The Trouble with Women

Obsolescence

THERE'S A STORM warning. The sunny fall days are coming to an end and evenings have begun to come earlier and earlier. It's already darkening when I finally escape the office like an antsy thoroughbred breaking from its gate. Greenish clouds have rolled in. There's a malevolent rumbling overhead, but I've decided to risk the twenty-minute walk up to Women's College Hospital.

I push northward through the steadily thinning crowd, determined to get as much fresh air into my lungs as I can after hours of feeling penned in at my desk. MYA buzzes in my ear every few minutes, delivering updates on the approaching storm.

When I arrive, the first fat drops of rain are splatting on the gray sidewalk outside of a Revo-Spa that's connected to the hospital. They've set up a clear-plastic awning on white metal stilts to protect the long line of upgrade-minded women from the coming rain but I have doubts that the flimsy tenting is going to stand up to the extreme winds that have been forecast.

The women under the awning seem to share my doubts as they clutch their coats together and peek warily at the sky. Even the small cluster of Resistor-Sisters who are picketing with homemade signs across the street look like they're about to pack it in.

"Our Bodies! Our War!" they're chanting half-heartedly now, chunky knit cardigans and Tibetan scarves flicking in the winds.

I stand landlocked between the lineup of worried-looking upgraders and the tired-sounding protestors until a huge wave of apathy finally pushes me forward. No way I'm getting in that line today, I think. Anyway, I don't want to miss visiting hours.

As I enter the hospital lobby through automatic doors, the co-mingled smell of disinfectant and Tim Horton's donuts welcomes me. I make my way over to the large, round reception desk and ask the masked volunteers for directions to the Maternity and Pediatrics ward.

"Who are you visiting?" one of them asks.

"Rebecca Thompson," I reply. "She had surgery today. Implant removal," I explain like it's something they need to know, stopping myself from giving them the entire account.

My friend thought she was going to be getting pregnant, but when they went to remove the implant she never asked for but was required to have, they found it had created a scary, cancerous rip in her uterine wall. So, I've brought her some off-season tulips.

They look Beck's room number up and then point me to the red line that's been painted on the floor. A blood red line for maternity, for women's troubles, period blood, breakthrough bleeds, Aunt Flo's monthly visit, can't go swimming, can't wear white, don't forget the tampons, if gin in a hot bath doesn't do the trick, try a fall down the stairs, step on a crack, break your mother's back.

I catch myself murmuring nonsense expressions as I make my way to the elevator that takes me to the sixth floor. When the heavy metal doors slide open, I expect to hear the crying of babies but then remember that only a few are born each month. What I hear instead are the cries of women who have lost, or are in the midst of losing, this game we are forced to play.

The room number I've been given appears empty until I notice Roger curled up, asleep in an uncomfortable chair by the darkening window. I try not to wake him, but when I place the tulips on the bed tray beside the empty bed, his eyes flip open.

"Dolly," he says, rubbing his face. "They took her for another ultrasound."

"I'm so sorry Roger," I say, moving toward him with my hand outstretched.

A flash of fear crosses his face, but he recovers himself. Shakes his head.

"I think she's relieved. I don't think she really wanted to get pregnant anyway," he says with a small smile that's tinged with hope that I'll correct him.