![]() Back home, she wrote, she sobbed, bled and lactated in an awful storm of hormones and grief.īefore the miscarriage, she had considered herself lucky: buoyed by the gains of third-wave feminism, successful at her chosen career, legally married to a woman and carrying a baby made by a friend's donated sperm. Levy wrote of the feeling of her son's skin, "like a silky frog's on my mouth", and of the image of a white bath mat someone had thrown over a bloodstain next to her bed that would slowly darken as her blood seeped through it during the five days that she spent holed up in her hotel room. The essay, titled "Thanksgiving in Mongolia", was a brutal read. The book, about raunch culture and young women, catapulted her into heady realms. "I worried that if I didn't," she wrote, "I would never believe he had existed."Īriel Levy, after writing Female Chauvinist Pigs in 2005. ![]() Her son would not survive, but Levy detailed in a heartbreaking essay a year later that would win her a National Magazine Award that, after she yanked the placenta from her body, crawled to the phone and called a local doctor, she took the boy's photo. She was 38 years old and five months pregnant, and on her second night there, she miscarried in her hotel room, delivering her son in a torrent of blood that nearly killed her. ![]() ![]() Just before Thanksgiving 2012, Ariel Levy, a staff writer at The New Yorker, flew to Mongolia to report on that country's mining boom. ![]()
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