Getting Pickled

Years ago, long before I was emotionally ready to be having sex, I thought that I was pregnant. Being very young and even more afraid I called Planned Parenthood.
The woman on the phone told me to bring in my first morning urine sample the next day.

I searched our house to no avail for a receptacle to hold the urine. Not able to find one, and certainly not able to say, “Hey Mom, what’s the best container to use to bring pee on the bus for a pregnancy test ?” I finally spotted a jar of pickles in the fridge. It seemed perfect except it wasn’t empty, or even close to being empty.
I spent the rest of the day munching on pickles, waste not want not, and then rinsed the pickle jar out and hid it under my bed.

The next morning I awoke, grabbed the pickle jar, wrapped it in a bathrobe and ran for the bathroom. Now if any of you haven’t tried to pee into a pickle jar, bare with me. It’s not easy. Except of course for you men reading. You could put my pickle jar peeing to shame I am sure. When I finally got the jar positioned between my legs (I did this while sitting on the toilet) and let go I felt a tremendous amount of relief. I peed and I peed some more. I peed like that scene in Austin Powers where he takes his first piss after he has been frozen for 30 years. It never ended, and I finally became afraid that this first urine of the morning that I needed to deliver to Planned Parenthood would spill over.

Finally I was finished. I screwed on the lid and tried to think of what sort of bag to carry this jar in.

Those plastic bags from the grocery store have handy handles, yet they are see through and notoriously thin. With visions of pee filled jars hitting the sidewalk, or worse, dropping and breaking on the public bus I decided on a paper bag.

I carefully wrapped the jar in paper towels and placed it in the bag.

For moral support, my sister came with me. We told my Mom we were going shopping. I hugged her goodbye, blinking back tears. As we were walking to the bus stop my sister asked me if I had brought my sample and I replied that yes, it was in a pickle jar in the bag I held in my hand. I can’t be sure, but I think she looked at me strange.

Our bus finally arrived and we boarded her first, then me. As I got on and paid my fare the bus driver looked at me, grinned, and said, “Hi Squirt!”

I made the mistake of looking at my sister who was already shaking with laughter.

I quickly sat down, bag in lap, contents still warm.

“He called you SQUIRT! And you’re carrying a bag of….”

“I know.”

All of the sudden this fear came over me a feeling that everyone on the bus knew where I was going and why.

At the Planned Parenthood office I waited for my name to be called and then was promptly brought back to a room.

“Did you bring your first morning urine sample?” the lady in the white coat asked.

“Oh yes.” I pulled the jar out, unwrapped the paper towels from it and showed it to her. That’s when I saw it. Something on her face that resembled a smile combined with a look of confusion.

I stammered, trying to explain that I had done as I was asked to do.

“Oh, we only needed a small sample”, she said, no longer smiling.

As she left the room I began to fear that I hadn’t rinsed the jar out well enough. After all, can you ever get that vinegary smell out? Would that change the results of the test?

I lay on the bed, gazing at the posters of puppies and kittens they put on the ceiling, wondering who selected the posters. I wondered if it would be hard to clean your ears with those really long swabs they have in a jar.

I thought about a lot of things, trying not to think about the reason I was there.

I remembered whispers, “Don’t worry, I’ll pull out.” “I can’t wear these condoms you bought, they’re too small.” “You can’t get pregnant when you have your period.”

The soundtrack of naiveté.