"A Woman's Worth" by Emerald A. Behrens

A woman is defined by few things: beauty, marriage and wealth. A woman without any of these is a lost cause - may as well not be born. Every woman on earth knows she must be beautiful to attract a man and his wealth. An ugly woman can never attain a man or his wealth and thus will die, poor, miserable and alone. Perhaps an ugly woman can be saved by her parent's wealth, so that a man will marry her for the wealth he will inherit. But alas, the children will be poor, for the man only wants money. He will loathe his ugly wife, beat her and cheat on her, before leaving her to fend for herself and her children - leaving her to die in other words...

A beautiful woman will always be envied by all men and women. The husband, whose ego will be threatened by perceived competition, will ply her with gold and jewels to keep her favor. He will load her down with children to tether her to his side (though she'll have money for an immigrant nanny to watch the children while she goes shopping).

A rich beautiful woman is envied even more...

She will have everything and want for nothing.

She will never be poor or homeless.

She will never starve or die.

So it was that these thoughts ran through my mind as I had set out for my doctor's appointment.

I loathe going to the doctor. Not because of any diagnosis but because of the treatment I have to endure... the cynical stares of disapproval when I ask to be tested instead of shoved off with pills. The cold, heartless way the (male) doctors look at me as they poke and prod my body with their cold, filthy hands they have never properly washed after seeing other sick patients. The fake nods of agreement when I tell them of all the symptoms I have and ailments I have been suffering from. Doctors (men) are always doubtful of women patients.

"Women worry too much", they say. While men "keep a stiff upper lip" and "never complain"... No wonder men are never diagnosed in time as women suffer misdiagnosis after misdiagnosis.

The doctors always think I am a hypochondriac, making things up as I go along.

"What makes you think it's cancer?" They ask dubiously.

I have suddenly developed a lump (or maybe two) in the right side of my throat, after dizziness, an ear ache, sore tonsils and severe fatigue.

The doctors always brush me off.

"Well, let's put you on Predni-, to help the infection."

"How do you know it's just an infection? You didn't run any tests or scan my throat."

On and on with their excuses.

In the end, I never have any tests done.

I never fill the prescription.

They never believe me.

What if I was a rich housewife? Would the doctors take me seriously then?

I arm myself with the only armor and weapons I have: makeup and lots of gold jewelry.

It takes me and hour to figure out what to wear... how does a rich housewife dress? I think of all the women who come into the store with their husband's credit cards. They dress always in high-heels (I have none), thick makeup, nail polish, layers and layers of jewelry on their hands, wrists, necks and ears. Though their clothes are jeans and a skimpy T-shirt, they have expensive Coach bags costing thousands of dollars.

I can never measure up to this standard though I do have gold to wear...

Gold rings, gold necklace, gold bracelet, gold earrings.

I am set to go out.

. . .

Now I am supposed to be a rich housewife.

I have to change my mannerisms to fit in.

An affected accent (is it still Valley Girl or is it Kardashian/Jersey Shore/Hills now?) My expensive purse and shoes (bought at a thrift store)... all of this is supposed to elevate me in society's standards.

On the bus, I sneer at the people. Low-lifes and on welfare! Why did I have to take the bus? I should've taken a taxi! Taxies cost money though... Money I don't have.

I go to the bank for cash. $400 dollars missing!

I yell to the teller, "What the hell is going on?"

She explains the bank always holds withdraws, so that they accumulate over time in one lump sum. The same-day cashing of my health insurance Anthem Blue Cross check for $313.00 (soon to be $345 a month!) didn't help either.

"I'm done with Bank of America!" I swear and storm out.

Bills to pay. Money missing and gone. I must spend more money to keep the lifestyle I have...

I look at all the store front windows by Powell and Market street. Housewives go shopping all the time, right? They always stare at the windows of the fancy stores.

I stop and look. Nothing interests me. Then I see my reflection in the window. I don't recognize myself. It may as well have been Dorian Gray I was looking at. A stern mouth, with wrinkles that my makeup only made worse, was set in a grim line. My face was pale and still spotted with acne that was always bad, along with bruised and puffed circles under my eyes. The gold I wore was a strange contradiction to this new image, old and tired. Did I look like a rich housewife, or a tired run-down whore off the street on her way to the pawnshop? I didn't know anymore.

I had tried so hard to fit into society's expectations of a woman, that I forgot about myself entirely. It was too hard. It was too much work. I could never be the rich housewife that all women are supposed to be. I was a fake. I would never fit in. I am a poor person pretending to be rich, an imposter.

I thought of the group of girls who came into the store - dressed in thick makeup, pretending to be adults. I was worried they stole something. I confronted them. They stared at me with vacant eyes and smiles that were as fake as the nails they wore. They had no money to buy anything with. I spotted Ross store knock-offs and worn down heels all scuffed from walking. One girl had blisters on the back of her ankles from the bad fitting shoes. I knew they were all fake. They left the store, glancing nervously behind at me.

I had reserved a car for my doctor's appointment in Stanford. I was late, having stopped to get gluten-free food ($4.75!): a muffin and coffee. They didn't have a car for me. I had to cancel my appointment. I cursed the car rental people. How could they do this to me? Other people were waiting for cars. The lot was full but the rental people wouldn't free up the cars. I was sick to death of it all. I never rescheduled my appointment.

If I die of cancer, I die, that's all.

I take the subway to Market.

I suddenly have free time.

What would I do with it?

I walk to Crocker Plaza, having spied a rooftop garden that I had always seen from the street but never visited.

Inside the plaza are various high-class shops (for rich people only). I realize I can only content myself with pretending to be rich as I will never acquire any wealth in my lifetime to afford any of the items people shopped for everyday: fine purses, perfume, shoes, dry cleaning, watches, restaurants and spas. These things I can never afford.

I find my way up to the rooftop garden where a few people are having their lunch break. I look over the balcony and stare at the people down below, whose lives are pre-destined from birth and worth more than mine. Aside from the homeless, their lives are their own to control and live by. The homeless are destitute forever until they die: either by drugs or by their own hand.

I put my hands on the balcony rail, judging the distance to the ground below.

Would it be high enough to kill me if I jumped?

I thought about my life and how worthless I'd be without money. No health insurance (not that I would see a doctor ever again), no cell phones, no clothes, no food, no rent...

I may as well be dead.

What was I living for?

I put my bags down and lean over the railing.

No one would notice me if I jumped...

The sun hides itself behind a tall building and the garden is suddenly thrown in cold shadow.

It's now or never...

Behind me I can hear the sweet warbling of a humming bird as it lands on the planted garden tree.