Just out today…
A judge has dropped three of seven murder charges against abortion doctor Kermit Gosnell, who’s accused of “snipping” the spinal cords of newborns at his filthy clinic.
The judge ruled there wasn’t enough evidence to pursue the three first-degree murder charges against 72-year-old Gosnell, ABC reported.
Gosnell still faces four first-degree murder charges and a third-degree murder charge for the death of a 41-year-old immigrant who went to him for an abortion.
ABC reports the judge didn’t immediately explain why there wasn’t enough evidence to pursue the three murder charges. The case against Gosnell appeared to suffer a setback last week when the chief medical examiner testified he couldn’t say for sure whether any of the fetuses found in Gosnell’s clinic were born alive.
Gosnell is accused of operating a filthy clinic, spreading venereal diseases by using dirty equipment and routinely killing newborns. The crux of his defense is that no babies were ever born alive in his clinic.
Read more here at Business Insider.
Question: Why does it matter whether the baby was born alive or not?
I know we’ve had discussions about this already around here, but I don’t care. People need to face this question and think. We literally are defining murder by a separation of 5 minutes (less actually) in time and a few inches in space. What’s different about the baby? The one being killed? And don’t tell me it’s about the woman, because I can shred that argument up one side of the wall and back down again. The measures they take to kill the baby inside the woman put her at more risk than inducing birth and killing the baby outside her womb.
Read Leila’s question here, The Largely Unasked Question About the Gosnell Mass Murder Case.
Or read Jen’s piece here, Ignore the Tiny Corpses: America’s Powerful Conceal the Monster.
UPDATE: Think this only happens in filthy places like Gosnell’s clinic and it is something new? No. This happened in a hospital, in the room where babies are saved. I just saw this story at LifeSiteNews.
It is from a nurse whose story can be read in its entirety here.
The nurse from Labor and Delivery walked into our unit carrying a blanket and stating “This is a prostaglandin abortion. He has a heartbeat so we brought him over.” The baby was placed under a radiant warmer and I was told the rest of the facts. The gestational age of the baby was given to be 23 weeks by ultrasound. The mother had cancer and had received chemotherapy treatments before discovering that she was pregnant. The parents had been told that their baby would be horribly deformed because of the chemotherapy.
I looked at the baby boy lying before me, and saw that from all appearances he was perfect. He had a good strong heartbeat. I could tell this without using a stethoscope because I could see his chest moving in sync with his heart rate. With a stethoscope I heard a heart pumping strongly. I look at his size and his skin — he definitely looked more mature than 23 weeks. He was weighed and I discovered that he was 900 grams, almost two pounds. This was almost twice the weight of some babies we have been able to save. A doctor was summoned. When she arrived the baby started moving his tiny arms and legs flailing. He started trying to gasp, but was unable to get air into his lungs. His whole body shuddered with his efforts to breathe. We were joined by a neonatalist and I pleaded with both doctors saying, “The baby is viable — look at his size, look at his skin — he looks much older than 23 weeks.”
It was a horrible moment as each of us wrestled with our own ethical standards. I argued that we should make an attempt to resuscitate him, to get him breathing. The resident doctor told me, “This is an abortion. We have no right to interfere.” The specialist, who had the responsibility for the decision, was wringing his hands and quietly saying, “This is so hard. Oh, God, it’s so hard when it’s this close.” In the end, I lost. We were not going to try to resuscitate this baby. So, I did the only thing I could do. Dipping my index finger into sterile water and placing it on his head, I baptized the child. Then I wrapped him in blankets to keep him warm, and held him. These were the only measures I could take comfort the baby under the circumstances, no matter how much I wanted to do more. I held this little boy, who was still gasping for breath, trying to stay alive on his own. As the tears flowed down my face, I pray to God that he would take this child into his care, and that he would forgive me for my own part in his death. After a while, he stopped gasping. His heart continued to beat, but the beating became slower and weaker until it finally stopped. He was gone.
About the Author
About the Author
: Mother of seven. Joyful convert to Catholicism. Ph.D. in Chemistry. M.A. in Dogmatic Theology. I write from my tiny office in a 100-year-old restored Adirondack mountain lodge that overlooks a small spring-fed lake. More about me here
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