Elise realizes it takes her at least ten minutes to pee when she watches an entire interview of her favorite actress on Good Morning America while on the toilet. She can’t remember when it last felt normal to pee. Only that for months she’s been straining, waiting for sweet relief. Elise reads her book on the toilet. Elise brings her laptop to the bathroom and writes emails on the toilet. Elise watches TikToks on the toilet. Elise wonders if she’ll waste her whole life on the toilet, waiting for that last drop of urine to release from her body. It never does. Elise goes to the doctor. She has regular blood pressure, regular BMI, regular everything. Elise is regular. Elise is healthy the doctor says. Elise tells the doctor about her peeing issue. The doctor has her pee in a cup and refers her to a urologist. The pee in a cup test comes back regular.

Elise goes to the urologist who places her hands on Elise’s abdomen and pushes down. Elise doesn’t feel any pain. That’s good, the urologist says. The urologist suggests a small exploratory procedure, a cystoscopy. Elise schedules the follow up procedure.

On the day of the cystoscopy, Elise waits for almost an hour in the waiting room. Elise sweats while she waits. Finally, the nurse calls Elise back to a small room where Elise undresses and puts on a papery light blue hospital gown. When the urologist comes in, she does not apologize for being late. The urologist explains that most women don’t feel any pain with the cystoscopy. Elise nods; Elise is regular, of course, so she should be like most women. Elise grits her teeth. Elise wishes she wasn’t here alone. The urologist doesn’t explain anything else.

The urologist takes a small rod with a camera on its head and forces it up Elise’s urethra. Because most women don’t feel any pain with this procedure, there is no warning when the camera enters Elise. There is no numbing cream. There is no pain medication. Elise is regular. It shouldn’t hurt. But it does. The urologist points to the screen next to Elise. Elise turns to see the inside of her urethra in black and white on the monitor. That’s the inside of me, Elise thinks. The urologist says everything looks regular. There are no obstacles that should cause blockage of urine. But it takes me ten minutes to pee, Elise says. (And really some days it’s twenty minutes). The urologist shrugs and repeats that everything looks regular. The urologist pulls the camera out of Elise’s urethra. Elise flinches as the rod exits her body. What now? Elise asks. The urologist doesn’t have an answer. You’re fine, she says. The urologist exits. Elise doesn’t feel fine.

Six weeks later, Elise receives a letter in the mail. She owes $900 for the cystoscopy. She reads the rest of her mail on the toilet.

Elise’s parents suggest she see their urologist when she comes home for Thanksgiving. He’s the best in the country. He’s a pediatric urologist and Elise is twenty-five. But he’s the number one pediatric urologist in the country her parents insist. Elise’s parents can call him. They know him. He’ll fit her in. Okay, Elise agrees.

The pediatric urologist’s office tells her to show up to her appointment with a full bladder. Elise drinks so much water she worries she may pee herself in the waiting room. Elise can’t stand waiting anymore and she runs to the bathroom. She pees just a little so her bladder will still be full for the pediatric urologist. It is painful to hold on to the rest of her pee, keeping it inside. When she’s called into her appointment, Elise lies on a table in a large room with lights and equipment. A nurse takes an ultrasound of her bladder. Elise looks at the monitor and thinks, that’s the inside of me. The nurse tells Elise everything looks regular. The nurse can see her bladder is very full. Elise is allowed to pee now. Elise pees in a special toilet that measures the strength of her stream. Elise’s stream has never been stronger. She’s been holding her pee for hours. Elise hasn’t peed this hard in months. The nurse says everything looks regular and sends Elise to a second ultrasound.

Elise drinks an entire water bottle before the second ultrasound. This ultrasound is for Elise’s kidneys. Elise told the doctor sometimes she rubs her lower back to try and release her last drops of pee. The doctor wants to make sure her kidneys look regular. Elise lies on her stomach as the nurse takes images of her kidneys. Elise glances up at the monitor. Her kidneys look rather nice up there, she thinks.

Six weeks later, Elise gets on a video call with the pediatric urologist. The pediatric urologist says everything looks regular. Elise’s bladder is regular. Elise’s kidneys are regular. This is good news, surely. Elise feels crushed. The pediatric urologist says because her parents are his good friends he will even waive the fee for this consultation. Gee thanks, Elise thinks. The pediatric urologist says his specialty is pediatrics, which Elise already knew. The pediatric urologist recommends Elise see a gynecologist. Maybe a doctor for adults will know why Elise can’t pee. Elise thanks the pediatric urologist (for nothing) and hangs up.

Elise turns twenty-six. Elise responds to birthday messages on the toilet.

Elise gets dinner with her best friend at an overpriced restaurant. Elise’s best friend is moving in with her boyfriend. Elise tells her congratulations. Elise goes to the bathroom. Elise tries to pee as fast as she can so she can get back to her friend. It takes her eight minutes. When Elise gets back to the table, her best friend asks if she’s okay. Yes, all good. I just have this weird thing where it takes me a long time to pee. Haha. Elise laughs. It’s funny. Elise’s best friend asks Elise if she’s ever heard of pelvic floor therapy. Elise has not.

Elise’s best friend says her boyfriend has the biggest dick of anyone she’s ever slept with. Elise laughs. She doesn’t need to know about the size of her best friend’s boyfriend’s dick. But then Elise’s best friend explains how when they first got together, she had pain during sex. She didn’t know what to do. She knew she was falling in love. Sex was supposed to be wonderful with someone you love. It wasn’t supposed to hurt. Elise’s best friend ended up going to pelvic floor therapy and it really helped. Apparently, a lot of women have pelvic floor issues. Maybe that’s what’s going on with your peeing, Elise’s best friend tells her. Elise thinks her best friend is smarter than the doctor, and the urologist, and even the number one pediatric urologist is the nation.

Elise goes home and looks up pelvic floor therapy. According to the National Institute of Health, one in four women experience pelvic floor disorders. Elise learns a lot of women suffer from urinary incontinence. Elise reads the list of symptoms for urinary incontinence. Some of them sound like her. Some of them don’t. The doctor and the urologist and the pediatric urologist told Elise she was regular. Elise doesn’t know where she fits on the spectrum from regular to incontinent.

The next weekend, Elise goes to her best friend’s housewarming party. Her best friend and her best friend’s boyfriend with the big dick have rented a cozy apartment and decorated it as their own. Elise’s heart is filled with warmth as she watches her best friend’s smile lines deepen all evening. At the party, Elise meets a cute girl with long hair and glasses and a ring between her nostrils. The cute girl was in grad school with Elise’s best friend’s boyfriend with the big dick. The cute girl asks Elise if she wants to go somewhere to hang out. Elise says yes.

The cute girl and Elise go back to Elise’s studio apartment. They smoke a joint and then they make out on Elise’s bed. The cute girl takes off her shirt. Then, the cute girl takes off Elise’s shirt. They tangle together. Elise feels if there was a camera inside her, the monitor would show a glowing, warm fireplace. Her insides all blue and orange and crackling. The cute girl puts her fingers inside Elise’s vagina. Elise tells her to stay out of there. Focus on the top. The cute girl happily obliges and rubs Elise’s clit until she comes. Elise falls asleep with her cheek on the cute girl’s shoulder. The next morning, the cute girl kisses her goodbye.

Six weeks later, the cute girl is Elise’s girlfriend. Elise’s insides are still burning. A happy, exhilarating glow. Elise’s girlfriend sleeps overs at Elise’s studio apartment at least once a week. One night, Elise’s girlfriend asks her why it takes her so long to pee. She’s noticed sometimes Elise disappears for a while when she heads off to the bathroom. Elise explains she has this issue where she can’t pee. But don’t worry, she saw the inside of her urethra, the urologist put a camera up there, and everything is regular. Haha. Elise’s girlfriend says that doesn’t sound regular to her. Is this why Elise doesn’t like her fingers inside of her? Elise shrinks in shame. She wishes she did. But anything inside of her hurts. Elise’s girlfriend hugs Elise. Elise’s girlfriend says it sounds like the urologist doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Elise says, I love you. Elise’s girlfriend says it back.

Six weeks later, Elise has an annual physical with a new doctor. Elise is twenty-six now and has her own insurance plan separate from her parents. Elise tells the new doctor about her peeing issue. The new doctor has seen the previous tests and ultrasounds Elise has done. I know everything looks regular, but it’s not, Elise says. Elise tells the new doctor she needs pelvic floor physical therapy. The new doctor writes her a prescription for a physical therapist.

At her first pelvic floor physical therapy appointment, Elise wears jeans. The physical therapist shows her how to do some stretches. Elise feels stupid for wearing jeans. She didn’t know what to expect. The physical therapist tells her not to worry about it. The physical therapist asks what brings Elise in. Elise explains her peeing problem. The physical therapist asks about sex. Elise explains she can only tolerate one finger inside of her. The physical therapist nods. She asks more questions about orgasms and bowel movements. Elise answers everything, sweating, wondering if she’s said enough to convince the physical therapist she isn’t regular. The physical therapist then asks if Elise would be okay if they do a pelvic exam. This exam won’t be like the gynecologist. There aren’t any tools. The physical therapist will wear gloves and examine inside Elise’s pelvis. Elise agrees that sounds okay.

The physical therapist exits the room to wash her hands as Elise undresses. Elise folds her underwear, a dark purple sports thong, inside her pants and places them on a small side table. Elise lies on the exam table and places the provided sheet over her waist and legs. She feels safe under this sheet. It feels warm, like clean laundry right out the dryer. The physical therapist comes back in. She pulls a rolling stool next to Elise and sits. The physical therapist puts on pink latex gloves and squeezes clear lube onto a paper towel. The physical therapist coats her pointer finger with the lube. Alright, I’m going to go inside now. Are you ready? The physical therapist asks Elise. Elise nods.

The physical therapist inserts her lubed finger into Elise’s vagina. Elise takes a short inhale. The physical therapist asks Elise to take a deep breath. Elise tries again to take a longer inhale and exhale. The physical therapist’s finger feels giant inside her, like getting a piece of dust stuck in your eye. It stings. The physical therapist asks if Elise can contract and release her pelvic floor. Elise attempts to do as told. The physical therapist says okay she’s coming out now and pulls her finger out. The physical therapist says Elise’s pelvic floor muscles are extremely tight. She peels off her gloves and picks up a skeleton pelvis from the shelf. The physical therapist explains to Elise how pelvic floor muscles hold your pelvis. There are even muscles around your urethra. The physical therapist guesses that the muscles around Elise’s urethra are very tight and that’s why it takes her so long to pee. This is the first appointment that Elise ever remembers any healthcare professional telling her she’s not regular.

The physical therapist explains to Elise the concept of diaphragmatic breathing. The pelvic floor is connected to our lungs, our diaphragm, and our ribcage. The pelvic floor should expand and contract as we inhale and exhale. When Elise attempted to contract and release her pelvic floor muscles, the physical therapist could barely feel those muscles react. They are already so contracted, she explains, that there’s nowhere for them to go. And if they don’t release, they just stay contracted always, that will start to cause the issues Elise now experiences. The physical therapist tells Elise to take another deep breath and to expand her belly as she breathes. Elise closes her eyes and puts her consciousness into her belly. She takes a deep breath. At the top of her inhale, Elise feels her belly muscles shake. The physical therapist nods, much better, she says. The physical therapist says not to worry. They will work on all this. She wants to help Elise pee easily again.

The physical therapist also recommends Elise purchase a set of dilators to work with at home. She pulls out a set of six dildo-looking ceramic items that range from small to large. The physical therapist explains how most women work up to the size of their partner’s penis. Elise thinks of her best friend’s boyfriend and wonders what size dilator matches his big dick. The physical therapist hands the ancient, cream-colored devices to Elise to look over. The physical therapist pulls out another set of pastel rainbow-colored dilators. Some patients prefer these more modern ones, she explains. But they’re more expensive and both sets produce the same results. Elise’s eyes dart from the ancient to the modern dilators. Both of them look like devices male gynecologists would use to torture women in olden times. It doesn’t matter if the dildo is pastel pink, Elise doesn’t want it inside of her. Elise sighs. Elise’s partner is a woman, she explains. She’s gay. The physical therapist says maybe Elise would want more than one finger inside of her. Maybe she’d want to play with sex toys. We want to help you reach your goals. Elise didn’t realize that two fingers inside of her could be considered a goal. Elise purchases the ancient looking dildos.

At home, Elise goes to pee and cannot. Her pelvic floor is sore from the exam. She can feel her muscles retreating, wanting to hide under a shell even deeper inside of her. Elise inhales but forgets to expand her belly. No pee comes. Elise inhales again and a sob escapes her mouth on the exhale. As she cries, slowly, she starts to pee. At first it burns, but then her pee comes in a strong stream. Rushing out of her like a damn has been broken. Elise cries and cries on the toilet.

A year later, Elise and her girlfriend live together in a one-bedroom apartment. They fill the 700 square feet with colorful rugs and snake plants (those are apparently the hardest to kill) and books and cheap picture frames from target that they’ll eventually fill with photos if Elise can remember to select her favorites and print them. They adopt a dog and name her Elizabeth Swann, after Elise’s girlfriend’s first sexual awakening (Keira Knightley in a corset of course). They buy a dildo and name it Jack Sparrow. Jack Sparrow lives in Elise’s nightstand and provides them with many good times. Elise cannot believe the world that has opened before her by opening her pelvic floor. Elizabeth Swann is a beautiful white pit bull mix with the sweetest, softest eyes. Elise likes to call her Lizzy-Lou and kiss her soft blocky head. When Elise goes pee, Elizabeth Swann curls up at her feet.

Elise’s best friend’s boyfriend with the big dick is soon to become Elise’s best friend’s husband with the big dick. Elise and her girlfriend jokingly wonder how Jack Sparrow compares to Elise’s best friend’s future husband’s dick. When Elise and her girlfriend road trip to her best friend’s wedding, they sing together in the car. Elise belts at the top of her lungs. Elise’s fingers trace the tips of the trees as they fly by. Her diaphragm expands and releases under her seat belt. They arrive at the beach town where the wedding will take place. Elise and her girlfriend rush as quickly to unpack as possible so they have time to see the ocean before the wedding festivities begin. Elise dips her toes in the edge of the ocean’s surf. It is October and the water brings a chill to her body. Elise watches the ocean expand and contract. The waves breathing with92 both power and peace. Elise closes her eyes and imagines an entire ocean inside her, salty and deep turquoise. Full of life even in the deepest and darkest of layers. A world inside her that expands and contracts. Her diaphragm moves like waves colliding rhythmically against the inside of her ribcage. Elise doesn’t think of all the time she has spent waiting for her pee to come, but of all the time she has left to explore the sea inside of her.

ALANA ROSENBLOOM (she/they) is a writer, poet, filmmaker, and choreographer. In their work, she ponders queerness, identity, love, grief and the tumultuous nature of growing up. They were most recently a writers’ assistant for Liz Feldman’s new Netflix show No Good Deed. Throughout her career she has gotten coffee for and worked in writers rooms with acclaimed comedians, such as, Mel Brooks, Mindy Kaling, Jason Mantzoukas, Nick Kroll, Ike Barinholtz, and Wanda Sykes. Alana attended Northwestern University where they received their BA in Radio/Television/Film with a focus on screenwriting and a minor in dance. She currently resides in Los Angeles with her fiancé and little chihuahua, Franklin.

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LAUREN GOTTWORTH (@laurenwiththepinkhair) is an artist of many forms. Woodblock prints like this one, watercolor, digital, ink, tattoo, etc. and performing arts of singing, improv, and stand up comedy. Once overheard: “Women need 80% confidence to even try, when men need 10% confidence to just do it”.

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Author’s statement: I learn things about my own body year after year because sex health and education are still taboo. I’m trying to participate in collaborative knowledge as much as I can, especially if I can help other people avoid the difficult experience of being a non-heterosexual non-cis (non-able, non-white etc) person at a gynaecologist consultation.

CLUB SANDWICH CLUB is Alex (they/them), a graphic designer and intersectional activist based in Berlin, Germany. As a queer and non-binary person, Alex uses their intimate experience to raise awareness around social justice issues. Follow at @clubsandwichclub_

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Club Sandwich Club’s work is in Vol.4. Consider subscribing to support Anodyne Magazine and its contributors. We pay our contributors dividends for each purchase! Plus, this is the only place you’ll find an ebook + print subscription combo.

One consequence of leaving my bicycle outside year-round, aside from rust and spiderwebs, is that a bird built a nest in my bike basket. When the thunderstorms finally dissipated and early summer weather lured me outside for an afternoon bike ride, I discovered the nest of straw and string with two perfect, red-umber-speckled, marble-sized eggs. With the greatest of intentions, I undid the bungee cords, lifted the nest, and placed it on a lawn chair. Then I panicked—realizing that I might have disturbed the eggs and scared the mother away—perhaps she, fearing a predator, would abandon her babies. I uploaded a photo of the eggs to iNaturalist which suggested that the eggs belonged to a Carolina wren—a compact, ochre-brown bird with striking white eyebrows. Throughout the day, I watched the nest to see if the mother bird would return. No sight of her all evening, or the next morning. It turns out I had broken a law: it’s illegal to move the nest of a migratory breeding bird. Yet on the third day, I peered into the nest to find a miracle: a third egg had appeared! Mother bird must have returned in the night. I watched all day—no sign of her. Later that evening—I checked the nest to find a fourth egg, but still no sign of the bird. The following day, I followed my ritual of examining the nest as soon as I woke up, and suddenly the mother bird flew straight out of the basket into my face with a flurry of wings. I caught my breath and gave her time to return to the nest; a few hours passed, she returned, and she hasn’t budged for two full days. I’m now more wary when I examine the nest for eggs— I’ve learned to respect her boundaries and observe from a distance—but I can see her little beak barely protruding from the straw.

I have baby fever, but not the kind you think—yes, I am a woman in my mid-thirties, which makes me the perfect demographic for this affliction—but my obsession is with nonhuman animal babies, rather than wee humans. I seem to be a magnet for baby animals, or perhaps it’s my confirmation bias—I’m subconsciously on the lookout for young, cute animals, and I find them everywhere I look. All day I listen for the chirps of the young woodpeckers in the hole of a black locust tree outside my kitchen window. Today, on my walk to campus to teach a summer class on science and nature writing, I came upon a fawn—a veritable Bambi with pale polka-dots and spindly legs—she seemed lost and hadn’t yet found her fear of humans, so she wobbled right up to me, sniffed the air, and kept on her merry way. I was tempted to cancel my class to keep my eye on this wayward orphan, to see if she had lost her mother to a car, but instead I taught my class in a state of distraction and worry, peeking out the window every five minutes to watch the fawn’s promenade around campus. While walking my dog to the post office, I watched a mother squirrel carry her baby in her mouth while crossing the street and hopping up into a tree. While hunting for fossils in a streambed, I lifted a rock and found a tiny red eft, no bigger than my pinky finger. I was ecstatic. I drove out of my way to visit Clementine, the baby orangutan at the Columbus zoo, and to my surprise and delight, I also witnessed a baby gorilla and two baby macaques.

These newborns at the zoo led to a sudden bloom of primate representation in my personal media: I binged all the nature documentaries I could stream, starting with Chimp Empire, featuring a fresh-faced toddler chimpanzee, and my instagram algorithms display almost exclusively baby orangutan photos. My compulsive appetite for baby animal content reached its peak during a recent storm—tornado sirens be- gan blaring during a thunderstorm, and they didn’t stop for several hours; emergency alerts lit up on my phone; campus safety emails warning of the danger flooded my inbox; rain and wind battered against my thin windows. My faculty apartment doesn’t have a basement, so—following the national recommendations, I sheltered in place in the next best room—my closet. Tintin and I crawled into the dark space with pillows, a flashlight, a water bottle, a helmet (in case of falling trees and debris), and my laptop. I checked all the local news and watched the weather radar as the tornado approached my little town, then as my fear and need for comfort increased, I succumbed to my illness: I watched a wildlife documentary about baby animals. Imagine if the tornado had actually hit my apartment—the last thing images to have reached my brain would have been a beach full of newly-hatched turtles racing towards the ocean; three lion cubs hiding in a rock pile, a young elephant learning how to use his trunk, and a baby orangutan peeing on his mom in the treetops.

For all of my affection for these furry, aquatic, and feathered infants, I don’t have any interest in having a child of my own. I swear! To clarify—my partner has an eight-year-old daughter whom I love dearly, but I am steadfast in my decision to not produce a little animal from my own womb. I can’t imagine it; I’m an androgynous queer woman, and the concept of giving birth just doesn’t feel natural to me. I also don’t feel thrilled about adding to the exponential population of humans on this overburdened planet, and I am not financially, emotionally, mentally, or physically stable enough to raise a child of my own. I still feel like a kid—I have so much growing to do, and so little time! I can envision the disastrous hypothetical possibility of my giving birth; first I would succumb to postpartum depression, mourn the loss of my free time and compromised career, then overcompensate by hovering anxiously around my baby with my helicopter-parent rotor blades in overdrive.

When I called my mother in a state of elation to tell her about the primate babies at the zoo, she asked, “Does this mean you’re considering having a baby?” I laughed to cov- er my frustration—I’ve previously expressed my aversion to childbirth—and said, “I already have one, Tintin!” in reference to my dog, who is also eight years old, but still looks and acts like a puppy.

The thing is, I’m hardwired to melt in the face of all these little critters—we all are—there’s a science to cuteness: The “baby schema” or kinderschema, first introduced by zoologist Konrad Lorenz in 1948 describes the pattern of traits (big eyes which sit low on the face in relation to a large forehead, round cheeks, small mouth and chin), that trigger a positive, care-taking reaction from humans towards infants across species, including ducks, hares, tigers, lions, and dogs. The adaptive explanation is that the cuter the baby, the more attention it will get from its parent, and therefore the higher chances it has at survival (think food, protection, and warmth). This theory has been tested and investigated through countless studies since, corroborating that humans think babies of most nonhuman animal species are cute. While this resonates with me, most of these papers are limited to primarily human-like species and domesticated pets, whereas my particular baby fever extends to birds, amphibians, reptiles, fish, mammals, even mushrooms. There are a few notable exceptions where I draw the line—I don’t harbor warm and fuzzy feelings towards larvae, and vulture babies are just as disturbing to me as their naked-headed parents.

What does a deliberately childless human do with their maternal instinct? It’s a modern plague: sick with baby fever but no desire to have a baby. What do I do with this abundant love? One solace has been to think of one of my family’s favorite authors: Gerald Durrell, who from a young age devoted his time and attention to strange beasts from around the Greek island of Corfu, where he grew up. He raised pelicans, turtles, snakes, any species that crossed his path. He then grew up to become a zoologist and wrote dozens of memoirs, including My Family and Other Animals in which he developed deep personal satisfaction from his observations of and relationships with his menagerie. Or, in my more fantastical moods, I imagine myself as the good witch from the 1963 film The Three Lives of Thomasina. In a Scottish countryside, a young girl loses her beloved cat, and discovers a woman known as “Mad Lori” MacGregor, who lives in the woods and rescues injured wild creatures like rabbits, deer, squirrels, and lost cats. MacGregor is not really a witch, but she does seem to have a magical charm in her connection to the inhabitants of her bestiary, as though she is able to overcome the human-animal language barrier. That’s my goal—maybe if I obsess over these baby animals enough, they’ll join my clan and tell me their secrets. I’ll keep working towards it, one wren egg at a time.

FRANCES CANNON is a writer, editor, educator, and art- ist. She is the Mellon Science and Nature Writing Fellow at Kenyon College. She also edits for Green Writers Press, Onion River Press, and Maple Tree Press, and she recently served as the managing director of the Sundog Poetry Cen- ter in Vermont. Cannon has taught at the Vermont College of Fine Arts, Champlain College, the Vermont Commons School, the University of Iowa, and Burlington City Arts. She has an MFA in creative writing from Iowa and a BA in poet- ry and printmaking from the University of Vermont. She is the author and illustrator of several books: Walter Ben- jamin Reimagined (MIT Press, 2019), The Highs and Lows of Shapeshift Ma and Big-Little Frank (Gold Wake Press, 2017), Tropicalia (Vagabond Press, 2016), Uranian Fruit (Honeybee Press, 2016), Sagittaria (Bottlecap Press, 2022), Preda- tor/Play (Ethel Zine, 2020), Fling Diction (Green Writers Press, 2024), and Queer Flora, Fauna, Funga (forthcoming with Valiz, 2026).

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She wanted to die of cancer. She’d stopped living years ago. Death was only a formality, something to stop the tedium. She was about to get her wish. Her boyfriend acted like he wanted to die of cirrhosis of the liver the way he drank. No one said anything about that, but cancer? All her friends recommended cancer treatments, and this annoyed her. They told her to get the chemo. She didn’t want to stop the cancer her bone marrow had started to reproduce.

She wasn’t a girl anymore, just old. No one called her anything, thought of her as anything, just assumed she wanted to live to 105. And then one day, she became a woman. By then, she was in her sixties. It would have been sooner, but she had had a fucked up childhood. Growing up, her mother was a daisy and her sister a rose. That left her the thorns, stems and leaves to form herself separate, distinct.

One night, after talking with her boyfriend, she imagined herself in the doctor’s office, standing up and announcing she would not do chemo, have her blood cells reengineered or partake of any other attempt to save what was a life better left behind. She realized that she was a woman, not because of all the usual reasons, but because she imagined, after her tirade, her boyfriend’s response, her boyfriend’s mouth agape before the screaming started. “No, you can’t give up. It’s not fair. And what are you going to do? Die on me? What the fuck is wrong with you? You are not even going to try?”

She imagined herself there in the doctor’s office, the doctor, small, with short, black hair, watching the fiasco that was only scheduled for 20 minutes.

She was a woman because she could be silenced before the screaming even started, and that made her mad. She had become someone who said yes if only there would be no yelling, yes if only she wasn’t called a bull dyke for being strong. As long as she wasn’t hated like Hillary Clinton or Gloria Steinem. She was tired, couldn’t fight anymore, have a strong will anymore. No one told her it got harder with age to be a tough cookie. It seemed that her priorities had changed and now she wanted peace, plain and simple. She would do the chemo. She would learn how to live when the game had changed. And she started with wanting silence. It was all she wanted, like the last piece of pie, the stray leaf in February clinging, clinging, letting go.

CARROLL ANN SUSCO has a chapbook, Bean Spiller, on Variant Literature Press. She also has an MFA from the University of Pittsburgh and 40 publications, including Anodyne and The Sun Magazine. See her LinkedIn page for a list and links. These flash are both fiction and nonfiction, maybe more non than fiction.

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Carroll is our featured writer in Vol.4. Consider subscribing to support Anodyne Magazine and its contributors. We pay our contributors dividends for each purchase! Plus, this is the only place you’ll find an ebook + print subscription combo.

I’ve returned to the university hospital
an ellipsis long used to periods as
a doctor has finally listened to me,
has acknowledged that
this kernel inside rubbed-raw flesh,
smooth as a tapioca pearl
when quiet
but the reason I can no longer ride
a bike, this glitch of being sentimentally
active, which became infected, then refused to heal,
this underground node,
a frozen bulb never to flower,
has become a companion to my every move.

My doctorate is only real
because my doctor is also a young woman,
our appointment a mirror
to gaze upon ourselves,
to drink in deeply
the birth control pills she takes back-to-back
to refuse periods because
she’s not courting pregnancy.
And while my flow is already a capillary-thin whisper
of its former self, benumbed by the pill,
her words bloom smiles in my cells
at the promise of one month lapping into the next.
When I open my legs
to the stirrups, it takes her all of two seconds to say,
Yeah, we gotta take care of that.

I am ready for the surgery that
three other doctors refused to approve.
The anesthesia is running
smooth as a bath.
My doctor asks me to count back from 10,
her fingers stroking the top of my right hand, 9,
like the delphiniums I saw for the first time, 8,
having missed the peonies, 7,
like the bride and her bridesmaids floating
through the arboretum . . .

DANA MURPHY lives in California. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in carte blanche magazine, The 2River View, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Lily Poetry Review, and Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora. In 2024–25, she is a Fellow at the Stanford Humanities Center.

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