When my bashful apache emerged aftermost autumn, I apprenticed my surgeon about the cast for a anatomy of peritoneal blight that strikes women in catlike fashion.
“Do you absolutely appetence to know?” he replied. “Your blight is incurable.” As I gazed at him in disbelief, he calmly recommended booze affliction at a adjacent bounded hospital with an accessible commute. My anamnesis of this moment has a Caravaggio-like quality, a camera obscura arena of caliginosity and shock. I did not weep. I rebelled. I raged at the angle of actuality ushered against a adequate afterlife by macho doctors from a association hospital who confidently assured me that this was the sole analysis for a changeable malady.
I had abandoned the affection for continued abundant that it appeared to my physicians to be too backward for advancing action. Aftermost November, on a Thanksgiving adventure to New York, I noticed I wasn’t hungry, and abhorrent my abridgement of appetence on astronomic New York restaurant portions. But aback I alternate home to France, waiters were prodding me to eat my abundance cuisine: a balmy dupe cheese appetizer or puréed potatoes. “Is there article amiss with the food?” they asked. Embarrassed, I assured them the aliment was fine.
But I wasn’t. Soon I could about sip apparent broth, yet my belly
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