Pee in a Cup
When we are called in to prep for the surgery, I am almost relieved. Finally we will get to the reason I am here.
In the curtained prep area, I get naked into a backless blue hospital gown and sit on the creaky rolling medical bed, the bed that will deliver me into surgery. My partner Ramona sits on the hard plastic chair next to me. A nurse in her mid-fifties enters, checks my pulse, blood pressure, temperature. Tells me what to expect before and after the surgery.
Asks me to pee in a cup.
“What’s this for?” All the pre-surgery procedures were completed.
“Pregnancy test,” she replies, proffering the cup.
I look at Ramona, who shrugs, then back at the nurse.
“I’m not pregnant. It’s statistically impossible.”
“You still need to have the test.”
“I don’t want to.” A slow simmer seeps through each clipped word. Something intimate is being broached here, this nurse is going someplace she doesn’t belong. I deflect with a rational reason. “This is an unnecessary test. I don’t want to pay for it and I don’t want my insurance to pay for it.”
“You need to take the test,” she insists, the the skyrocketing costs of healthcare not her concern. “What if you get into surgery and the surgeon finds you are pregnant? This is to protect everyone.”
Ah. I note the gold cross hanging around her neck, make assumptions.
I am off the table now, the cup and the cross between us. She is my height. I can take her, I think. “Look. I’m not pregnant. I appreciate your concern. And even if I am pregnant, which I am not, I give my permission to take everything out. Hypothetical fetus and all. Consider this informed consent.” I think I’ve covered it.
The nurse eyes me. She is resolute. She can take me, too, I can see it in her eyes. We are facing off for the next round. I am not having a baby, will never be able to have a baby, the end result of the surgery meant to save my life. This test is one more cutting reminder. She will not win.
“Cath, just go pee in the cup,” Ramona’s gentle voice from the corner chair softens the hard knot in my chest, interrupts the standoff. “You don’t need the aggravation today.”
The nurse glances at Ramona, relaxes her stance. Defeated, I grab the cup out of her hand, grasping the back of my hospital johnny with the other hand, and stomp barefoot into the bathroom. Shut the door hard. When I return, I pass the nurse my unpregnant urine sample. She leaves and Ramona stands before me, arms open. I fold into her. Burst into tears. “It’s okay, hunny bunny, it’s okay,” she murmurs.
© 2010 Cathy Kidman
Thank you, Cathy. As usual, I appreciate your writing on a number of levels, the trenchant humor (I burst out laughing, causing a colleague walking past my door to pause and inquire), the human drama involved with confronting ignorance and absurdity while in a position of need, the ambivalence attendant to choosing whether (again) to take a stand, and the wonderful capacity to witness oneself from a bit of distance. I appreciate your writing, and I appreciate you.
Mike
I love that: “I can take her.” I think that all the time, too.
How can you be so heartbreaking and hilarious at the same time? Amazing. I want the book. In fact, I want it autographed– preferably at your book-reading at Politics and Prose in Washington, DC. You guys can stay with us.
I look forward to the next post.
You are one brave lady Cathy!
WOW, what a nightmare showdown! I think I would have taken that cup and thrown it out the door allong with Nurse Ratchet!
You are too cool and far nicer than me! Thanks for sharing little pieces of you!
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