Nov 16, 2020
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They cut you out of me on a cold night in November. It went like this:
You’d turned somehow in my belly, the doctor said, and it would be safer for both mother and son to take a knife to me. Turned, he’d said, meaning that your position wasn’t right for me to deliver you the way I should have done, but for a moment, addled with anaesthetic, I thought he meant it the way milk turns – as if you’d spoiled, gone rancid – and I was afraid to see you in case you sickened me.
