Gabriela Wiener - Nine Moons

Over these past months , nine, to be exact, Ive come to think that pleasure and pain always have something to do with things either entering or exiting your body.

Nine months ago I didnt know that a series of events related to those entrances and exits would converge that November, the same month I turned thirty. My father was diagnosed with colon cancer, Adriana committed suicide by throwing herself from a hotel window, and I was lying in a Spanish National Health Service hospital bed, recovering from major surgery. I returned home, devastated by the news, and physically very weak. I can scarcely remember the days following my operation, two weeks during a particularly cold winter, during which Id needed Js help for almost everything. To cut my meat, to brush my teeth, and to clean my incisions.

Id had some excess mammary glands removed from beneath my armpits and I could barely move my arms. I had two enormous scars from which catheters emerged, draining dark blood. Id decided to have the glands removed because, aside from being unattractive and annoying, the doctors had assured me that, one day in the remote future when I decided to have children, they would fill with milk and cause me terrible problems. And so I decided that I should amputate what I saw as a deformity, even though my mother, with her magical worldview, insisted on reminding me that in other times, women with supernumerary breasts were burned as witches: for her, my two extra breasts could have held supernatural powers.

The surgery went off without complications but the recovery was turning out to be very difficult. On top of that, the antibiotics they had prescribed to prevent infection seemed to be burning a hole in my stomach.

On Js birthday, just a few weeks later, I was still feeling so uncomfortable that I decided to stay home. I dont tend to miss my spouses birthdays, so this was unusual. Now, in addition to intense stomach pain, I was nauseated. The next day, when it was time for me to go back to the office, I couldnt get out of bed. I was too tired. I threw up the entire morning. At noon, J called to see how I was doing, but also to give me some news.

Dont panic. Okay? The magazines closing. Its done.

My fathers prognosis unknown.

My friend throwing herself into the void.

My mammary glands hacked off.

And now I had lost my job.

J came through the door with a pregnancy test in his hand. Wed been toying with the idea for a few months, in a perpetual coitus interruptus . The true vow, before the Ill love and respect you forever part, is: I promise not to come inside you. Its the first promise that gets broken.

Theres a secret rebellion, maybe a stupid one, but a rebellion nonetheless, against the adult world, or against anything, in never having a condom in the bedside table. Ive always thought the hottest thing is that familiar scene when the lovers are just about to climax and something interrupts them. Cut short, what could have been a good orgasm becomes the best orgasm. No complete orgasm can exceed a perfectly incomplete one. Pulling out is like retiring at the peak of your career, like writing a masterful volume of short stories and then disappearing, like killing yourself at the age of thirty.

We fell silent for a few seconds looking at the indicator; its like looking at the gun youre going to use to kill yourself. A pregnancy test is always an intimidating presence, especially if youre freshly unemployed.

I had to pee in a vial, sprinkle a few drops on that white thingy while J read the instructions and finally figured out that two stripes means yes and one stripe means no. According to the box, a home pregnancy test is ninety-nine percent accurate if the result is positive, while, if its negative, theres a greater margin of error and the test should be repeated in a few days. I dont know how many times Id taken that test in my life, the result almost always negative.

Women play all the time with the great power that has been conferred upon us: its fun to think about reproducing. Or not reproducing. Or walking around in a sweet little dress with a round belly underneath that will turn into a baby to cuddle and spoil. When youre fifteen, the idea is fascinating, it attracts you like a piece of chocolate cake. When youre thirty, the possibility attracts you like an abyss.