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The women's movement was something that happened to other people

A year ago tonight I was lying on the floor.

(A brief word of advice. If you are ever offered the chance to have an ectopic pregnancy, no matter how intriguing, how glamourous, how downright kicky it sounds, don't do it.)

Reading over my old entries, I am appalled to be reminded that I was lying on the bathmat in a puddle of my own gore, sure I was dying, and I let my husband sleep through the whole goddamned thing.

Not only did I let him sleep, I threw the sullied bathmat into the washing machine and swabbed up the carnage as best I could (hands and knees, damp towel, pink streaks, but I tried, I tried) so that he wouldn't be horrified when he went in to shower.

Not only did I clean up, I waited to turn on the washer until he'd finished his shower so that his manly hide wouldn't be scalded by an untimely surge of hot water.

When my doctor called, responding to the page we'd sent, I swore at him, made wretched by inadequate pain relief — and then apologized.

While awaiting my imminent demise I'm tidying up. While politely knocking on death's door, trying not to bleed too much on its welcome mat, I'm thinking of others. While in the grips of the worst physical agony of my life, I'm embarrassed by goddamn it.

That there is some fucked-up shit. Some fucked-up, April-fresh, whites-their-whitest shit.