Book : And I Dont Want To Live This Life A Mothers Story Of.

-Titulo Original : And I Dont Want To Live This Life A Mothers Story Of Her Daughters Murder

-Fabricante :

Ballantine Books

-Descripcion Original:

“Honest and moving . . . Her painful tale is engrossing.”-Washington Post Book WorldFor most of us, it was just another horrible headline. But for Deborah Spungen, the mother of Nancy, who was stabbed to death at the Chelsea Hotel, it was both a relief and a tragedy. Here is the incredible story of an infant who never stopped screaming, a toddler who attacked people, a teenager addicted to drugs, violence, and easy sex, a daughter completely out of control-who almost destroyed her parents’ marriage and the happiness of the rest of her family. From the Inside Flap For most of us, it was just another horrible headline. But for Deborah Spungen, the mother of Nancy, who was stabbed to death at the Chelsea Hotel, it was both a relief and a tragedy. Here is the incredible story of an infant who never stopped screaming, a toddler who attacked people, a teenager addicted to drugs, violence, and easy sex, a daughter completely out of control--who almost destroyed her parents marriage and the happiness of the rest of her family.Honest and moving...Her painful tale is engrossing.WASHINGTON POST BOOK WORLDFrom the Paperback edition. From the Back Cover us, it was just another horrible headline. But for Deborah Spungen, the mother of Nancy, who was stabbed to death at the Chelsea Hotel, it was both a relief and a tragedy. Here is the incredible story of an infant who never stopped screaming, a toddler who attacked people, a teenager addicted to drugs, violence, and easy sex, a daughter completely out of control--who almost destroyed her parents marriage and the happiness of the rest of her family.Honest and moving...Her painful tale is engrossing.WASHINGTON POST BOOK WORLDFrom the Paperback edition. About the Author Deborah Spungen received her master of social service and master of law and social policy degrees from the Bryn Mawr College Graduate School of Social Work in May 1989. She is the executive director and founder of the Anti-Violence Partnership of Philadelphia. She lives in Philadelphia. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 The doctor who delivered Nancy had worked his way through medical school as a prize fighter. He was very tall, muscular, and always in a tremendous hurry. I saw him once every month during my pregnancy, and before each visit I prepared a list of questions. (How will I know when I’m in labor? Will it hurt?) Each month the list got longer and longer, because I never asked him any of the questions. I was too intimidated by him. He seemed so busy. I was twenty years old and I’d never had a baby before. By my seventh month the list was quite long. On the day of my appointment I examined it nervously while I sat in my religious philosophy seminar-I was in my senior year at the University of Pennsylvania. My friend Janet passed me a little wadded-up piece of paper and giggled. The professor glared at me. Janet had come up with by far the best name to date: Nebuchadnezzar Spungen. My obstetrician’s office was right in the midst of the Penn campus, which spreads across several blocks in West Philadelphia. As I waddled across the campus, I convinced myself that this would be the day I would have an office talk with him. I would not be intimidated. I was quite a sight now in my maternity dress, knee socks, and saddle shoes, and I got some funny looks from the other students. You didn’t see many pregnant students on campus in 1958. At Penn, in fact, you saw only one-me. When I got there, I had my blood and urine tested and sat down in the waiting room. A pregnant woman who was about my age came in with her mother and sat down across from me. We were due at about the same time and had chatted a bit during previous visits. Now I smiled at her, but she just stared vacantly ahead. Her mother took her hand, squeezed it, and turned to me. “It died,” she said softly. “Excuse me?” I said. “She’s carrying a dead