Running Out of Eggs

This is a story that I wrote for a writing contest ... The title must be "Running Out of Eggs" and the story must be less than 1,000 words, so here goes:

“No!” Jeanette said a bit louder than she intended. “There must be another answer. How conclusive is this test?” she asked the nurse on the other end of the telephone line.

“There is always a chance that the blood work is wrong, we've seen it happen before, but our facilities have tightened their guidelines and practices so that a positive reading for hormone imbalance is pretty accurate.”

“This can't be,” Jeanette was still floundering for an answer to her inability to conceive. She is only twenty-seven years old and this faceless person on the line was telling her that she was running out of eggs, “early menopause” they called it.

“I'm sorry,” the nurse said.

“Is there something we can do differently?”

“Dr. Jennings would like to see you to discuss the options. What day works best for you?”

The two women worked out the details as Jeanette continued to try to accept the devastating information. As she hung up her fiance, Bill, came in from the garage. He saw the look on Jeanette's face, he knew something was wrong, pulling her into a greasy hug he let her collapse into him as he thought of a million things that might be causing the distress on her face.

“Is it your mother?” he asked as he pulled her hair from her face and wiped a tear away.

“They said I'm in early menopause,” Jeanette shrieked and fell deeper into his hug, letting the scent of his aftershave and grease envelop her.

“Oh, Jesus, Honey, there are things they can do to help us conceive, right?”

“I don't know, Doctor wants to see us next week. Oh, why can't I just run to a store and get more eggs if I'm running out?”

“Honey,” Bill tried to stifle his laughter, “what would they call a store like that, Hormones R Us?”

Jeanette didn't see the humor in his response, if anything it seemed to infuriate her. “That question didn't need a response, Bill, especially a sarcastic response!” She pulled away from him and stormed to her bedroom. In a rage she tore through the room, throwing out the calendar she had so carefully kept denoting her menstruation cycle. She took the mercury laden thermometer that told her when she was ovulating, broke it in half, slicing at her arm like a chef dicing meat she quickly tore through her skin with the thermometer. Crying she watched as the blood ran down her arm, she knew then that there was more wrong then running out of eggs.

Bill stayed in the kitchen, fearful of the rage he had just seen. Then he heard the sobs and knew that he had no choice but to respond to the wild cries emanating from the master bedroom. When he ran to the room he saw her, covered in blood and with wild eyes. For the first time he realized that he was no longer just a psychiatrist, he was the fiance and lover of a soon to be patient. He could fix her though, after all, it was just a tiny bit of self-harm. All he had to do was hide the fact that she had lost control over her fear of being barren. He wasn't worried about hiding it from her family, they would never figure it out, yet his colleagues would see it at the Christmas party in two days.

Checking Jeanette over Bill realized she would need stitches on some of her wounds.

“Why, Jeanette?” he cried out. “Why would you do this to yourself? Have you any idea at all what mercury poisoning can do to you?”

“Oh, like it really matters?” she shot back. You know that I have always dreamed of being a stay at home Mom. A homemaker, how can I make a home with no family in it?”

“You don't even know the doctor's suggestions, you have no idea what our options are,” he said as he dabbed a towel to her oozing arm. But he had a sinking feeling that she wouldn't be around for her doctor's appointment next week.

“It doesn't matter, nothing matters anymore.” She pushed past him and headed out of the room, down the hall into the spare room they had dreamed of making a nursery. Flinging open the closet she tore through the items for their future as parents. Hugging a pile of brand new infant clothing to her chest as she bled upon them, she ran to the sewing room, where she grabbed her scissors and tore the garments to shreds. She no longer heard Bill's words, all she could hear were the voices in her head. “Worthless, you are nothing, you will never be anything, you can't even get pregnant right!” The voices continued to shout over Bill's pleading her to let him help her.

Finally, she succumbed to exhaustion and Bill was able to get her to the hospital as she dozed on the way. Good thing, he thought, as he drove to a psychiatric hospital seventy miles from home. This is the only way I can keep this from leaking out to my partners.

As Bill pulled into the hospital driveway Jeanette mumbled, “I imagine I will never see you after today?”

“You're so right, Jeanette, I'm just that shallow,” his comment was sarcastic, but it was lost on her. Yes, I'm shallow at times, but not shallow enough to let go of the women I love over her illness, whatever that might be.

Lecture

It was a hot August day when she rummaged through the attic trunk for the perfect outfit. Tank top won’t do, jeans are too casual. Finally, she settled on a white, long sleeve turtle neck with khaki slacks and flats to match. Someone heard her rummaging and hollered up, “Quiet down, up there!” She heard the nervous giggles of her housemates as she admired her outfit in the dusty full-length mirror. Heading out she walked down the sidewalk, more confident with each step. Her footfalls became more pronounced, her smile encouraged many to stare. Her long hair swayed with each step and her eyes invited a friendly hello from those that passed. It was a warm day, but poor circulation made her winter attire a necessity, even in Southern Florida in August. She heard whispers about her choice of clothing as she continued on her way, she was certain many knew her secrets, but she couldn’t let that stop her. She walked up the stairs and entered the old building, walking with more conviction than she thought possible she entered a hall of 750 professional social workers. She was there, to help them recognize the quiet signs a victim of abuse may offer up. For two hours she lectured about winter attire in the heavy summer heat, meant to hide bruises from professions of all sorts. She talked of the victims need to be perfect as she subconsciously fixed her hair. She talked of failure where there was none and friends lost to secrets never to be found again. Upon completion of her lecture she quietly slipped out of the hall and hurried home. For the first time in a hundred years, she undressed in front of the mirror and saw the handprints he’d left upon her neck, the one’s that snuffed her life that warm August day of 1911. She folded her clothes perfectly and placed them back in the trunk. She sat in meditation, where she would stay until next year. When on the 101st anniversary of her death she would repeat the lecture of the dead.

The Story of Sarah

If you have known me for some time, you may have heard this story, but it pulls at my heart strings every time I think of it. Part of me is curious as to how the story unfolded at the time, as well as what has happened to dear Sarah. It was evening and I had stepped out onto the porch of my apartment for a quick cigarette before bathing my kids and putting them to bed. I was still married to my first husband and he was playing video games, so I knew my kids were safe, sort of. I was enjoying the silence of the normally bustling courtyard of our community, I didn't even realize how eerily quiet it really was at the moment. The night was broken when a group of children ran out of a corner apartment screaming, "The baby is dead, Sarah died!" I didn't think, I just stubbed my cigarette and ran for the neighboring apartment. I knocked, as if I were company coming for coffee, then it all began ... something, as yet to be explained to me, but something told me to just walk in and so I did. There was Sarah, not even two years old yet, lying on the tan carpeted floor in the middle of a seizure. Family was gathering around, mostly panicked by her blue complexion, frozen with fear. That voice that told me to walk right in invited itself into my head again, "Go to her, help Sarah." I did just that, but had no idea what I would do next as the sea of family parted to let me get to her. I had read about seizures, but this was the first time I actually saw someone convulsing and I was scared. I took two large strides across the living room to Sarah's side and collapsed to my knees. "Warm wash cloths, can we get some warm wash cloths," I said it as if someone was holding my emotions in check, but I assure you, it wasn't me. "Yeah," her uncle yelled, "9-1-1 says to put warm wash cloths on her." Before he finished his sentence Sarah's loving family had formed a sort of human chain from the kitchen sink to where she and I were fighting for her life. "Come on, Sarah. Come on, Baby, you're going to be fine." I was so calm it amazed me, then I saw her complexion taking on a bluish tint again, "Breathe for her, breathe for her," the voice in my head was whispering. I responded by blowing in her face and watched as she seemed to magically turn pink again. The front door opened and there stood an off duty paramedic, he stuck his head in, saw that all was under control and went to direct the ambulance to the right apartment. Ken, where are you going, I wondered, I have no idea what I'm doing. Hey, hey, where are you going? Oh, she's turning blue again. I blew on her face again and again she turned a beautiful shade of pink, but this time she cried. I wanted to cry, even needed to cry, but the tears weren't there, all that was there was concern for this small child as we fought together for her life. It seemed to be about an hour before the ambulance arrived, though I'm sure it didn't take that long. Suddenly, the front door popped open and Bensalem Rescue Squad was on the scene. With a certain amount of relief I stood up and stepped away from Sarah so they could help her. In reality, I didn't step back, I stumbled and pasted myself against the wall. I watched in awe as paramedics did the work necessary to help Sarah. As they left the apartment I did something I hadn't been able to do, but desperately needed; I cried and I cried for a long time. Still, fifteen years later, I wonder, who was that giving me life saving instructions? Where is Sarah now? Is she okay? I will probably never have these answers, but I think she has a Guardian Angel, because I'm almost certain that is who helped me help Sarah.

This Old Man

Every day I wonder where is that old man going? Today as I was more interested than normal as snow was flying through the city streets and it was well below freezing. I couldn’t help myself, I pulled up to the sidewalk, put some money in the parking meter, and then I walked back a block to visit this man that I saw every day.

“Good morning, sir, my name is Nancy. How are you this morning?”

“Oye,” he said with a strange accent, “I’d be just fine if my legs would work.”

“Yeah, I see you walking every day, no matter the weather. I drive past on my way to work and I wonder what is so pressing that you walk every single day.”

“Life, my friend, life is so pressing. You see, six years ago I lost my wife to breast cancer, just ten months before our fiftieth wedding anniversary. Every day I go to the cemetery and visit my darling Margaret.” He pointed to the thermos sitting beside him, “I have a cup of coffee and tell her about my plans for the day and how yesterday went. Just like when she was alive; every day she would send me off to work, but only after a cup of coffee and some great conversation.”

He looked at me and I witnessed a tear just before he flicked it aside, “So,” he continued, “every day I get on the bus, ride out to visit with her, we have our coffee, and conversation, then I walk to the Senior Citizen’s Center for a two dollar lunch.  Once lunch has filled me up I converse with the younger folk at the center and catch the bus home.”

I sat in awe, speechless to the rounds this man made every day, and astounded that he would share so much information with me, a stranger. I pulled my coat tighter around me and noticed his flimsy spring jacket, yet he didn’t seem cold at all.

“Oye, Nancy, what is your last name?”

“Frantz, my name is Nancy Frantz.”

“Frantz? Any relation to Arthur Frantz?”

“Yes, he was my father, but he passed away a few years ago.”

“I know,” this nameless gentleman told me. “I fought side by side with him in World War II.”

“You knew my father? That’s not possible, you’re so young.”

“Oye, thank you, but my daily conversations with Margaret helped fight the aging effects of stress. I’m really 87 years old.”

“You knew my Dad? What was he like during his younger years? What’s your name anyway?”

“I thought you would never ask. My name is Felix Childs, you called me Uncle Funny when you were young and I would visit your family.”

I quickly stood up in shock and excitement, “Uncle Funny, I remember you now; you went to my big sister’s wedding with a banana in your pocket and told everyone you were ‘a monkey’s uncle’.”

“Oye, you remember that? Yes, that was me. The truth is I have diabetes so I carried something to eat wherever I went.”

“Uncle Funny, would you mind if I drove you to the cemetery and had coffee with you and Aunt Margaret?” I hesitated for a moment. “I don’t want to intrude, but I would love to spend some time catching up with you. My father left us kids with a lot of unanswered questions when he passed away and maybe you could help me.”

“What sorts of questions do you have, Nancy?”

“Well, I know my dad was a boxer in the military, but he didn’t talk much about that part of his life.”

“Oye. During the War no one really wanted to talk about it, but let’s go see Margaret and then I will answer as many questions as I can.”

Laziness Letter

Dear Representative of Homeowner’s Insurance:

I recently received your denial letter for the claim that my husband submitted on September 9, 2012 and I am writing to tell you that your denial is unjust. Your denial claims that the damages to our home are normal wear and tear and could have been prevented with normal maintenance.

It is not normal to raise nine children in a three bedroom home nowadays. There is no way that any two parent family with nine children can keep up with “normal” wear and tear of the home.

After speaking with several neighbors I have also learned that it is not normal to have a trampoline in your living room. Therefore, the dents and holes in the ceiling are not normal wear and tear.

A local survey, which I conducted in my local grocery store, also taught me that it is not normal for children to throw each other into walls, this makes your claim that the holes in the walls are normal wear and tear invalid.

When we informed you that the septic tank needs to be pumped you stated that is normal household maintenance, so we built an outhouse to prevent further filling of the septic tank. The township sued us for having an outhouse; we also included that in our claim. You stated you do not cover laziness in your business. I beg to differ, if we are lazy, we wouldn’t have built something in order to fix the problem.

In your letter you repeatedly referred to my husband as lazy to protect your company from having to give us what we are entitled to. That, my friend, makes you lazy. You’re too lazy to take the time to fill out a few papers and give us a check.

Normal, you say, you say my family is normal? There is nothing normal about any of us, and for this reason I demand an appeal to the denied claim. It is not normal wear and tear that has caused the damages listed in the claim; in fact, it is an overabundance of activity! Furthermore, I insist, that nowadays it is not normal to be raising nine children in a two parent family.

If you cannot see it in your heart to award us this claim, then you could at least offer my husband and me a vacation and take the children for a week. Then you can claim normal wear and tear on your home.

Sincerely,

Lazy Homemaker

Alien Shampoo

“Good morning and welcome to the ‘Alien Shampoo’ Infomercial. This is a production by ‘Alien Newbs’.” {Mechanical Audience applause inserted here.} “Hello there, this is Imminy Hayes here for Alien Shampoo. Today we are going to discuss alternate uses for this magnetizing shampoo. First, do we have any teenagers in the audience? Alright, you with the rainbow Mohawk and tattoos, you’ll be perfect for this; come on up.” “Hey, Son, what’s your name?” “Josh Pentergast.” “Alright, Josh, tell me, do you get in much trouble around home?” “Nah, I’m a good kid.” Imminy turns to the audience, “Josh, were you sitting with your parents?” “Yeah, that’s my ma and dad.” “Come on up here Mom and Dad.” As Josh’s parents approach Josh lowers his head in embarrassment. “Josh tells us that he’s a good kid, is that true?” Mom looks at Josh and says, “Why yes, he’s an all A student and generally a good kid.” “Well,” Dad says, “there was that time him and his buddies stole all of those political signs and took our cars out of the garage so they had room to hide them.” Imminy looks at Josh with a sly smile, “Great, Josh, you are exactly the kind of teenager we are looking for to demonstrate our new ‘Alien Shampoo’. Mom, Dad, if you can return to your seats, or stand up here with us, it’s up to you.” Imminy returns his attention to the audience. “Ladies and gentleman, the uses for ‘Alien Shampoo’ are amazing, mesmerizing, and magnetic. Let Josh and I show you how this works. Josh, come on over here to the shampooing chair and let me wash your hair.” Josh saunters over and takes his seat, lying back in the chair so the back of his neck rests on the edge of the sink. Imminy begins to wash Josh’s hair, first rinsing it well, and the camera zooms in so the audience can see the mixture of colors rinsing out of Josh’s rainbow Mohawk. “Now, look here,” Imminy says as he holds a palm full of green shampoo out to the camera. “See the sparkles? Those are actual alien magnets. This is revolutionary folks; now watch as I shampoo Josh’s hair here.” The suds move from green to gray to a silver color as Imminy continues to lather Josh’s hair. “Look, folks, see the color change, and this is just the beginning.” Josh’s hair is rinsed out and dried with a towel. “Okay, Josh, Mom, Dad, Camera Man, let’s head out into the starry night.” As soon as the studio door is shut a shooting star is heading right for them. “Watch this, watch!” Imminy shouts at the camera, “keep your eyes on Josh.” Slowly Josh’s feet leave the ground and he begins to dangle above the earth. The “shooting star” stops moving and hovers above them, suddenly they notice it isn’t a shooting star, but a flying saucer. A door slid open and light emanated from the underside of the saucer. Josh continues rising up away from the ground and toward the saucer. “No,” Mom screams as she reaches just above her head to grab Josh’s ankle, but she moves too slow, he continues to rise toward the saucer. Dad steps closer to Mom and holds her tight, “What have we done?” Imminy steps in and says, “No need to worry, Josh will be back with us in a few minutes and all will be fine.” Just as Imminy promised, a few minutes went by and a boy was returned, it looked like Josh, sounded like Josh, but there were no piercings, tattoos, even his hair was his natural color and had a business appearance to it. Mom fainted, but Dad held out his hand to shake Josh’s hand. “Welcome back, Josh.” Imminy grabs Josh’s hand and pulls him back into the studio. “Josh, how was it, what did they do?” “Imminy, you know I am not allowed to discuss it. However, I can tell you that I have a new, very positive outlook on life.” “So, you see folks, the true magnetic properties in ‘Alien Shampoo’ will help you mold your errant child into a respectful, goal oriented human being … with a few alien properties. Right, Josh?” “Yes, sir!” “Well, folks, you’ve seen it here, for just $57.92 you can get one two-ounce bottle of Alien Shampoo to transform your teenager into the child you dreamed of when you first had a positive pregnancy test. And you saw it all here on Alien Newbs Productions!”

Editor Application

What a morning! My flight to Washington, D.C. was delayed, and that was the highlight of the morning. I have an interview at 9am for Science Weekly, and I have to find a way from Grand Rapids, Michigan to Washington, D.C. in one piece, so far, not so well. In my rush to catch the red-eye flight I gulped some hot coffee, choked on it, and sent the coffee through my mouth and nose all over my lap, along with my false teeth. My husband found this quite humorous, but feared laughing as I was about to blow a mental gasket. As I ran to my room to change out of my now scalding skirt I broke a heel on my shoe and quite possibly my ankle. Breakfast seemed out of the question as I had no time to cook, and darling husband was having too much fun watching this display of stay-at-home mom trying to turn Editor-in-Chief of a magazine I’m unable to read without falling asleep. I’m not going to let that little point get me down though, as much of the science research of the last issue was learning through osmosis, so I put an issue under my pillow last night and feel much smarter this morning. So, here I am, in Washington, D.C. and I’m having trouble finding a parking spot, even for my tiny rental car. I am trying to turn around because I just passed a lot with a few empty spaces, but Secret Service surrounds me when I pulled onto the White House lawn to turn around. “Don’t shoot,” I cry out. “Get out of the vehicle with your arms above your head,” a bald gentleman yells at me. I do just that and follow their instructions until I am splayed upon the ground in the most awkward of positions and I feel guns scraping my scalp as they question me and a female has her knee planted firmly into my back and my arms at an odd angle above my body. “She’s clean,” the female yells and the guns are removed. I look down at my “Mommy Goes to Work” outfit and I am not clean, in fact, I’ve got White House lawn all over my beautiful suit. I take a deep breath as they lead me off the lawn and return my rental car to me. They escort me to the appropriate address with lights flashing so I could make my interview on time. I walk into the building covered in mud and open my attaché case out to find the appropriate suite for the interview. As I enter the office I notice a couple of people following me. I turn around and discover two Secret Service Members have followed me in, guns drawn. My confidence is just about gone when the suite door bangs open and a jolly man drops his jaw in horror. “You, ma’am, have got the job,” he says without even a single interview question. “What? Wait, how can that be? You don’t even know my name.” “Doesn’t matter, anyone that brings their own assistance is well aware of the difficulty of the job, though, I have to say, the guns are a bit much. Can you start today?” “Yes, Sir, just show me to my office and my team and I will get right to work.”