I am writhing, twisting on the bed, turning in agony from my back to my side, and back again. I never really knew what 'writhing' meant until I actually writhed here, today, in this moment. I'm doing this weird thing with my feet - kind of rubbing them against the texture of my sheets, rhythmically. It's a thing I've never done before and I don't know why I'm doing it now. Comfort? Soothing? I'm trying to soothe myself like a baby who hums softly while they're nursing.
The pain is so bad, I can't see. My vision is fractured as each wave hits me. My hands grasp at the corners of my pillow, squeezing in tight little vice grips.
It occurs to me that I am in labor. This thought is terrifying and amusing at the same time. I've watched I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant, totally in awe of the glassy eyed woman telling the story of how she didn't feel well and had a goddamned baby in her sweatpants.
"What a moron," I'd mumble, unable to take my eyes off the car accident happening between commercials. "Oh, yeah - because the Rhythm Method has worked so well for so many."
How I'd judged these women! And now, here I was, possibly about to poop a baby onto my brand new king size bed. How would I explain that? What the fuck would I name it?
I can't take it anymore, so I get up. The pain shoots into my legs and it occurs to me that I'm dying. I thought I was dying once before: I was in the hospital and had become extremely dehydrated. I sort of wandered into the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and passed the fuck out. I could vaguely hear my hospital roommate yelling for help, followed by the harried voices of several nurses as my body was lifted magically into the air.
"I'm dying," I thought. "This is it."
I wasn't. I just needed a potassium drip.
That death would have been easy - painless; this one is not. It is exactly the way no one wants to die - writhing.
"Take me to the...hospital." My voice is soft and controlled. My breath is coming out in guttural gasps. He takes one look at me and does this panicked dance before grabbing his keys. He drives like an asshole. We arrive and I stagger into the lobby.
I hate the Emergency Room. I hate it for so many reasons. But the number one reason I hate it is because of the jerk sitting at the desk who you are forced to speak to when you arrive. It's always a lady and she always has a face that implies, I'll be the one to decide if this is an emergency.
"Can I help you?" That's what comes out of her mouth but what she's really saying is, "I can't believe you came to the emergency room."
I tell her that I am in a lot of pain. Like, the most intense pain I have ever experienced. She's not convinced. She asks what I think might be causing my pain.
"Well...I have really terrible periods. And I started my period yesterday but...this is the worst it's ever been. I think something is wrong."
And there it is - the face. She does not think this is an emergency. I sign a few things and she tells me to have a seat. 30 minutes later, I am called back by a skeptical looking nurse. It's time for triage, or, who has to deal with this one? This is where they decide if you're dying or not. It doesn't matter if you feel like you're dying.
I explain the situation - terrible periods for 27 years, always painful but this is extreme. She shows me the little drawn faces and tells me to point to the one that best depicts the amount of pain I am in. I look at them. None of them is split in half with brain matter spilling out, eyes popped out of the sockets. So I tell her, "I am in the worst pain I have ever been in. I have never felt anything like this before."
She's not convinced.
Neither is the doctor who does absolutely nothing for me. Nothing. He tells me he's read my chart and I have uterine fibroids. I confirm this. He smiles slightly, gives a little shrug. He's not taking me seriously. He drifts in and out of the room, finally offering me some oxy. I want to punch this asshole in the face, I really, really do. Do an ultrasound! Do an MRI! Maybe one of those baseball sized fuckers exploded in there or got twisted. Do something. He doesn't.
I can't prove this pain; I never could. There's nothing broken. There's no gunshot wound. No heart attack. For 28 years I've been telling people I have cramps when they ask what's wrong - why am I hunched over, breathing heavily - why is my face twisted like an angry pug?
Women express sympathy, which is nice because we're all in this together. But most women will follow that up with something like, "You know what really works for me? Chamomile tea." Oh, that's nice but unless you have a mug big enough for me to drown myself in, tea ain't gonna do shit.
Men react the way you'd expect most of them to react - total shut down.
Several months earlier, I called my doctor and said I needed something for the bad months. She is intimately familiar with my uterus and I knew she understood. But she still needed to ask the obligatory questions a doctor must ask before prescribing a narcotic. Even though I have no doubt she is on my side, I felt like I was in trial. I felt like I needed to convince her that I wasn't planning to crush and snort the vicodin or sell it to middle school kids. She approved it and guess what? It didn't do a damn thing.
Suddenly, I'm a 40 year old woman with a vicodin prescription sitting in an Emergency Room being offered oxy by a man who is not convinced of my emergency. I'm a drug seeking faker. I'm a big fat lying liar. "Menstrual cramps." Right.
I'm not telling you this so that you'll feel sorry for me. I'm just telling you because it's my unfortunate reality. Unlike the glossy tampon ads suggest, I cannot put on a white bikini and enjoy a fucking water slide during my period. I can't play tennis, I can't ride a horse, I can't have a productive conversation. And it's not something you run around talking about. It makes people uncomfortable.
How are you?
"Well, I have the shits. Did you know there's a hormone that ramps up when you have your period that gives you the shits? There is. And I've got it. Right now."
What's wrong?
"Well, I'm wearing a maxi pad the size of an adult diaper and it just failed. Like completely failed. I'm so glad we're at the mall because I need new pants."
You never want to do anything.
"I'm sorry; it's just that moving is not going to work for me because my uterus is literally trying to leave my body and it's very painful."
Why are you so tired all the time?
"Because I'm bleeding like someone shot me in the vagina."
Now you know.
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