My Clock Is Ticking
Cathy Deutsch
Word Count 429
“My clock is ticking!” Marisa Tomei whined, stomping her very high-heeled foot on the porch. Years ago, when I had a working uterus, I transcribed that scene from “My Cousin Vinny” on the back of a paper napkin, repeatedly reversing my VHS until I captured it correctly. Afterward, I would practice it in front of my mirror until I got her sass just right.
Today I am not pumping a pair of heels but rather lying in my hospital bed post-hysterectomy and all I can hear is the loud tick of the second hand of the large wall clock beside my bed. It seems to deliberately taunt me second by second, louder on the upswing, quieter as it winds down to the 6 at the bottom.
My uterus just got up and quit a few years ago, starting its slow slide out of my body like a deflated balloon with no more joy. When it announced itself at the entrance of my vagina there was nothing to be done but remove it. It's just not right to carry her around like that. I tick no more, at least not with this timepiece designed to shut down at just the right year to release women from the arduous feat of childbearing.
I figure as women we have two tickers–the heart, of course, which we hope will last like the vital engine it is until we are like old cars on a used lot and the womb which carries us on its monthly tide of menstruation. As girls, and then as women, we would call it “the curse” but if I'm honest, I'll admit that I liked getting my period. I liked counting the days, knowing that there was something reliable happening in my body, that even if inconvenient, was magical, letting out ruby red jewels of sustenance that couldn't be used. Non violent purposeful bleeding felt elemental and powerful, an affirmation that we are indeed animals and connected to all things mammal.
So now I'm left with my heart, my sole clock that etches out the passage of time not in circles (oh, wouldn't that be grand) but in a straight line to the end which remains mysterious. I am no less animal or woman but perhaps now tuned differently, listening a bit more intently to this small quiet ticking, hopefully moving slowly and with grace to the end of my time.
Cathy is a freelance writer, essayist, former restaurant columnist, and word game enthusiast. She recently published an essay for The Inside Press, where she is a regular contributor, on her beloved Rolling Stones, In Honoring Charlie Watts, which got national attention and filled her cup. She has also been featured in the online blog Storytelling at Work.