What I Uncovered Going Undercover at Planned Parenthood

The GOP’s recent efforts to block federal funding for Planned Parenthood were thwarted when the Senate voted against a motion to cut off the $500 million that the “nonprofit” receives annually. This move to defund the organization came after anti-abortion activists released a video allegedly showing Planned Parenthood officials discussing the sale of fetal tissue for medical use after an abortion, asserting that Planned Parenthood essentially profits off of abortions.

As a blue-blooded American woman (and investigative journalist for a satirical comedy web site), I decided that I had to check out the situation for myself. And by that, I mean I started spotting heavily in between periods, I do not have health insurance, and I didn’t know where else to turn.

I booked an appointment at the Planned Parenthood in Rogers Park with the intent of finding out what this organization is really about—perhaps to catch them in the act of selling fetal tissue--and (less importantly) to find out why I was hemorrhaging.

Upon arrival to the facility, it was clear that this organization had money to burn. Their waiting room, while modest by most standards, boasted at least five popular magazines a la People, US Weekly and Women’s Health. A water cooler sat in the corner with cone-shaped paper cups, famously the most expensive of the disposable cup variety. I took note of the lavish surroundings and approached the young woman at the front desk.

What’s the first thing she asked me? That’s right, my name. But the next-ish thing she asked me (after asking the reason for my visit, how I was doing, and my DOB) was if I had insurance.

Of course!

She wanted to know who was shelling out the cold, hard cash for my visit. It made me sick (although that could have also been the severe pelvic discomfort I was experiencing; I couldn’t be sure). I told her that I was uninsured, expecting her to throw shade and note that they’re not a charity, but I was thrown when she instead asked if I’d like to see if I qualified for a sliding-scale payment system.

Surely this was a ploy.

No organization hell-bent on making a buck by selling fetal tissue would allow a patient to pay for their services according to their income. I was not falling for it. I told her I would be paying out of pocket and tried not to double over in pain, lest she think that I was falling for her rouse.

After my name was called, I found myself in the interrogation examination room and the real facade began to crumble. The nurse on duty began firing off a litany of questions that was sure to end with her asking, “once we extract the fetus from your body, can we sell it for mad cash?”

I waited while she probed me questions like how I was feeling, when my last menstrual cycle was, if I could possibly be pregnant, if I’d ever been forced or coerced into intercourse, had I ever had intercourse for money, had I ever been abused or had my life or body threatened by someone who I was in a sexual relationship with, would I like to be tested, would I like any information on sexual abuse, or did I need any contact information for help or support centers for women?

This charade was even better than I’d predicted, and it could have been the anxiety about my symptoms or her convincingly sweet and sincere tone and warm demeanor, but I felt myself lulled into a state of comfort and relief in that room. I needed to stay vigilant.

There was no way I was going to let these baby-body-part-traffickers make me think that they were legitimately concerned with my physical and emotional well-being. Not for a second. After curtly answering her absurd questions (I mean, really—how many women have been sexually abused? Oh, what’s that? One in three?), I began my own questionnaire, asking, primarily, why I was bleeding and if I was going to die and seriously, I just had my period two weeks ago and this never happens to me and I’m scared. I was remiss not to ask, “So where are all the fetus angel babies that you’ve killed and are going to sell?” but I was already crying too hard, and asking that would have only triggered more sobbing.

The young nurse who had almost certainly taken part in the slaughter of at least one unborn child earlier that day sympathetically and quietly calmed me, handed me a tissue, and assured me that this is a common occurrence and they would figure out what was wrong. I chided myself for appearing vulnerable and letting my guard down around the practitioners of such odious practices, but ultimately decided to dedicate most of my energy resisting the urge to vomit from pain and anxiety.

As I waited for the doctor, I perused the many pamphlets on the wall of the room (pamphlets for cancer screenings, STD testing, administering your own breast exam, contraceptive options, pregnancy support, abuse support centers) looking for the one about how Planned Parenthood sells the tissue of aborted fetuses to make a fat profit. It wasn’t on the wall. It must have been in a secret drawer that only the Planned Parenthood bigwigs could access.

The doctor entered, and I knew it was time to find out the true motivations behind this elaborate act of being “concerned” for the “comprehensive health” of women. Sure enough, once I described my symptoms, her first line of questioning was whether or not I could be pregnant.

You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I thought to myself. I knew she could sense my anxiety and would use it to manipulate me into making a rash decision, one that would contribute to the piles of money Planned Parenthood had in their secret back room. At that point, someone must have wafted a drugged gas of some sort through the vents, because before I knew it, I was crying on the exam table as the doctor informed me I wasn’t pregnant, gently asking if I was under any stress.

Against my instincts to keep this baby murderer at arm’s length, I wept out a laundry list of things that had been psychologically plaguing me, certain that I would be charged extra for this unprompted therapy portion of the appointment. She nodded in sympathy, squeezed my hand, and told me to monitor my symptoms and come back if they worsened.

As I checked out of the facility, I desperately looked for signs indicating that Planned Parenthood was a profit machine. But when I received my bill and read the amount I owed, I hadn’t been charged for the pregnancy test. Or for the twenty minutes of emotional counseling I received. And even after I had declined the offer to pay based on a sliding scale, I was charged the minimum amount for an office visit.

For now. I suppose all I can do is operate under the assumption that Planned Parenthood might be honest about their mission to provide affordable healthcare to women, based on my own experience and the experience of thousands of other women who’ve visited their facilities for affordable healthcare. But I’m going to diligently continue to check the website of extreme right-wing anti-abortion groups for information that states otherwise, since evidently that’s more convincing to politicians who make policy for our nation.

Lindsey Finn is a Chicago freelance writer and performer. She can be seen regularly at the Annoyance Theatre. This is a pilot she helped make. And this is her tweeting: @LindseyMFinn.