At the risk of sounding like a self-professed “victim,” one of the things that annoys me the most about being a proud owner of my lady parts is that I find people are very quick to tell you that most of what are actually experiencing is in your head, or even worse- normal. Our emotional maturity is often held against us, and at the time of our ongoing issues, our choice to speak up is usually written off as over using our ability to recognize and appreciate our emotions. What I dislike the most about myself is that it took me so long to learn how to speak up for myself and it only takes seconds for me to go back to silencing myself.
This was all a long way to explain how I could possibly go so long tolerating the chronic pain I was experiencing. If my tolerance ever waned, a relative, a friend and eventually a doctor would remind me that my discomfort came with the lady territory and that I wasn’t alone in my discomfort. Pass the Naproxen. I honestly feel like Flintstone Vitamins pack more of a punch than Naproxen.
I even listened to the myths that claimed my pain would stop in my 20s and that a painful period would ensure that childbirth would be a breeze for me. I learned to blame my diet. I had even acquired titles like; “Dramatic,” and “Lazy.” But I always saw my situation getting better or going away all together.
At 29 years-old, my cycles last an average of 8-10 days (if I am lucky). They are offensively heavy cycles. Think a new overnight pad every 30 minutes. I also have a few fibroids chilling out on my uterus. And following the recovery of my second surgery, I find myself sitting in my surgeon’s office for my final follow-up appointment being told that my left ovary can not be repaired again should another cyst develop on that ovary. I nod my head in quiet agreement thinking to myself it was noble of him to reconstruct it anyway. The cyst did end up being larger than it appeared in all my ultrasounds from doctor visits and trips to the ER, which chronicled a simple cyst growing from 10 cm to over over 12cm. I shuffle expecting that to be the end of the appointment.
“We also got the testing in for the cyst and it did show signs of endometriosis,” he says in a matter of fact tone. I sink back into the uncomfortable examining chair and look quietly at my doctor expecting to hear that maybe that was a little humor for the road. “It was a little sticky when I think about it.”
Prior to this conversation, my surgeon was the third gynecologist to tell me that I didn’t have endometriosis. Needless to say the moment of silence was pretty awkward.
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