14 years old when that clinic was bombed, killing a police officer and spraying Emily's body full of hot nails and shrapnel. Back then, I lived in a small Alabama town, went to church every Sunday and was adamantly opposed to abortion. But by the time I met Emily last year, I was president of the Birmingham chapter of Medical Students for Choice, a group supporting abortion rights. Watching her walk slowly into our fund-raiser on her husband's arm -- a woman who'd endured more than 18 operations -- I thought of all she'd been through and knew that I'd come to the right decision in my support of reproductive rights.

That conviction only became stronger after I read that Kansas physician George Tiller had been murdered at his Wichita church.

I'm a third-year medical student at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. I plan to become an obstetrician-gynecologist. I dream of delivering healthy babies, working with families and supporting midwifery. But as part of my practice, I also envision providing abortions to women who need them.

The road I took to get here isn't your stereotypical one. My parents are conservative Christians who believe abortion is wrong. Growing up, I naturally shared their view. But I've also wanted to be a doctor since I was 4 years old, and in high school, I began to feel drawn to issues of women's health. In college, I designed my own major to broaden my understanding of women's health by including psychology, sociology and women's studies.

I also served as a counselor for a volunteer organization that helps victims of rape. I sat in hospital rooms with young women who would look at me and say, "I just couldn't carry his baby." I could feel their desperation.

At the same time, I found myself shocked at how little many of my friends -- women who were studying biology and planning to become doctors -- knew about their own sexual health. They didn't know about or couldn't get the reproductive health care they needed because of barriers put up by their culture, their religion and their parents.

I began to feel as if I were leading a double life. At school, the choices I saw women struggling with were forcing me to question my old convictions. When I went home, I'd go to church with my parents but would find that my views contrasted starkly with those I heard in the sermons. It was a difficult time, because I felt that neither my family nor my church would welcome my questions or understand my struggle.

For the most part, I don't talk to my parents about those beliefs. They already feel as though I've turned my back on much of what they taught me because my husband and I bought a house and lived together for a few months before we were married. Two and a half years later, that rift isn't fully healed. I know that my views on reproductive rights would be another blow.

But ultimately, we have more in common than they might think. I agree that ending an unwanted pregnancy is a tragedy. When I advocate for reproductive rights, for choice, I don't claim that abortion is morally acceptable. I think that it's a very private, intensely personal decision. But I was stunned when one of my professors, a pathologist and a Planned Parenthood supporter, told me that decades ago, entire wings of the university's hospital were filled with women dying from infections caused by botched abortions. It's clear that women who don't want to be pregnant won't be deterred by limited access to providers or to clinics. And I believe that it's immoral to let them die rather than provide them with safe, competent care.