When Politics Kills: Real Women Caught in America’s Abortion Crossfire

Paul Riverbank, 1/15/2026Abortion debates shift from Congress to clinics—where unclear laws and identities cost real women their lives.

Dr. Nisha Verma, an OB-GYN with years of experience treating patients from various backgrounds, faced him. She took in the room, paused, and replied in measured tones about the people she cares for—women, certainly, but also individuals with diverse identities. But she didn’t settle for a simple yes or no, and insisted, with a gentle firmness, that such questions didn’t serve her patients’ real experiences.

This proved unsatisfying for Hawley, who pressed her hard to give a direct answer, framing his inquiry as a kind of test—a test, as he put it, of her voracity as a scientist and a doctor. Their exchange bounced back and forth, never quite meeting in the middle. At the end of it, Hawley declared plainly, “For the record, it’s women who get pregnant, not men.”

What might have once seemed an easy question in American public life—who can become pregnant?—has, in recent times, become the kind of query that seems fraught from the moment it’s raised. In the Senate chamber, and then again later at the Supreme Court (where straightforward biological definitions were met with a lawyer’s careful “We do not have a definition for the court”), the debate exposed not only the usual partisan lines, but the profound changes in how Americans now talk about science, gender, and identity.

But away from Capitol Hill’s drama, the consequences of these debates land sharply in people’s lives. Consider Ciji Graham, a mother and police officer in North Carolina, who was caught in the machinery of modern American healthcare at a time when she needed it most. Early in her pregnancy, Ciji found herself in the ER with her heart galloping at 192 beats a minute—classic atrial fibrillation, something her doctors could usually halt with a quick electrical shock. This time, though, a positive pregnancy test changed everything: she was sent down a corridor of specialists and appointments, waiting for a green light that never came.

The rationale, she was told, lay in legal ambiguity and policies shaped by her state’s abortion restrictions. With medical professionals wary about proceeding in cases considered legally "gray," and confusion about what was permitted even around emergency care, the urgent certainty usually found in medicine dissolved into a haze of referrals and delays. Ciji’s condition worsened. She tried to secure an abortion, but found herself tangled in scheduling barriers and a medical system so skittish it could not, ultimately, keep her alive. She didn’t make it to her appointment.

After her death, top cardiologists shook their heads. “No one should be sent home with a heart rate of 192,” one said flatly to reporters. The American College of Cardiology has found that most heart doctors receive little to no training in handling cardiac crises during pregnancy. Reports from physicians across the country echo the same theme: with abortion bans looming, some doctors hesitate even in cases of clear danger.

Stack these policies up next to what happens in places like the United Kingdom: there, hospitals follow national protocols that route a pregnant woman with heart distress straight to a team of specialists. But here in the U.S., care varies from hospital to hospital, state to state, resulting in the highest maternal mortality among wealthy nations—statistically more than double the rate in the U.K.

These are not just policy skirmishes confined to the halls of Congress. When Dr. Verma told senators, “My role is to represent the complex experiences of my patients,” she wasn’t only speaking about language or ideology but about the uncertainty that can, for someone like Ciji Graham, make the difference between life and death. Hawley sees these questions as straightforward. “It is not polarizing to say that women are a biological reality,” he insists. But for many healthcare providers—and patients themselves—the lines aren’t quite so stark.

So while politicians spar over definitions and “yes” or “no” soundbites, real people are left contending with the consequences—sometimes tragic ones—of intricate, tangled policies and unclear medical protocols.

In the end, for those far from the glare of political theatre, the complications aren’t theoretical. As Americans, we are grappling with how to respect identity, uphold science, and safeguard basic medical care—all at once. How we answer these questions, in Congress and in clinics, will shape the fate of people like Ciji Graham, whose stories too often get lost beneath the headlines.

On a brisk morning in Washington, senators gathered beneath the bright Senate hearing lights, prepared for a session about abortion drugs—though it was clear from the start that this hearing would drift well beyond medicine alone. Senator Josh Hawley, sitting straight-backed and intent, quickly zeroed in on a divisive question: “Do you think that men can get pregnant?”Dr. Nisha Verma, an OB-GYN with years of experience treating patients from various backgrounds, faced him. She took in the room, paused, and replied in measured tones about the people she cares for—women, certainly, but also individuals with diverse identities. But she didn’t settle for a simple yes or no, and insisted, with a gentle firmness, that such questions didn’t serve her patients’ real experiences.This proved unsatisfying for Hawley, who pressed her hard to give a direct answer, framing his inquiry as a kind of test—a test, as he put it, of her voracity as a scientist and a doctor. Their exchange bounced back and forth, never quite meeting in the middle. At the end of it, Hawley declared plainly, “For the record, it’s women who get pregnant, not men.”What might have once seemed an easy question in American public life—who can become pregnant?—has, in recent times, become the kind of query that seems fraught from the moment it’s raised. In the Senate chamber, and then again later at the Supreme Court (where straightforward biological definitions were met with a lawyer’s careful “We do not have a definition for the court”), the debate exposed not only the usual partisan lines, but the profound changes in how Americans now talk about science, gender, and identity.But away from Capitol Hill’s drama, the consequences of these debates land sharply in people’s lives. Consider Ciji Graham, a mother and police officer in North Carolina, who was caught in the machinery of modern American healthcare at a time when she needed it most. Early in her pregnancy, Ciji found herself in the ER with her heart galloping at 192 beats a minute—classic atrial fibrillation, something her doctors could usually halt with a quick electrical shock. This time, though, a positive pregnancy test changed everything: she was sent down a corridor of specialists and appointments, waiting for a green light that never came.The rationale, she was told, lay in legal ambiguity and policies shaped by her state’s abortion restrictions. With medical professionals wary about proceeding in cases considered legally "gray," and confusion about what was permitted even around emergency care, the urgent certainty usually found in medicine dissolved into a haze of referrals and delays. Ciji’s condition worsened. She tried to secure an abortion, but found herself tangled in scheduling barriers and a medical system so skittish it could not, ultimately, keep her alive. She didn’t make it to her appointment.After her death, top cardiologists shook their heads. “No one should be sent home with a heart rate of 192,” one said flatly to reporters. The American College of Cardiology has found that most heart doctors receive little to no training in handling cardiac crises during pregnancy. Reports from physicians across the country echo the same theme: with abortion bans looming, some doctors hesitate even in cases of clear danger.Stack these policies up next to what happens in places like the United Kingdom: there, hospitals follow national protocols that route a pregnant woman with heart distress straight to a team of specialists. But here in the U.S., care varies from hospital to hospital, state to state, resulting in the highest maternal mortality among wealthy nations—statistically more than double the rate in the U.K.These are not just policy skirmishes confined to the halls of Congress. When Dr. Verma told senators, “My role is to represent the complex experiences of my patients,” she wasn’t only speaking about language or ideology but about the uncertainty that can, for someone like Ciji Graham, make the difference between life and death. Hawley sees these questions as straightforward. “It is not polarizing to say that women are a biological reality,” he insists. But for many healthcare providers—and patients themselves—the lines aren’t quite so stark.So while politicians spar over definitions and “yes” or “no” soundbites, real people are left contending with the consequences—sometimes tragic ones—of intricate, tangled policies and unclear medical protocols.In the end, for those far from the glare of political theatre, the complications aren’t theoretical. As Americans, we are grappling with how to respect identity, uphold science, and safeguard basic medical care—all at once. How we answer these questions, in Congress and in clinics, will shape the fate of people like Ciji Graham, whose stories too often get lost beneath the headlines.