About two years ago, my period started just ten days after my last period ended. Since the birth of my second child, I have always had short cycles, three weeks which were annoying but tolerable. But 14 days is a cycle? Half the average? No.
Then my periods got worse. Worse. I became tired and sore. I couldn’t hide my cramps. I often bleed through my moon cup and period underwear within an hour or two. This is every 10 days. It suddenly made sense when my doctor finally discovered that the growing fibroids had taken over half of my uterus, but the medications were only making the problem worse. And because of my (I quote) “With a large uterus” I am not a candidate for any type of common surgery such as ablation or D&C.
I quickly thought about my mother, who is about the same age as me, when her periods were so heavy, frequent, and intense that she had to go to the hospital. Everything doctors offered to fix the problem — high-dose birth control pills, D&Cs, ablations, IUDs — failed to truly relieve the symptoms. I think of my grandmother, whose decade-long menopause remains a family legend. Both of them started menstruating at 11 o’clock. Like we all go through a terrible time in our 40s.
And then I thought about what they said to me at one point: “If I could go back and not go through this, I wish I had a hysterectomy when the problem started.”
Many people have very mixed feelings about this surgery, which can cause serious harm even if the uterus is in bad shape. It is an organ often associated with femininity and motherhood. For many people my age who undergo hysterectomies, the surgery is the final chapter in a painful infertility journey. Before I tell you how excited I am, I want to acknowledge this harsh and complicated reality. My upper cervical partial hysterectomy is scheduled for December. On our family sunroof calendar, it’s titled “Jamie’s uterus starts to get inflamed.”
“I’m grateful for her service,” I said at the dinner table about the uterus. “She had two wonderful children. But the house is now abandoned and it’s obviously haunted.
I thought through my experiences and what they saw secondhand on this journey. Moaning on the couch. There was blood everywhere and it was embarrassing. Celebrate the end of it all.
Yes, these are conversations my family has at the dinner table, and that’s intentional. My husband and I have always believed that any topic can be explained to a child to some extent, paving the way for more detailed and nuanced conversations later. Now that our kids are 13 and 10, we are making good progress on many topics. But recently, the age of my children has given me pause. Well, one of their ages.
My daughter (they/she) is 10 years old. Amid the din of my car, I didn’t realize that my daughter was on the verge of becoming more familiar with their car.
Then it occurred to me that they had seen that journey vicariously through my experience. Moaning on the couch. There was blood everywhere and it was embarrassing. Celebrate the end of it all. I thought about how sweet they always were, offering me tea, hugs, and sympathy when I had a really bad period. And then I think back to my first period, when I felt – maybe stupidly, maybe not – that I felt connected to the generations of people who lived through it, and wondered if I was going to ruin it for them everything?
My first period was the day of my fifth grade graduation party at school. (It was a token moment when an editor might declare “a bit stuffy.”) I remember trudging to the nurse’s office to get a pad stuffed with toilet paper, and then getting annoyed, but I also remember that I didn’t I’m proud to know that any other girl gets her period, and at 11 years old I’m probably the first to feel grown up, but here’s the proof.
Of course, the novelty wears off quickly, but the first period feels special. I It feels very special. I joined the ancient and legendary community of menstruators! This makes sense to me – it feels ancient and magical rather than only Because fifth grade was the beginning of my witchcraft phase.
Because even if it’s ephemeral, it’s fundamental. Even if eventually, 30 years later, they become at least the fourth generation in our family to have a haunted womb, I still don’t want to take away the initial excitement. I don’t quite know how to tell them, “That’s not all.” Or, “This is annoying, but also powerful.” Or, “Please don’t let this scare you,” or, “Even if it does scare you , I’ll be with you through this too.” Did my experience give them a negative attitude toward physical development? How does this affect not only their perspective on periods, but also their perspective on women and femininity, especially as a non-binary kid who still loves all things girly?
So I did what I always do when I don’t know what to say; I just started talking.
“Hey! I hope I didn’t scare you! It turned out to be much more refreshing than I thought it would be, and it didn’t confuse my kid, but it was still confusing.
“… What?”
“Like…my terrible period.”
“What do you mean?”
What do I mean? “Well, I don’t want you to worry your period. one day. When you get them. Because, like, they’re not always funny, but they’re usually not…this.
The puzzled expression lasted for a moment longer before brightening.
“Oh! I’m actually really excited about it.
Genetics are weird and don’t always work the way you expect. Maybe my child will get her period at 11, maybe not. Maybe their midlife menstrual experience will be nightmarish, maybe not, and maybe by then medicine will have figured out a better solution. But at least now, in the preparation phase, they have that spark of excitement for what’s to come, just like I did when I was 10 years old. Even though my daughter and I are not in the same phase at the same time, in some larger, corny, fifth grade witchcraft phase kind of way, we are still together.
