May 23rd, 2018
When I opened my eyes, the white sterility of the hospital penetrated my pupils. A sharp pain, still slightly numbed by the anesthesia, throbbed in my belly button, stirring me from blissful unconsciousness. I looked down at the blue cotton gown resting over my chest and the waffled, white sheets that covered my cold legs.
In what seemed to be an instant after my eyes snapped open, there was a nurse scurrying over to my bedside, the words How are we feeling? dripping from her lips like rancid honey. I’m sure she felt fucking fantastic.
I gave a soft smile and pushed myself up using my arms - any movement through my core would have to wait until I couldn’t rip myself open at the seams. The only seemingly genuine response I could muster was, okay, though--of course--I was being entirely dishonest. I felt like shit. She nodded her head, flashed an encouraging smile that revealed the tiniest flicker of relief on her face. I was glad I could give her that.
The operation lasted only about an hour or so, during which time a camera had entered my body through both my belly button and the slit cut just above my pubic bone. My doctor had put in the capsule camera and scoped out my innards, finding exactly what I had known he would find. He then took a small laser and fried those tiny marks off the greater portion of my reproductive system. The official name for the procedure is a laparoscopic surgery, and though its comparably less invasive than most other surgical treatments for endometriosis, that doesn’t really make it feel any better.
The nurse moved over to the foot of the bed, making some odd remark to my mom about how I must be so strong, and I just handled this so well. Her hands grazed my feet and she started to reach for the ankles of my socks, the dull orange-pulp colored ones with the grips that they give you to change into before the surgery. As soon as I felt her fingers start to peel back the fabric, I shot upwards in protest.
It’s fine, I’ve got it. The nurse once again commented on my resilience as I pulled off my own socks and quickly shoved my feet under the sheets. I just didn’t want my mom to see the tattoo that still resides on my left heel. That’s just for me.
The rest of the clothes I had with me, the same ones I had worn just a few hours earlier, sat on the edge of the bed. The nurse turned away from my mom for a second, undoubtedly after hearing fifty-thousand questions about the recovery period, Do you want any help changing, sweetheart?
Absolutely fucking not. No, it’s fine. I’ve got it. My mom and the nurse walked outside the curtain-enclosed cocoon that separated me from everyone else just waking up. The nurse pulled the curtain completely shut, reminding me that I can ask for help if I need it; I still don’t.
It hurt to stand, but I did anyways. My legs were a little unsteady, and bending over to pull up my pants caused the most searing pain, but I got dressed within a minute.
It hurt worse to look down. I didn’t want to see the threads poking out of my skin, the little things that were keeping me stitched together. And the bruising! The bruising was fucking horrid, a mash-up of purples and yellows all blending into my abdomen. In that moment, remembering that those little lesions had been burned into oblivion was enough; I just wanted to get the fuck out of there.
I ripped the curtain back quickly, much to the surprise of the two women hovering close by. Can I just walk out of here?
While wheeling around one of those horrible, foldable wheelchairs, the nurse trails off apologetically, saying I’m sorry sweetie… There was a big, long pole sticking out of the back for IVs.
But I can walk just fine. Can I please just go?
It’s hospital regulation for you to leave in this, I’m really sorry.
Now it seemed that I was causing her some discomfort. She gave me a pitiful smile, kind of like folks do when they see you walking down the street crying.
I slowly lowered myself down into the seat, teeth pressed so hard together I thought they would crack, gripping the armrests until my knuckles turned a shock white. My mom grabbed onto the handles on the back and started to push me slowly down the hallway. We weren’t moving fast enough. I’ve got it. I grabbed onto the rims of the wheels and pushed hard, propelling myself, not without protest, into the elevator, through the lobby, out the front door.
This was it. This was the culmination of the pain that had resided within me for years. The barbed wire feeling that had once sat twisted around my uterus had been clipped away, leaving me with scars and a slightly refracted sense of self. The little red, pinpoint-sized contusions that had littered my insides were at long last gone, certainly not forever, but for now.
May 22nd, 2019
Today I check my phone to see the text from Megan. yup, I have endo.
Those four little words decimate what tiny, finite amount of hope I had for her. They found in her just what they found in me.
Dr. laurence* is a stupid ass pussy bitch, he didn’t even come to talk to me about it and discharged me without saying a word to me. Videos of the tens of IV pricks all up and down her arm are sent my way, accompanied with more harshly slanged words.
While she was under, there were numerous circumstances that led to a full breakdown on her part; she continues to lament further about how she hasn’t received any pain medication, how he just punched a fucking hole in her bellybutton, how he shaved my pussy without consent.
This is the paradox that folks with endometriosis face. Either subject yourself to the archaic standards of modern gynecology, if that’s even a viable option in terms of the current absurd costs and general inaccessibility of healthcare, or continue to suffer further on a daily basis. This daily suffering isn’t visible, leading to the blatant disregard for this chronic disease that afflicts 10-20 percent of women. Those who refuse to acknowledge and empathize with the experiences of others are the reason that hundreds of thousands of women are told they have a disease for which there is still no cure, a disease that is often brushed off as simply an overreaction or hypersensitivity.
On day before one year after my official surgery and consequent diagnosis, my friend was sobbing on her bed from the pain of the holes that had been put into her body. I feel like I can’t breathe.
May 23rd, 2019
how are you feelin’?
still really bad, she says not two minutes later.
not any better?
it’s worse today
Despite the five oxycodone she had taken already that day, as they had eventually been prescribed to her, her eyes continued to be rimmed with red. She had not slept, had no break from the agony.The tears remained pooled for days.
Now it has been a year since my surgery. The pain is periodic, no longer eating up every minute of my every day. Now it comes in small pangs, maybe a couple times a month. More than manageable.
My senior year of high school I didn’t go over my absence limit in my classes because I wasn’t busy keeling over in the hallway. I didn’t turn in an excess of work incredibly late simply because I couldn’t bring myself to unbury my face from my pillows at night. I regained some semblance of the real kind of person I am, not the one whose sole existence is pain.
♦⋄♦⋄♦
Dr. Laurence* said the anesthesia would’ve prevented Megan from remembering the results. He did not say the same to me. It comes in fractured flashes, the photos of the speckles of red all over my ovaries and uterus.
The official name for my type of endometriosis is ‘superficial’. Being told my problem--after dealing with four years of torment without relief--is deemed ‘superficial’ was the final fucking straw.
In plain terms, I was knocked out naked on a table while a man was prodding around inside my body; conceptually alone; it’s enough to make me sick. No malintent is implied on his part, but it was difficult to come to terms with the vulnerability I was going to have to subject myself simply to not feel like shit all the time, a frustration I’m sure many other folks who’ve gone through this themselves would concur.
Once I could collect myself enough, I said thank you to the doctor and moved towards the door. My mother continued to thank him. The entire way out of the hospital, it was That was so great, and The care was so straight-forward, and things of the like. I wished she would shut up.
Was I ecstatic that my pain would supposedly be obliterated for the next five to ten years? Absolutely. Was panic-induced adrenaline coursing through my veins prompting me to wheel my ass right out of the hospital? You bet.
♦⋄♦⋄♦
In a sense, I am blessed. Comparatively, my endometriosis experience was better than most. I must remember my mother, being told as a young engagé that she and my dad will never have children; I know nothing of the trials and tribulations of Lupron, waiting 16 years for a formal diagnosis, growing ovarian cysts the size of grapefruits. She soldiered on through more than I can imagine, and still managed to have two children, despite the doctors who told her it was never going to happen.
I must also remember the real value of comparison. My experience is not to be negated. Neither is Megan’s. No one should ever hear that their pain is a figment of their imagination. A good portion of uterus-owners will experience endometriosis or PCOS or some other reproductive disease, so, if nothing else, have compassion for what you cannot necessarily, but just might, understand.
Also thx for texting me, it’s made me feel a lot better because you’ve been the only one to validate what I’m upset about and you know what the pain is like… ur awesome queen and I’m sorry u had to go through the surgery too, one year anniversary of urs!
* name changed
Writing and art by Jamie Martinez: Queer, white & latina cis-woman living with an incurable illness. She/her/hers