The Last Word On Nothing

In the early days of the pandemic, I found myself faced with a test of courage even more daunting than disinfecting groceries: peeing in the woods as a woman, and a very pregnant one, at that.

As part of the research for my book, Curious Species: How Animals Made Natural History, I had contacted wildlife biologist Brendan Clifford, who invited me (with my husband, William, in tow) to track state-endangered timber rattlesnakes in New Hampshire. By that point, I was nearly seven months pregnant with my daughter. Our drive to find the snakes would last a good hour each way, the expedition several more. We shuddered at the thought of viral clouds lingering in a gas-station restroom given the effects of the disease on gestation and gestating people—then, in May 2020, still unknown.

But pregnant women pee. They pee a lot. It’s as if your bladder has shrunk to the size of a lentil and then someone dropkicks that lentil at intervals. And so, I had to learn the art of using a pee funnel—essentially a prosthetic penis that diverts urine outward from standing position—while growing more ungainly by the day.

Devices that help women urinate while upright have existed for centuries. Their modern titles are as absurd as any other system of nomenclature in the world of feminine hygiene branding: Shewee, pStyle, Freshette, Tinkle Belle, GoGirl, Venus to Mars. I ordered three to sample. First up was the GoGirl. Pink as cotton candy, it was once exhibited by the artist Jenny Odell as a feminist twist on the famed Fountain urinal sculpture of 1917—typically attributed to Marcel Duchamp, though some scholars believe a woman made it. As a user, I’d say it can GoGirl to hell. The sides are so soft as to be collapsible, which may be nice for economically storing kitchen funnels to fill so many dispensers of olive oil but leaves something to be desired when that olive oil is urine that has suddenly tidal waved onto the floor.

Next up was the Venus to Mars. By contrast, this device was solid and sure—too much so. It felt like barefooting those rubber tire balance beams found on playgrounds, only not with your feet. My goldilocks turned out to be the aggravatingly named Tinkle Belle. Once I gained proficiency in the shower, I practiced at the toilet in the sartorial manner I’d have to use in the woods: with maternity jeans rolled down to the thigh. But I got cocky. My clothes and floor, as recompense, were soaked.

On the appointed day, we entered the forest with Brendan. He soon spoke in the code of cis-men: “I need to find a tree.” I hadn’t gone during our drive but was too nervous to meet the trees just yet. Forgoing hydration, however, wasn’t an option: a heat wave had arrived just in time for our excursion. As we dutifully sipped Gatorade and water, I knew that my woodland date with the funnel would come.

But before that, we had snakes to find. Brendan was the primary custodian of these animals, who stood on the brink of collapse in New Hampshire. Theoretically, rattlers could be anywhere around us, coiled on the forest floor beneath the bowed heads of pink lady’s slippers. An hour into our hike, Brendan told us he’d like to scout one stretch of forest for a particular tagged snake using his radio telemetry antenna.

And I knew this was my time to shine gold. Once Brendan disappeared, I parroted: “Need to find a tree.” William kept lookout. By that stage of pregnancy, my stomach was so large I couldn’t even see my simulated willy. I made the rookie mistake of aiming at a rock instead of an actual tree. Brendan arrived only moments after I stowed the device in its carrying case. By some miracle, the snake gaiters he had loaned me to protect my calves from fangs remained splatter-free.

It struck me that William and Brendan didn’t give a second thought to relieving themselves in the woods. They didn’t devote weeks of planning and preparation for this basic bodily function. They didn’t experience the sheer nervousness I felt at the attempt. Heck, their clothes were made for this. They didn’t have to worry about periods, either, the bane of extended fieldwork for many a womb-bearing researcher—although for once, I was exempt there.

They also needn’t pay mind to any aftereffects, save for some errant dribbles. Once I returned home, I’d have to sanitize the instrument. While certain aspects of a pee funnel might make navigating nature, music festivals, and public restrooms simpler for women—and they’ve been quite affirming for some trans men—I haven’t used mine since that day. That they’ve existed for so long without widespread adoption may be telling. It’s one more thing to clean, one more thing to carry and store, one more thing to forget, one more pound for the mental load.

My corporeal worries were no mere background noise to the research process. Research and writing don’t emerge wholesale out of the luminiferous ether: both are deeply physical. They begin in the field, where the personal is not effaced but instead looked head-on and felt in the bladder and cut by the thorns—though mentions of such won’t slip past peer review. They begin in labs, where long days of pipetting cause repetitive strain injury and scientists dream up the next trial shoulder to shoulder. They begin in archives, where allergens abound, hours test the researcher’s spine and eyes, and fatigue has nearly won when the smoking gun appears. They begin in homes, at kitchen tables, where babies cry and root. Intellectual labor is bodily labor.

After we said our goodbyes to Brendan, I disappeared one last time with the Tinkle Belle before departure. During the day’s first real moment of peace as the car rolled sleepily home, I held my breath and started my kick counts. It probably wasn’t long, but it felt aeonic. Then there she was, recalcitrant heel, the most profound insight of all.

And we did find that snake. She was glorious and resolute. But you’ll have to read the book to learn if she pissed herself.

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Whitney Barlow Robles is a writer and historian of science based near Raleigh, North Carolina.

Photo: Science Museum: Making the Modern World Gallery. Science Museum Group. Glass female urinal, Europe, 1701-1800.