There was a lovely old Warren Zevon song—"Mutineer," I think it's called—playing the morning Jules showed up. It's about rocking the boat and venturing into uncharted territory and bearing witness to a life outside your own. At least I think that's what it's about. To be honest, I couldn't hear much above the sound of my shrieking. I couldn't push, I couldn't relax—free-floating rage was the only creative outlet I had left. "Is that your husband?" the nurse asked, pointing to Johannes. "No, he's my sister's husband, but he's madly in love with me. We're planning to kill her for the insurance money, then buy a villa in Uruguay," I snarled. And she seemed fine with that.

The rest of this story is pretty standard stuff; Johannes and the nurses ordered yang chow lo mein from the noodle shop on Second Avenue, my friend Meg dropped by, shifts changed, I threw up, day turned to night, my friend Francesca dropped by, I begged her to grab a chopstick and stab me through the heart, and then a little after 3 a.m., out came the pink velvet bunny nose, soft butter pecan ice cream cone, floppy peony petal, juggle bug baby girl I thought I would never have.

Dr. Samuel Bender asked me if anything hurt. I said, "Everything hurts." And the answer satisfied him enough to send the three of us home.