11. Delivery

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11. Delivery

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I met Amelia at an Italian feminist group in Berlin: young Italian women having the time of their lives free from families and judgments. Amelia came from Rome and arrived without a word of German but with a huge belly that she flaunted like a flag. We met once a week and laughed, run, danced, smoked and drank until the early hours. We had known each other just for a few months when Amelia asked me to accompany her to the clinic to help her with the language. A micro narration in a minute or so.

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Amelia, nine hours of labour, stretched in the bed, with all the cables and wires attached to her belly. She is crying and screaming, and I try to console her, holding her hand and translating what the nurse is asking her to do: push now, now stop, push, stop... Me, nine hours later, coffee after coffee, I wouldn’t mind some drugs myself. Amelia, I remember the first time I saw you, in this foreign town, pushing your belly to the world like a flag. Oh Amelia, in a moment I will tell you that she’s got blue eyes, but what words will I use to tell you that your baby was born with too many chromosomes?

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