|I don’t know who to give credit to for the photo. But this would be me. On my period. (Ok, not really me. I have blonde hair.). http://www.i-mey.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/menstrual-cycle-disorders-in-women.jpg|
Alright. I’m going to vent a little bit today about something I’m not supposed to talk about.
Or at least blog about.
Or at least post about on social media.
It’s my (stupid, stupid) period.
(Please don’t judge me for blogging about this!)
So — my male readers — it’s time to say goodbye to this post. You really don’t want to know what’s in this post. I promise. So — let’s just leave it to the girls. Sound OK?
Alright girls — now that the guys have left (right, guys?? Wait — you still haven’t left yet. OK, for real this time. Adios!)
Ok girls. Can I just say, my period sucks. I mean really, really sucks.
It all changed with Olivia.
Ever since she entered my world (or rather, exited it), my monthly has gotten worse, and worse, and worse. I hate it.
When I was young, I used to have terrible cramps the day AF arrived. I remember being at school in 7th grade, laying on the cot in the nurses’ station, and in such incredible pain. It was my very first period. The nurse gave me pain meds to take at the water fountain. Being the klutz I am, I dropped them in the fountain. (Ewww.) Desperate for relief, and convinced they wouldn’t give me another pain pill, I took it anyway. Almost 20 years later, I can still remember the awful taste of half-dissolved aspirin clinging to my taste-buds for the rest of the day. (Double ewww.)
And that’s how AF started — and it didn’t get too much better.
I went to a high school that MUST have been run by the most Type A person to ever walk the planet. According to their rules, in order for a student to receive ANY medicine, the nurse not only had to have a parental note of approval. They must also be able to get a verbal OK from the parent prior to dispensing the medicine.
(My principal must have been male. No respectable woman who knows what it’s like to feel like your insides were getting squeezed to death and subsequently being shoved out your vagina, would ever, ever have such a ridiculous policy on pain meds.)
And so, in the cave-man days of life before cell phones, I would go to the nurses’ station, doubled-over in pain. They would pull out the ibuprofen, pull out the notice from my mom, and then proceed to call the home phone. 9 times out of 10, my mom was not home. And we had no answering machine. The ibuprofen would get put away unopened. So, back to class I went, hunched over the hallway rails, trying to appear somewhat normal.
I remember one time I told them I couldn’t go back to class. And I begged for the medicine. Instead, they laid me up in the vice-president’s office on a cot (who thankfully, vacated the office to give me privacy. Gosh, how embarrassing.). Unfortunately, that day we had a bomb threat (go figure), and we all had to wait outside while the police and firefighters came and searched the high school. And so, I sat their on the curb, in tremendous pain. I wanted to die. But I would’ve settled for going home.
Looking back, the logical thing to have done was just to sneak in the pain meds and take it when I needed without telling anyone. But I was too goody-goody. And so were my parents. (Although I think after the bomb threat incident, we may have come to this.)
And so — I started birth control at a youngish age, hoping to get control of these periods that were clearly out of control.
And things got better. I stopped the pills after Maddy, and haven’t gone back on them. And thankfully, after Maddy, AF naturally got easier, and the crazy cramps officially became a thing of the past.
Since my ectopic, my period has become intense. I clot like crazy. I can feel it oozing out of my body, and it feels like I’m bleeding out (even as I know I’m not.)
I spot for 5-7 days before my period. Then it hits. BAM. And everything (everything) tries to come out all at once. I will pass large clots, and a ton of smaller ones. I have given up entirely on tampons as they just leak, and I end up with a mess. I have to wear a pad anyway when I use a tampon. I hate pads, but it’s the only way I can prevent accidents.
I have had horribly embarrassing moments of bleeding through clothes in public.
I have this horrid day of intense bleeding. Then it slows. And then I spot for another 3-5 days.
In all, I have had months where I was spotting/bleeding for literally half of the month. HALF! It’s so ridiculous.
And this week, it was just so much worse. I almost woke up Ryan last night to tell him to take me to the ER. I was soaking through pads in less than an hour. I was constantly passing clots on the toilet.
I hoped it would get better this morning, but it started out with a bang just like yesterday. And the whole time, I just feel like crap. I feel weak, and crampy. Chilled to the bone. Exhausted. And all I want to do is just lay down with a heating pad, pumped up on pain meds, for a whole day. With no responsibility.
But that never is the case.
If the physical part weren’t bad enough — seeing blood from my body is very emotional for me.
Blood triggers memories of every single freaking time I bled in pregnancy and lost the baby. And every time I push a clot out, I remember pushing out the grayish pink tissue with Olivia. I remember staring at it in the bag I used to save it, on the floor, convinced it was my baby, and overcome with horrible wailing and grief. I remember pushing out 6 big clots in a row with Elliott, at a gas station. And then flushing him down the toilet. Then getting up, and seeing blood all over the floor. How the heck did I get blood all over the floor??
I remember hemorhaging with Maddy at 8 weeks. How it felt like someone had poured a glass of water down my pants. But it wasn’t water it was blood.
I remember bleeding like crazy on the plane to go to my Grandma’s funeral.
Gosh, I hate blood.
OH– and in spite of every rational thought to convince me otherwise — I SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO want to be pregnant. So very badly.
And every single period is a stupid reminder that I’m not. That I have to wait again. Another month. Another two weeks. Another test. Another heartache. Another disappointment.
Have I told you recently I hate my period?