Just a Little Bit
Dr. J. C. G. Goelz
Issue 58, Autumn 2019
Joyce trembled as she bent to see what she had left in the toilet bowl. Cramps twisted through her. Pain pounded her temples. She massaged the ache in her back with her right hand and used the back of her left hand to slick the sweat off her forehead.
It was just a little bit of red blood and a small brown clot that looked like she had blown her nose after a recent nosebleed.
Sweat soaked her pajamas and formed rivulets on her exposed skin. Only her red eyes showed restraint, welling, but not providing the cleansing flow of tears. She longed for tears.
When no tears came, she flushed the toilet. What else could she do? The wonders of modern medicine had failed again. Nothing ever seemed to help her get over it, either. She just had to tough it out. It took time.
She wanted to be held, or to hold someone.
Her husband Ted was at his office. Partners and rivals: her writing sold and won awards; his languished. Students and the tenure board loved her, only a few very young female students loved Ted.
Their hope was a rap sheet of violations to their intimacy. Laughably low sperm count. His repeated trips to collect and freeze his contribution. A drug to force her ovulation. Blood tests. A syringe fed through her cervix. Another drug to forestall her NK cells. A third drug to stop clotting.
It didn’t work.
She couldn’t see him right now. They would only share resentment, regret, blame. Again.
Joyce pulled up her bottoms, wrapped her robe around herself, and crashed into the doorjamb as she stumbled into the bedroom.
“Emma,” she called. A nine-month-old yellow Labrador with a moist black nose and inky eyes bounced into the room. Ted had bought Emma for Joyce after the last time.
Joyce smiled at Emma’s ardent approach, but the meager effort renewed the harpoons of pain from her headache, and her body slumped with febrile morbidity. As Emma sidled up against Joyce, she slid to the floor, her back against the side of the bed.
Joyce squeezed Emma to her chest while the puppy licked her face. Joyce pushed the dog’s butt down into a sit, and buried her face in the dog’s neck.
“Good girl.” The dog’s tail still wagged, and the puppy vibrated back and forth with each stroke.
“You’re my little baby,” she said to the sixty-five pound dog. The puppy sat patiently as her mistress held her. Joyce shivered - - there wasn’t enough body-to-body contact to receive much heat from the dog.
Joyce released the dog and stood up, but her head spun and ached, and she leaned against the bed to keep her balance. Once her eyes cleared, she patted the top of the bed and said, “Up, Emma!”
Emma first went into a play stance, head down and butt in the air, tail wagging madly. After Joyce repeated her command, Emma put her front feet on top of the bed, but kept her hind legs on the floor and barked.
“Get up, you silly girl.” Joyce laughed, then slung her arm beneath Emma’s haunches and helped propel her onto the bed with a grunt. Joyce fell face-first onto the bed, her toes still on the ground, and Emma started licking her behind her ears, making her giggle.
“Stop that.” As she climbed onto the bed, Joyce tried to fend off the puppy’s tongue.
Joyce buried herself under the covers and got Emma to lay down next to her, on top of the comforter. Joyce wrapped an arm around Emma and snuggled her face into the back of the dog’s head.
“You’re my little baby,” she said as she began to warm beneath the covers. She closed her eyes as she buried her face into the dog’s fur. “You’re my little baby, and I’ll always take care of you, and make sure you’re safe.” Emma’s tail wagged when she thought Joyce was speaking to her.
The tears came. Joyce’s sobs rolled out like a series of waves crashing against the shoreline. She held Emma closer and closer as her sadness built, then relaxed her hold as she uttered a weak “ungh.” The rolling tide of her embrace punctuated by her whimpers. The puppy tentatively wagged her tail at irregular intervals, beating the comforter, and occasionally her whimper joined with Joyce’s.
Joyce kissed Emma, reached over the dog, and took her cell phone off the nightstand. She simply couldn’t speak, so she texted Ted. It’s all over.
The cramps weren’t that bad this time, and it was just a little bit of blood. But it was over. She knew it, just like the other times. She didn’t mind the cost. Another fifty-thousand for this try. But she didn’t know what to do next. Without hope.
Perhaps she could create something that would win a Pulitzer. Perhaps she would be one of those dog ladies that breeds generations of well-pedigreed pups. To create. To breed. Never getting what she wants.
Emma curled her neck down to quickly lick up a little spot of blood she had left on the comforter. Sometimes blood portends the possibilities of life. Sometimes.
Joyce turned off her cellphone. She didn’t want to talk. She just wanted to hold something living in her arms. And cry.