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Show C H R Y S A L I S PAGE 231 I love you - eyes, hands, whorl of hair at the crowning, wrinkles at the ankles and elbows, big toes, little toes, I love you. I'm sorry if I have to die. I'm sorry if I have let you down. I am listening, he says. I must mention the screams. I had decided to be very quiet and dignified this one last time, to savor the experience, to pay attention, but I realize with detachment that the screams I hear are mine. Oh well. Where is the doctor, with his shining tools and his sterile green gown? Where are the nurses with their needles and analgesics and anesthetics? Where is Mark? I might as well be squatting in a tent in the middle of the Gobi desert. Something is wrong. I ring for the nurse. I never expected this much pain. This primitive, pushing body is mine. This whole primitive process is splitting me in two, I am tearing from the inside out - the baby emerges at once, wet and white and crying spontaneously, covered with long streaks of blood. The afterbirth is dumped unceremoniously beside him. I am bleeding all over |