Talk Vomit

By Kate Macolini

I had dinner with a friend a few months ago. She made me orzo with chickpeas, which was a nice gesture since neither of us had ever eaten orzo, and she doesn’t like beans. Her apartment sits above a chocolate shop, but the place doesn’t smell like chocolate or anything sweet. It must not be made in house. Her cat shares a name with my boyfriend, which is a little weird since my boyfriend has been around for several years and the cat is only three months old. It was a week before my period. I was exhausted and had a migraine, so I sat in the corner of the kitchen while my friend cooked. We talked about how weird being an adult is. Twenty-six is intimidating, yes, but monotonous with its structured rotation of weddings, work, and baking as a hobby. Case in point, she was dowsing raspberries in lemon juice and granulated sugar when she announced that we were now at the age when, if we got pregnant accidentally, we would keep the baby. I stared at her. Who was she talking to?

Planned Parenthood is on Congress Street near Monument Square in Portland. I walk by it to get to work. It is buried in an office building nestled amongst other offices, denoted by a small font stencil on exterior glass that peers in on blinds. You wouldn’t know it was there unless you were looking for it. I have never been inside, but on more than one occasion I have Googled their STD testing options (I had contact dermatitis from taking too many showers with fancy soap). Protestors like to gather outside the entrance to reach their target audience directly. I think they have good intentions, but their delivery could be improved. I’m sure we are all familiar with the graphic, sourceless image of a fresh, screaming fetus. It is not something anyone wants to see on their way to lunch. There are always a few folks with megaphones, too, that I overlook—but it occurred to me recently that I, a woman of child-bearing age, am the intended audience. That offended me. I approached a megaphone guy one day to engage him on his point of view. He was happy to chat, even grateful to have the opportunity. I shared how the crowd might be daunting for people looking for medical treatment. I explained that Planned Parenthood provides many crucial services unrelated to abortion, often to individuals who are disadvantaged. He had no problem with these points, as he was there to save lives. I realized too late that I didn’t know when life began, just that I disagreed with him. I paused, confused. The man disengaged and went back to shouting at people, and I left him to the middle aged women in pink volunteering as bodyguards for Planned Parenthood.

The idea of having a baby now makes me want to vomit. When I was in college, I thought it might be nice. My boyfriend at the time used to laugh at grumpy babies. He would laugh and laugh until his eyes scrunched closed and tears seeped into their creases. The tears would scrawl from his cheeks to his growing beard, until eventually he gasped enough to collect himself. I thought that joy was a good incentive. It wasn’t necessarily my joy, though; it was more likely a reflection. I’ve never felt maternal, except in the company of a good dog. Even then, I am a pushover. The dogs I’ve had a hand in raising have run over me, literally, on their way to forage the woods, climb fallen trees, and dig whole chicken fingers from beach sand. They were menaces, and I was not willing to contain them. 

In high school, my friends and I spent our nights loitering around the coastal tourist town of Ogunquit. We lingered outside of Sweet Pea’s Ice Cream or behind the yellow facade of the Betty Doon Motor Hotel taking poorly posed photos of our delinquency. One time we stole a discarded traffic cone, only to remove it from the trunk of our car and return it to where we found it. None of us wanted children then. Many of us were disgusted by them. This changed. Now women, my friends say their ovaries flutter at the sight of a toddler. Not mine. 

Admittedly, it’s possible that feeling has been obscured by indigestion. Being an adult is many versions of uncomfortable, primarily in my abdomen. I have been to a gastroenterologist, an acupuncturist, and a naturopathic doctor in search of a sound gut, and while these have helped, I just can’t trust it yet.