The Word of Maud

She proudly raised my five-year-old x-rays up to the light that shone through her grand, ivory-colored office, illuminating what she suspected to be true. “See?” she said. “It wasn’t me. I never would’ve made a mistake like that.”

It was the first time I felt relief rather than anxiety from the woman who fixed my double uterus when I was 17. Unfortunately, we met again under the unfortunate circumstance of investigating a botched appendectomy by my hometown hospital. They tried to blame her, and I pity anyone who attempts to go against Dr. Maud.

She was right, but then again, I knew she probably would be. Maud was right about most things, and her reputation proved it. Baby maker, fertility magician, no-nonsense bitch.

While we sat and absorbed her perfect hand–that which we drove an hour to prove–the conversation finally, for once, turned light. She asked about college, about my future plans. She asked if I had a boyfriend, and I told her I no longer did. “That’s great,” she said. “Let me tell you something. Life is short, and marriage is very, very long. Remember that, Kara. It’s one of the longest things you’ll ever do, so don’t be in a rush. Have fun–use a condom!–but have fun. Don’t let any boy tell you, ‘Oh I don’t want to, let’s not,’ just take it off the table if that happens. Trust me, they’ll deal with it. They’re boys.”  

My mom and I laughed harder than I thought we ever would in that oval office, as her framed desk photo with George W. Bush smiled back at us. 

I remember a lot of hard and confusing times in that place, but I like to remember Maud that way. Glowing in the light of her own confirmation bias, knowing how many women she’s helped, knowing what we need to hear. 

I wonder what she’d say to me now.