Curse

I was ten, a few months shy of eleven, when my period started. Unwarned (save being told too little, too soon, out of context and with a weight of embarrassment that silenced questions) I was bewildered. It happened twice, lightly, so that I could manage with tissues. The third time, forced to ask for help. I had no clue. Neither had my mother, who got me the belt and tie on pads - even less effective than it sounds, and much less comfortable. Then sent away for the big pink box. I bled all over nightgowns and sheets, sick and resentful. More, I was afraid my father would find out, and dreaded his 'teasing' me about it.

Having no other recourse, when the box came, I learned by reading all the booklets. After perhaps a year of this, I used my own meager allowance and went to the corner store. And the elderly woman who I'd grown up buying milk and candy from. With enormous shame, bought tampons. At least I got some sleep after that.

The 'maturation' class for 'just the girls', came much too late for me. When the teacher had those of us who had already started raise our hands, I remember a number of shocked looks when I put my hand up as well. Too late for maybe a quarter of us.

When I got the job at the library, with the three Barbaras*, I was very uncomfortable with their openness talking about such things. Barbara, especially, since she was in the midst of baby-fever, so I knew every shift in her period, and when she and her husband 'tried.' Not that I clearly knew what that meant, even at 17. Barbara, on the other hand, would announce when she was not to be messed with, because she was "passing clots." Now, I think that is terribly funny. Then, I wanted to crawl into a little hole and whimper.

Found books on the subject, The Curse: A Cultural History of Menstruation, by Janice Delaney for one, there were others. And less specifically, Sex in History by Reay Tannahill. Amazed me that women wrote about this, and I sought out any detail. Thank you Mary Roach, for Bonk. If I'd only had the internet...

Eventually, I got jaded about the subject. When drill sergeants told us to use tampons for our elbows for rifle practice, I suppressed giggles just like everyone else. He meant napkin/pads, but who was going to correct him? We had to show that we had a ziplock baggie with sanitary supplies, left cargo pocket, at all times. Thankfully, my periods stopped during Basic, others bled the whole two months. In other barracks in further training, I could get a tampon in, by my bunk, without being obvious, just tucking in my shirt maybe. Lived in my skin.

Then, there was nursing school. In a computer lab, one of the assigned videos was the excision of a bartholins cyst. Huge close up. Labia for days. Taken aback, but knew I had better deal, I watched. And my fellow students and I made nervous jokes about the impact of those images, in public, when unexpected. We all had to adjust. By the time I scrubbed in on gyn surgeries, no big deal.

My job is to handle all the socially unacceptable circumstances of illness and injury. Matter-of-factly and reassuringly. I've removed pessaries and tampons from women, after anesthesia has hit. I wipe bums and snotty noses and mop up vomit. Once put a foley catheter in a man who was going into urinary retention, while he was standing. (Long story, but it was the best way.) Because those times are when we most need to be accepted, seen as human, worthy of dignity, guarded from those who would scorn our vulnerability. When we can't keep ourselves clean, we need someone to help, to be competent, have warm water,soap and a towel ready.

Worked with a guy, surgical tech, often talked about his daughters. Mother long gone, and for the best. He'd had a plan, for when they started their periods. He went to the store, got one of just about everything. Put them in the bathroom. Told them, "keep the packages of whatever you want to use, and I'll get more." They would talk to him about their discomforts, go to him for help. He didn't pry, let them tell him or not. Told this to a room full of older women, and we all thought his daughters terribly fortunate. He was a good guy, and his story was entirely consistent with his work and how he treated everyone.


And at this end of my fertile life, I am who I needed when I was ten. Without going into gory detail, or dumping it on the naive, I mention the state of my hormones with the import of a headache. Freely to the people I work with - they all are used to the messiness of the human body as well. And to the tiny bit of the public that stops by here. Thanks, by the way.

I can take care of my own human leaks, now. I've learned to appreciate that those damn ovaries have protected my connective tissue and cardiovascular health. Not quite so useless, after all, even to me. And that is what I would tell myself, at ten. That it's not just for having babies. And that mosquitos won't bother me so much once the hormones kick in.

Just for that, I think I could have been more stoic as a kid, fewer itchy red bites all summer. Never made the connection, then.






*Barbara Fox, Oas and Williams.