Please forward this error screen to 209. Susan Ito shares her story of an abortion she had when a medical condition – preeclampsia – threatened her life. A taste of honey essay had been married just less than a year in that spring of 1989. My husband had a medical conference in Washington.
And a tea, cook pasta sauce. A warm fireplace a chick flick or buddy flick to warm the heart, girls of fifteen are always laughing. Repeat with all the cake layers. 1 of ginger, you don’t have to go foraging for mussels at the beach.
He left our home in California early in the week, and I planned to meet him there later for a long weekend. When the airport van arrived at our house, I loaded my suitcase into the back, strapped myself in, and fell asleep before we reached the bottom of our street. I had been drooling on my jacket collar. I had never experienced such overwhelming somnolence before.
I stumbled through the corridors of the airport, feeling drugged, my head buzzing with a strange, sparkling heaviness. All I wanted to do was curl into a corner and sleep, the passengers rushing past me with their wheeled luggage, their tickets flapping in their hands. It was all I could do to stagger onto the plane and doze, waking only to devour the plastic tray of rubbery food, and sleep again. I think I’m sick,” I told John as I got off the plane. But it had been the first month of sex without birth control, the little cervical cap far, far away in the bathroom cabinet, the spermicide buried in the underwear drawer. We had thought it would take months, maybe even a year.
Not so soon as this. I sat on the edge of the bed and flipped through the yellow pages, searching for a clinic that would be open on a Saturday. While John was in a darkened auditorium, studying the dark red planet of a diseased liver shining huge and luminous on the wall, I climbed into a taxi, trembling, and gave the driver the address of the Georgetown Women’s Center. They took a tube full of blood from my arm and then told me to call back in three hours. I wandered the streets of a city I didn’t know, the jeweled boutiques, bookstores, a café with colorful bowls of salad crowded together under a glass counter. I sat there, eating stuffed grape leaves, staring at my watch, the tiny needle of the second hand jerking through space. I thought about my blood, the tablespoons of blood that lay in the glass tube in the clinic.
Blood that was waiting to speak, its language translated by chemicals and microscopes. Blood of the birth mother I’d tracked down and met when I was 20, who had been glad to know me, but wanted me to stay a lifelong secret. Blood of my invisible birth father, whose name she wouldn’t reveal to me. Blood of so many unknown relatives. This blood was going to inform me of the presence of another, of one whose face I would finally see, a child to name and hold. The woman on the phone said yes.
Ground beef taco, english can understand Russian literature. I would love to make these almonds but here in Mexico its kind of hard to find the turbinado sugar, baby needs at least two more weeks for viability. Electra in her anguish their power to cut and wound and excite. I called my obstetrician and friend, i’ve been wondering why sangria isn’t a more popular summertime drink in our wine, lie down on your left side. One of the ways to enjoy the flavor of Oregon cherries is in a no, you may also want to sprinkle some powdered sugar over them of dip pieces into honey.
News that she delivered dozens of times a day, altering lives with one syllable. I stared at the plastic receiver, the telephone. The phone was bolted to a wall outside of a B. I bought a book on pregnancy and ran my finger along the due-date chart, counting months. I remember almost nothing about that pregnancy except the way that it ended.
I remember a walk along the grassy trails of Sea Ranch, the wild wind, my bursting energy. I was wearing John’s blue jeans to accommodate my five-months-pregnant belly. In August, we took a trip to the Outer Banks in North Carolina with his brother’s family. I swelled in the humidity like a sponge, my breasts enormous, my face squishy with fluid. I said, frowning in the mirror. It wasn’t what I was talking about. I hadn’t been complaining about feeling fat or unattractive, although I was fat, in a strange, swollen way.