Miss Conception
by Alexa Peters
The stark white pharmacy shocks my pupils as I hurry towards the red sign in the back. Throngs of people are in line for their prescriptions, surrounding the specific area I need: Family Planning. Perturbed, I think, why, do they insist on stocking the most private items in the most exposed places in the store? (This isn’t the first time I’d felt this way. I once bought a box tampons from a grocery store that stocked them next to the cereal. I tucked one of the fuchsia boxes discreetly under my arm as an old high school crush grabbed his box of Kix.)
I approach the faces, my eyes pleading with them to get out of the way. I need a pregnancy test, okay? Let me through. I dart through the line, my foot narrowly escaping a motorized wheelchair. My side bumps into a pair of toddler twins admiring a small toy SpongeBob. I catch a glimpse of their mother, at the helm of the shopping cart, looking relieved to have a moment of peace.
I reach the shelves just in time to panic not only about which test to buy (there are hundreds, it seems) but also about being caught rummaging through the boxes of condoms and lubricants by a friend, or worse a superior. Images of the Seattle Slut Walk flash into my mind. Or that 5k that raises awareness about rape and victim blaming by gimmicking men into traversing the entire distance in high heels. I’m always the one giggling on the sidelines as burly guys pick up their stilettoed feet in some demented Irish dance, but this afternoon, standing in front of boxes of Trojans, I’m one of them—embarrassed, uncomfortable, walking in my “grown-up” woman shoes.
Once, in the car with my mom, I expressed concern that I hadn’t had my period yet. I was a fourteen-year-old brace-face stuck in a stage when I wore an atrocious rainbow crocheted hat everyday. “Well, have you had sex?” she said. “No,” I hesitated, “I was thinking more about Jesus.”
My family isn’t a religious one, in fact, I haven’t even read the Bible straight through, but if there was one parable I will always remember, it is the story of the Virgin Mary and her sudden, inexplicable baby problem. That poor woman, I thought, when a visit to my friend’s Presbyterian church explained it all, that poor, poor, woman. Misunderstanding the difference between myth and real life, the service not only underscored my fear in pregnancy but instilled a new fear in me: the terror of Immaculate Conception. “How bad do you have to be for that to happen? Is it like with Santa and the coal in my stocking?” The inflection of my voice flitted upwards like a frightened bird as my mom dusted the dash with her hand. “Oh honey,” she laughed and turned her blinker on.
(My mom is the oldest in an Irish-Italian Catholic family of ten, so she too could relate to the fear of pregnancy. But for her, it had always been less about her own womb and more about dreading the boundless fruit of her mother’s. After all, the oldest girl is just the reluctant second mom in command. Maybe it’s this, or the fateful day I forgot to feed my Tamigotchi, that knots my stomach when I pass a Babies “Я” Us.)
The first time I learned how babies were made, I was in the first grade, standing at the corner of the playground by a chain-link fence. My best friend, Ashley, brought a book out on the woodchips and turned to the middle. There were two grown-ups playing some game of naked leapfrog. “That’s it,” Ashley said, her beaded friendship bracelets jangled as she pointed, “I’ve seen my parents doing it before.” I didn’t really know what she meant, but the image struck my mind like taboo lightning, and crystallized there. On the following page, there was a nude woman drawn in full realism, her belly swollen. Next to her was a small doughy clump and something like the slippery tadpoles I’d attempt catch in our family friends’ pond. There was a clear plastic page atop the graphic that acted as a sealant; it held the woman’s insides in place. When Ashley removed it, the skin of the abdomen lifted away and revealed the fetus that grew inside her. Ashley and I struggled to connect the leapfrog with the baby, stumbling through the text that went with the image. We sounded out “fertilization” and “symbiotic,” unable to fully comprehend the science of it all.
I’m still struggling with the science, now, as I fumble with the directions for the pregnancy test. I’ve purchased the test and stopped at a local gas station bathroom to take it, desperate to get the weight of it all off my mind. The bathroom is dark and smells of jerky and diesel as I unwrap the test, white with a lavender cap, and pore over its instructions. All I seem to focus on are ways that the test could go wrong, ways that I could get an inaccurate result. (Don’t take this test before your missed period or your results may be incorrect. Don’t urinate on the stick for more than 3 seconds or your results may be incorrect. If you do not lay the completed test on a flat surface your results may be incorrect. Wait at least five minutes or your results may be incorrect.)
I remove the cap to reveal the spongy protrusion on which I’m supposed to pee. I awkwardly hold the stick below me and listen to the tinkling, then pull it up from the depths and replace the cap. I follow the directions meticulously, laying the test flat, screen-side up, on the sink counter. As I wait, the graffiti above the toilet paper dispenser fascinates me.Mariah is a slut. Most likely, some teenage mean-girl had decided to slander poor Mariah. Or maybe Mariah had stopped at this restroom, peed on a test and seen a plus sign in the small oval. I imagine the Virgin Mary lifting her soft linen skirts and squatting over a Clearblue Digital as I creep up to the sink. At the bold appearance of the blue minus, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding back.
I approach the faces, my eyes pleading with them to get out of the way. I need a pregnancy test, okay? Let me through. I dart through the line, my foot narrowly escaping a motorized wheelchair. My side bumps into a pair of toddler twins admiring a small toy SpongeBob. I catch a glimpse of their mother, at the helm of the shopping cart, looking relieved to have a moment of peace.
I reach the shelves just in time to panic not only about which test to buy (there are hundreds, it seems) but also about being caught rummaging through the boxes of condoms and lubricants by a friend, or worse a superior. Images of the Seattle Slut Walk flash into my mind. Or that 5k that raises awareness about rape and victim blaming by gimmicking men into traversing the entire distance in high heels. I’m always the one giggling on the sidelines as burly guys pick up their stilettoed feet in some demented Irish dance, but this afternoon, standing in front of boxes of Trojans, I’m one of them—embarrassed, uncomfortable, walking in my “grown-up” woman shoes.
Once, in the car with my mom, I expressed concern that I hadn’t had my period yet. I was a fourteen-year-old brace-face stuck in a stage when I wore an atrocious rainbow crocheted hat everyday. “Well, have you had sex?” she said. “No,” I hesitated, “I was thinking more about Jesus.”
My family isn’t a religious one, in fact, I haven’t even read the Bible straight through, but if there was one parable I will always remember, it is the story of the Virgin Mary and her sudden, inexplicable baby problem. That poor woman, I thought, when a visit to my friend’s Presbyterian church explained it all, that poor, poor, woman. Misunderstanding the difference between myth and real life, the service not only underscored my fear in pregnancy but instilled a new fear in me: the terror of Immaculate Conception. “How bad do you have to be for that to happen? Is it like with Santa and the coal in my stocking?” The inflection of my voice flitted upwards like a frightened bird as my mom dusted the dash with her hand. “Oh honey,” she laughed and turned her blinker on.
(My mom is the oldest in an Irish-Italian Catholic family of ten, so she too could relate to the fear of pregnancy. But for her, it had always been less about her own womb and more about dreading the boundless fruit of her mother’s. After all, the oldest girl is just the reluctant second mom in command. Maybe it’s this, or the fateful day I forgot to feed my Tamigotchi, that knots my stomach when I pass a Babies “Я” Us.)
The first time I learned how babies were made, I was in the first grade, standing at the corner of the playground by a chain-link fence. My best friend, Ashley, brought a book out on the woodchips and turned to the middle. There were two grown-ups playing some game of naked leapfrog. “That’s it,” Ashley said, her beaded friendship bracelets jangled as she pointed, “I’ve seen my parents doing it before.” I didn’t really know what she meant, but the image struck my mind like taboo lightning, and crystallized there. On the following page, there was a nude woman drawn in full realism, her belly swollen. Next to her was a small doughy clump and something like the slippery tadpoles I’d attempt catch in our family friends’ pond. There was a clear plastic page atop the graphic that acted as a sealant; it held the woman’s insides in place. When Ashley removed it, the skin of the abdomen lifted away and revealed the fetus that grew inside her. Ashley and I struggled to connect the leapfrog with the baby, stumbling through the text that went with the image. We sounded out “fertilization” and “symbiotic,” unable to fully comprehend the science of it all.
I’m still struggling with the science, now, as I fumble with the directions for the pregnancy test. I’ve purchased the test and stopped at a local gas station bathroom to take it, desperate to get the weight of it all off my mind. The bathroom is dark and smells of jerky and diesel as I unwrap the test, white with a lavender cap, and pore over its instructions. All I seem to focus on are ways that the test could go wrong, ways that I could get an inaccurate result. (Don’t take this test before your missed period or your results may be incorrect. Don’t urinate on the stick for more than 3 seconds or your results may be incorrect. If you do not lay the completed test on a flat surface your results may be incorrect. Wait at least five minutes or your results may be incorrect.)
I remove the cap to reveal the spongy protrusion on which I’m supposed to pee. I awkwardly hold the stick below me and listen to the tinkling, then pull it up from the depths and replace the cap. I follow the directions meticulously, laying the test flat, screen-side up, on the sink counter. As I wait, the graffiti above the toilet paper dispenser fascinates me.Mariah is a slut. Most likely, some teenage mean-girl had decided to slander poor Mariah. Or maybe Mariah had stopped at this restroom, peed on a test and seen a plus sign in the small oval. I imagine the Virgin Mary lifting her soft linen skirts and squatting over a Clearblue Digital as I creep up to the sink. At the bold appearance of the blue minus, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding back.