Fiction: Me and the Mash

By: Jeannette Bohné

Breathe. A voice in my head screams. I can’t.

My hand clutched around my throat, fingers unable to move. Sweat on my forehead, saliva filling my mouth, my skin: electrified—

And then the wave hits me.

Hot and sharp and unstoppable, pushing, pressing into my mouth. I give up. And let it all out.

Tears and sweat on my face, my body, tortured by its own fluids.

Finally, it stops. My stomach: empty.

My head hurts. My body aches. My brain feels cloudy, as if it’s packed in bubble wrap.

What am I thinking?

What. Am. I. Thinking.

I clean the toilet with my eyes closed: just seeing the swirling water makes me want to puke again. I wet some toilet paper to get rid of the sprinkles of vomit on the floor. And on the wall.

I wash my mouth. I try to have a sip of the cold tap water, but my gullet hurts.

I brush my teeth. Again. And again. I even use my fingernails to scratch out my mouth, to get rid of that soft white layer of skin.

I wash the sink. I take off my clothes. Shower my body, empty half a container of liquid soap. I wash the sweat off, under my armpits, down my back, under my breasts, between my butt cheeks. The water is steaming hot. I wish I could boil my skin away to reveal something fresh. New. Undamaged.

I soak my clothes in the tub. Let them float in the soapy water like parts of a disassembled body. Twisted arms and legs. Two purple feet. Detached.

I’ve washed it all away. Every sprinkle. Every tear. Every salty drip of sweat. I’ve washed it all away.

But one thing remains. Or does it?

I kick the lid of the trash can open. It’s still there. A small plastic stick. Blue on one side. Harmless-looking.

I squat down. What are the chances? The chances that I misread, that the world stopped turning, that everything isn’t as it seems.

But nothing has changed. I can clearly see the big fat plus sign. Pregnant.

I was worried when my period wasn’t on time, but then again, aren’t we all a bit late now and then? It must be the stress at work. And didn’t I eat a little too little in the last weeks?

After two weeks of waiting, of trying to label even the slightest change of color in my discharge as blood, I took the test. Peed on a stick. Made jokes in my head. Laughed at myself, counted down. Stopped breathing as the plus sign popped up.

My hands clench my throat.

How a fucking word, made from fucking piss, can change everything. Wow.

I woke up with a body; now it is a vase. I woke up a woman; now I am a mom-to-be. I woke up in charge of my future; now I am at the mercy of others.

I was me. Now—I’m a public discussion, a political body. An object. And a potential criminal. §218 of the law states it clearly: the termination of a pregnancy is punishable by law.

How did I get here? On the edge of a courtroom, of being called a murderer by some, heartless by many, and maybe, maybe brave—by very few.

Till some hours ago I was a thirty-something biological woman in a stable, heterosexual, mostly monogamous relationship. A woman who enjoyed sex with her partner and hated taking pills. So we used condoms. Every damn time.

And still: the pee stick says pregnant. And I’m fucked. I am. Not we. We have sex. I’m fucked.

From now on my body isn’t mine. It belongs to the state, the lawmakers, the church. From now on, more people care to “protect the unborn life” than care about my wellbeing. Save the cellular mash! Trash the vase!

Hello there, can you hear me? No, of course, you can’t. Right now, there is nothing more in my body than a collection of stuff that might or might not turn into a fetus.

I don’t want the mash to become a real thing. It’s something I never wanted for my life. I never saw that the reason for me being here on earth was to produce yet another human. I’m happy to just be me, not mommy.

I’m angry!

I leave the bathroom, get dressed, buy another test. And a bottle of my favorite sparkling. And a pack of cigarettes. It’s time to send a message to the mash.

I take the test, again. The pee stick didn’t change its mind. And I didn’t change mine.

It’s Thursday, 18:47, and we are at war. Mash versus woman. Unborn versus living.

But if you don’t want to be a mom, you can give me to other loving people who wish for a kid, says the mash.

There are enough kids without a loving home around. What an argument. Do you think not wanting to be a mom starts with birth? Do you think it excludes being pregnant?

But think of the love I can bring you. The lifelong connection we’ll have. You’ll never be alone.

Listen, mash, I know myself very well, and it’s not that I’m a flawless human being—neither is your other half of cells, so there’s quite a chance of you becoming a real asshole.

And by the way, wanna know when I last called my mom, someone I do truly love? Four weeks ago! So don’t give me that lifelong love and shit.

The mash is quiet.

I unpack the cigarettes, Google the next steps. There are ways to end a pregnancy unpunished, but you must follow the rules to perfection. A highly choreographed ballet that doesn’t allow for one misstep.

First I will talk to some perfect strangers about my “conflict” so that they can tell me why a situation is never too fucked-up to press a child through your vagina.

Then I will wait three days before visiting a gynecologist.

Leading to…finding a doctor that can terminate the pregnancy.

The problem is, I can’t just Google a doctor, as they are not allowed to advertise this service on their websites.

So I must call them all, one by one, state my name and business, and wait for a “no, we don’t do that.”

If I’m lucky, I will stumble across a page from “pro-life” activists who went through the trouble to name and shame all doctors who offer the service. Jackpot.

As I light the cigarette, the mash starts talking again.

Don’t you think you should talk to my daddy about this? I mean, you said it yourself, you love each other, and I’m fifty percent him, and what if he really wants a kid?

I put out the cigarette.

Fuck. The mash might have a point. I do need to tell him. But what if he does want it? It will be the man and the mash against me. I’ll be outnumbered.

On the other hand, it’s not just me—it’s also my liver, which will be seriously harmed by the mash; my bladder, stomped on; my heart, which has to beat even harder; my lungs; my ankles; my knees; my skin; my vagina; my fingers, swollen…

It's me and all my organs and limbs against them.

I’ll win!

But I have to tell him anyway.

I put the sparkling and the cigarettes away. Lie down, fold my body into a ball.

Hey, mash, how big are you?

No idea, says the mash. How big is a mash of cells? No idea.

I pause, listen.

Hey, woman, if you get rid of me, how does that work?

Well, there are different ways. They’ll all be explained in step three. Most likely I’ll take a pill that forces my body to reject all the stuff you want to hold onto and then a little tube goes inside and sucks all the stuff out.

So, you hoover me out?

I guess so.

That doesn’t sound too harmful.

But maybe I won’t let you. Maybe I’ll hold on and grab your uterus and everything else and dig my fingers in, and then you can hoover like a crazy housewife and I’ll still be there. Ha.

Mash, you don’t even have fingers to hold onto anything.

The mash is quiet.

I put my hands on my belly.

Stop doing that! You said it yourself, I’m not even big enough to have little fingers.

Very true.

Hey, mash, I’m sorry. Okay.

I’m on a spaceship. I’m an alien. I’m being born. I’m in a courtroom. A massive mash cries on the witness stand. What the fuck. We have dinner. Me and the mash and my boyfriend. We have peas in white sauce. I love peas. My boyfriend tells me to be careful: if I eat a pea without chewing it, it will turn into a massive pea tree. There are no pea trees, I scream, but I also make sure to chew them very carefully. A judge bangs his little gavel on our dining table. It sounds beautiful. My boyfriend and the mash dance. Is this a tango? No idea. I chew on my peas. They dance. The gavel bangs. I see the scene from above and my eyes start to rain, and they rain and rain, and the rain becomes a river and the river washes it all away— the dinner table and the peas and my boyfriend and our little mash and the gavel and the judge. I see the plastic pee stick floating by and then the whole bathroom. And the river gets wilder and the whole room disappears, and the river washes the sky away and the stars and the little spaceship until nothing is left in the universe, just my rainy eyes.

I wake up.

My boyfriend comes with me to steps one and two. The perfect strangers tell their tale. We nod and never change our minds. The doctor explains everything. We wait three days, as dictated by law.

The mash stays quiet. I guess we’ve said it all.

In the hospital, they give me a white dress and a pill. I lie down. I count down.

Don’t hold on, I whisper to the mash.

No, I promise to let go. I think I would have loved you as my mommy. Maybe I would have even called twice a week.

I laugh. Bye, little mash. I will think of you. I promise.

Half an hour later, I’m back. Not sad. Not happy.

But me again.

Not a vase, a woman.

Not a mom-to-be. Just me. A bit older. A bit lighter.

We go home. He cooks peas in white sauce. It’s good.

***

Jeannette was a little mash once that grew into a thirty-something woman living in Berlin. In her daytime role as a creative director and storyteller, she tries to break with taboos and stereotypes and shed light on life beyond the advertising clichés. She was inspired by the shocking fact that abortion in Germany is in fact illegal and punishable by law. While working on an idea to change this sexist law—and on this story—Jeannette has listened to many, many abortion stories. Connect with her @thatjeannette.