When I was ask myself what I am thankful during these dark times, my mind goes back to a backyard cottage sheltered by eucalyptus trees in San Francisco where I lived in 1980 with my boyfriend, Gabe. That was the year I got pregnant in spite using an IUD my doctor claimed was 99 percent effective (this was not the one percent I wanted to belong to).
When my husband and I failed to conceive, we adopted a newborn.
Nine months later I went into labor. It was a lonely and painful delivery; no obstetrician or midwife assisted, and no anesthesiologist materialized to administer an epidural. It was just me, writhing alone on the cold tile of the bathroom floor.
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