Piss and the Malcontent

I am handed a pee cup.  On the cup is a sticker.  On the sticker is listed my whole life: name, age, address and phone number.  ID number, height, weight, eye color, hair color, marital status, the grade I received in “Feminist Literature and the Paternal Icon”.  It’s all there.  How many pregnancies I've had, that I am allergic to dog hair and ego, my favorite color: green. 

The nurse, chatting away, leads me down the sterile corridor to the lab bathroom.  “Just place the cup, when you are done, in the box directly above the toilet.  The lab worker will remove it from the other side.”  I protest, “This sticker has my whole life printed on it. You want me to abandon it on a shelf?”

The nurse pauses and faces me for a moment.  “Honey, it won’t be there long.”  She turns back around, mindlessly chatting as she leads me through the bland labyrinth of the clinic’s inner bowel.

We arrive at our destination. The nurse leaves me to do my business, with a parting reminder about the box.  “Leave the sample in the box, to be removed by the lab worker on the other side.” I close the door and secure the lock. 

I inspect the box.  The box is aluminum, pitted and scratched on the front.  Its door isn’t closed all the way.  Inside is a yellow tinged paper towel.  The back of the box is another entry.  It must lead to the lab.  Who’s on the other side?  Does Lab Worker Lucy wait expectantly to hear the splatter of tinkle hitting plastic?  Does Lu spring to attention, poised to open the portal, revealing the citrine liquid and its donor’s life story?  I cannot see any light seep through the edges of the rear portal; that door fits tightly into its jam.

Illustrations featuring proper urine sample etiquette adorn a poster.  Cartoon labia are diligently swiped, front to back, by an obstetrical wipe. A limp penis head is swished clean. Instruction on how to keep from contaminating the sample follow the anatomically correct artwork.  A compromised sample makes Lucy unhappy.

Obediently, I follow the animated example provided. I swipe front to back. I void a dribble or two before the downpour begins to cascade.  The cup is strategically placed to entrap the toxic lemonade. My mind wanders back to Lucy—is she listening to me pee?  Does her heart quicken to the sizzle of urine spray?

Piss droplets run down the side of the cup as I bring it out from between my legs. The fluorescent light glints off of the amber fluid.  My fingers that encircle the cup are damp.  The sticker is drenched and the ink begins to smear.

Smeared is the extra five pounds I gained last month having chicken nachos and margaritas with Jack and Lola.  Smeared is the little white lie.  I am not a true blonde. Are there any black pubic hairs in the sample, which would tip Lucy off? 

Smeared are my three pregnancies.  Piss erases them, but I remember holding three babies in my arms.  Smeared and smudged is my home, the house we had hoped would make us happy.  The D for divorced resembles a U.

My ID number fades.  Will I no longer be eligible for retirement benefits? “Sorry Ma’am, your records were wiped out by a torrential urine output.  Completely washed away.  We cannot verify you ever worked, let alone for how long, or how hard.  As some say, ‘Too bad, so sad, go piss in a pot.’ ”  I urinated in a cup, isn’t that close enough? 

Dejected by the sad state of my urine soaked history, I notice the curl.  The minuscule ruffle along the sticker’s edge.  I flick it with my index finger.  I scrape my thumbnail along the width of the sticker, causing it to crumble and flake away.  A few minutes of diligent work, and the whole mess is gone. 

I fish a pen out of my purse.  I write block letters on the cup’s lid, “TO:  LAB WORKER LUCY FROM: BONNIE SMYTHE  RE: MY PEE.”  I draw an arrow, pointing to the lid’s lip.  On the side of the cup I scribble, “This is my urine, sample it at will.  My life history deserves better than to be  ruined piss mess adhered to the side of a sample cup.  You will have to do without my miniature file.  Have a nice day—Bonnie.”

I lightly place my sample on the sallow paper towel.  I try to close the door, but its warped features will not allow it to hug the jam.  I wait. The rear portal begins to creak.  I position myself so I can glimpse Lu’s eyeball through the box’s deformity.  I catch her gaze; she averts her stare to glance at my note.  I notice that her 1/8^th of an eyebrow angles downward after reading my note, then the rear portal slams shut.

Triumphantly, I exit the bathroom to traverse back to exam room 2.

 -copyright 2004 Lisa Lewis