Smeared by Bethany Bruno

     Bill Reynolds CC




Smeared

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      I wipe between my sticky thighs, finding bright red blood smeared across the toilet paper. “No, no, no,” I mutter in rapid succession, as if speaking words aloud will somehow make the blood disappear. Disappointment sweeps across me like a sudden burst of wind on a still, cloudless day. I bunch up more toilet paper and swipe once more. When I bring it up to my face to examine it, I shudder. There’s no denying the evidence of my failure this time. My face flushes with the rising heat of shame. With a single flush, another hopeful wish to be pregnant circles the drain, leaving me empty.

     It's a constant, unavoidable presence every twenty-eight days. For nearly twenty years, I’ve merely accepted its arrival and made do with flexible tampons and the occasional popping of Pamprin to dull the cramps. But that all changed one year ago, when I decided I was ready for my next baby. Based on how quickly I became pregnant with my daughter, I naively believed I would fall pregnant within the first two months. Now, after twelve periods, my faith in my ability to conceive has dwindled. My womb became an hourglass the minute I stupidly timed myself. But instead of flipping it upside down, I’ve had to endure the agony of watching every particle of sand drop onto the growing pile below. 

     I’ve come to dread the sight of blood, whether it’s mine or someone else's. Last month, I woke up to the familiar sensation of wetness pooling in my underwear. The unmistakable smell of metal makes my teeth ache as if I were chewing on tinfoil. In the darkness of my room, with only slivers of sunlight peeking through the blackout curtains, I stripped off my clothes and rushed into the warm embrace of my steaming shower. I stared straight ahead at the blue and white tiled wall, afraid to look down at the swirling pink water. But, after toweling off, I made the rookie mistake of hanging up my white towel on the back of the bathroom door. As I reached for the doorknob, a tiny smear of blood stared back at me, taunting me. 

     My husband and I have sex every other day for one week each month in an effort to end the cycle. Sex has become a necessity, much like keeping up with the growing mountain of dirty laundry or taking out the diaper genie trash bag once it’s brimming with poopy diapers. A physical dance between us where both partners no longer grin or twirl around with giddy laughter. “Here,” I thrust the blue ovulation test toward him, “do you see two red lines? I think it’s positive.” He squints while peering intently at the thin strip. “We should have sex just in case,” I tell him, which feels more like a command than a suggestion. During the act, we kiss as the impending, dreaded question penetrates our minds: Will this be the time we make another baby? 

      In the days leading up to my expected period, I tell him, “I think I'm pregnant. I just feel like I am, you know? My boobs ache, and my abdomen hurts.” My husband is used to this old song and dance, having heard it many times in our efforts to create a sibling for our young daughter. He never challenges my “signs” or intuition—the very symptoms that, ironically enough, foretell a woman's upcoming period: bloating, cramps, mood swings, and cravings. He simply smiles and says, “That would be great.” 

     Though he’s never hinted at it, I worry he’s beginning to resent me—or at least my body. I couldn't possibly hold it against him if he did, since I share his sentiments. In truth, I’ve never had a positive relationship with my body, having been overweight since middle school. My small breasts never rounded into perfect mounds and instead, even after my first pregnancy, still resemble dulled edged triangles. Yet, my body always maintained the status quo of work production. It’s never completely failed my expectations—until now. I picture the inside of my uterus as a shuttered factory, with workers scurrying about under the flashing red strobe light. No matter how hard they hustle, the assembly line is never offset.

     On the day before my expected period, every fiber of my being vibrates with nervous energy, like a cornered animal ready to chomp. I know I can’t force my uterus to grasp onto the fertilized egg, no matter how hard I push with every available herb and supplement “known” to help with conception. Even my OBGYN is frustrated with my body’s inability to cooperate. Every appointment ends with the same phrase: “Continue taking X along with a balanced diet, and we’ll try again.” I spend the day stuck in a tornado of uncertainty, often ignoring the child that’s seated next to me on our couch as she howls with laughter while watching “Bubble Guppies.” The end goal of creating another baby has consumed my life. It’s slowly chipping away at my marriage and my budding relationship with my toddler. I imagine this obsession with winning is common among athletes intent on proving their worth to the world. Their gold medal is my positive pregnancy test.

     At thirty-five years old, I don’t have the safety net of time. I plead with my body to work with me, but she’s a stubborn mule. Rather than depend on nature to nurture me, I have begun taking matters into my own hands. My secret weapon is a fertility drug called Clomid that I’ve been taking for the last two months. It stimulates my ovaries into releasing multiple eggs, upping my chances of conception. I imagine it to be like a t-shirt gun, with both ovaries firing eggs simultaneously as the sperm cheers. The downside, though worth it, is the immense mood swings and emotional outbursts. Anxious irritation strums throughout my body as if someone is striking a guitar string. But my desperation to conceive far outweighs it all—at least until I reach my limit. 

     With all of the questions and uncertainties comes the possibility that it won't happen. For some women, of which I’m now unwillingly a part, conceiving a second pregnancy can be damn near impossible. Recently, when I picked my daughter up from my aunt’s house, she blurted out her opinion freely. “I hope she gets a sibling,” she said as we watched my daughter stack her rainbow plastic cups into a tower. Since the day my first child was born, I’ve heard some variation of this opinion from nearly every family member:

     When are you having another? 

     Wouldn’t it be lovely if you had a boy next? 

     Is baby number two cooking in there already?

I tend to laugh it off with a wave of my hand, as if shooing away a pesky fly. “We’re trying!” I say it with an awkward smile. Yet, at that moment in my aunt’s house, my tolerance boiled over into nuclear level anger. I was about to lay a verbal smackdown when she spoke up first. 

    “We tried, Walt and I,” she said with a sigh, “for many years. But for whatever reason, I couldn’t get pregnant. Nowadays, they have all sorts of options available that were not back in the seventies.” She turned to me and gave a sad smile, saying, “It’ll happen if it’s meant to. And if not, then at least you have Frankie. She’s enough.” As empathy flooded in to replace my hurt, I released the reins of my anger. Millions of women, both past and present, share my struggle. But when you're down in the muck, you tend not to look around you at the others trying to pull themselves out too. 
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     The happiness and fulfillment I experience as a result of being a parent to my daughter have never been in question. She’s more than enough. The real question is, Why do I believe having another child is essential to my own and my family's happiness? In addition to my daydreams of what having a family looks like, there’s the societal ideal of marriage and children. Women aspire to have it all, believing that doing so demonstrates our value to society. We want all areas of our lives to be exemplary, whether it’s in our marriages, families, or work. The key to “having it all” is realizing that you already have it. But acceptance of that key doesn’t mean resignation from my goal. 

    My period is currently expected within one week. That feather of hope about being pregnant floats in the air, occasionally dancing around me thanks to a gust of wind. It’s dangled in front of me, as if teasing me with anticipation. Until then, I give myself permission to cease my mind's pacing. I will no longer be urinating on those flimsy ovulation and pregnancy test strips every day in an effort to calm my nerves. I’m not throwing in the towel. I’m asking the fertility referee for a water break to swish and spit my overwhelming uncertainty into a ringside bucket.

     Only time will tell on arrival day if there’s a smear of blood or a positive pregnancy test. If my period arrives, disappointment will still undoubtedly crash into me. If I’m pregnant, I’ll sigh in relief and fist pump the air—at least, this is what I imagine doing. Yet a positive test doesn't necessarily mean the enormous weight is off my chest, as there are a number of issues that could occur, including a miscarriage. It's like the moment your plastic marker leaves the starting line in a board game and you're confronted with an infinite number of side-quests. You’re happy to finally move ahead, but there’s still an entire game to play. I'll play it all the way through to the end, or I'll call it a day and put it back on the dusty shelf in my closet. Either way, I played, and that is enough for me.

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Bethany Bruno is an Irish-Italian American writer. She was born and raised in South Florida. She obtained a BA in English from Flagler College and later earned an MA from the University of North Florida. Her writing has been previously featured in several journals, including The Sun, The MacGuffin, Ruminate, Every Day Fiction, The First Line, and Lunch Ticket Magazine. She was nominated for Best of the Net in 2021. She’s represented by Caitlin Mahoney of the William Morris Endeavor Agency. Her debut novel, "Tend to the Light," is in the final stages before publication. https://www.bethanybrunowriter.com

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