When the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, my first thought was of my grandmother and the botched illegal abortion that transformed three generations of my family. My mother, Katherine, the fourth of six children, was born in Brooklyn to immigrants from Sicily. Her mother, Rosa, took care of the family and worked as a seamstress from home; her father, Giovanni, earned his living as a shoemaker. They struggled as many poor families did, then and now, to feed and clothe their children. Then Rosa became pregnant with child number seven.
She was 40. She had a baby, a 4-year-old, a 6-year-old, a 7-year-old, an 11-year-old and a 13-year-old. I imagine the method of birth control was rudimentary. Rosa’s older sister Margarita was distraught that Rosa would have another mouth to feed. Margarita persuaded her sister not to bear another child.
Margarita promised to make her a special drink, a combination of certain powerful plants (most likely pennyroyal, tansy or savin, among other ingredients that were used at the time). That concoction would “take care of it.” Rosa acquiesced to her older sister. My mother was 6 years old at the time.
My grandmother became feverish — most likely from an infection that turned into septic shock that evening — on fire from the poison, burning inside. Pennyroyal, I know now, can be toxic to the liver. My mom watched her mother stand up on her bed, pulling at her hair and asking God, “Why?”
Rosa Inzerillo was taken to Kings County Hospital in Brooklyn on April 18, 1927. She died on April 25 at about 7 a.m. The doctor was unable to state definitively the cause of death; the last diagnosis during her last illness was manic depressive psychosis. Contributory: exhaustion.
One late night at the kitchen table, my mother told me this story, slowly and quietly, haunted by the images of her mother’s death. For years, she had hinted that something tragic had happened but she had never put it fully into words until then. She remembered her Aunt Margarita whispering to her mother, coaxing her, while she played with her doll.
My grandfather worked at the Hanan Shoe Factory in Brooklyn for $35 a week. After my grandmother’s death, the Brooklyn Department of Welfare sent all the children to City Hospital. None of the immediate relatives was able to take in any of the children; after every family name — maternal uncle, aunt, grandmother — the official report says, simply: “Cannot assist.”