This daily feature is the introduction to a full article by Sarah d'Evegnee that was published in our newest issue, 56:3. To read the full text of this article, follow the link below.
When I cracked open the door, my friend's fragmented face grimaced grotesquely like an image yawning out of a Picasso painting. I squinted out of one eye as the migraine ballooned inside my head, slurring my speech and creating a stained-glass world.
I saw fuzzy, disjointed hands reach out for the four dirty-faced kids huddled around my legs, including the youngest, whose over-filled diaper almost reached her knees.
"Just let me take them for a few hours so you can rest."
I was too heavy with grief and nausea to resist. I wanted to tell her I could take care of myself, but it was obvious that I couldn't. My stained maternity nightgown created a sad, floral tent over my swollen frame, and my tears splashed against it like rain as I shut the door and staggered over a minefield of toys back to the couch.