Fully Functioning Female
Disclaimer: House and its characters do not belong to me.
Lisa sinks low in her office sofa absently rubbing her thumb against her bottom lip. It started as a low glowing pain at the small of her back and slunk forward into her lower abdomen. She vaguely recalls the stark contrast of red blood on cotton white toilet paper. On a sigh she dry swallows two small capsules scrapping them from her fist. Her bottled water sits chilled and unopened on her desk, forgotten. Slowly she closes her eyes and waits for the meds to take effect. She is a fully functioning female. Her body feels weak, her legs ache and her eyes burn under her lids. Cuddy needs a few more moments of silence to steel up her strength and enable her to finish the workday.
The analog clock on her desk ticks softly. As she sits in her darkened office trying to rest the sound grows, as if the clock is getting closer and closer. Her eyes snap open. She sighs. It is still on her desk. She really needs more sleep. Sleep.
But sleep leads to dreams, dreams filled with soft stuffed animals and small little booties; bottles and diapers and teeny tiny washcloths. She dreams of sitting in a rocker with a lovely lump swaddled in cloth resting against her breast. She would be singing softly to it and herself, feet swollen from standing pushing gently against the floor to rock and soothe the small one cradled in her arms. And it was all light and white and goodness, but most of all in these dreams there was that feeling. Deep inside there was a feeling of completeness. That this was just as it was always meant to be, that there was no other way it could be, no other path but that one, the one leading to this blissful destination.
But then she would awake. And the contrast was almost always too much for her to take. So the strong independent woman would wake sobbing soundlessly into her pillow.
Independent, she had always been so proud to do something on her own. Once she thought to attempt something there was no going back. Lisa could remember carrying her own suitcase for the first time, refusing help and winding up with her favorite dress and teddy tumbling down the stairs. Her tiny fingers fumbled with the snaps and sent her garments flying downstairs like leaves in a breeze. Not unlike now, tears stained her porcelain chin and ruddy red rims marked the casings of her true blue eyes. A shaky hand brushes aside her tears, brushing away her dreams—nonsense.
And today marks another day that she has cursed the little red drops she notes beside the date on her calendar. Blood red ink drips from her fountain pen marking yet another cycle without success. A wryly smile traces her lips at the irony of the phrase "fully functioning female," a euphemism her middle-school friend coined when they had their first period.
But the stubbornness and pride remain, perhaps they are all that is left after the emotional turmoil settled and blood has dried. Too stubborn to leave, to give up, to give up hope. Hope that one day sitting in that rocking chair won't just be a dream. That tale won't be stored in the fiction aisle, but rather history. Her thoughts rally. She is a fully functioning female; she carries her own suitcase now. She doesn't fumble the snaps anymore. And maybe it's the meds talking right now, but she finds herself believing that one day she won't fumble this either.