Could Your Painful Period Be Something More Insidious?

I’ve struggled with endometriosis since my third or fourth menstrual period at the age of thirteen. Sadly, the condition wasn’t formally diagnosed until close to ten years later. Once each month for almost ten years, I spent a day of my life doubled over in pain, wracked by a cramping uterus and intolerant bowel. Relief came only after vomiting my stomach empty and applying a hot water bottle to my abdomen. Later in the day, I could finally tolerate painkillers and a small meal.

Although I never saw a gynecologist until leaving home for college, I had often complained to medical care providers about how severe my symptoms seemed and was reassured that it was perfectly normal for girls my age – that I’d grow out of it. One gruff doctor at my university’s student health facility simply prescribed me some horse pill-sized naproxen tablets and told me to “take more if one doesn’t work.” Had I not just told her that I couldn’t keep anything down, including pills? My mother and grandmother, even after witnessing me curl my toes from the shooting pain and fall asleep in bathtubs filled to my chin with hot water, claimed they had “ones just like it” and that it would get better after I had a baby (a common myth, by the way).

My salvation came 90 days after starting my first job after college. It came in the form of a little blue health insurance card and meant that I could afford a visit to a specialist. My gynecologist observed me for four or five months before suggesting that I undergo surgery to explore my organs for endometriosis. I even tried one last stab at birth control pills, hoping they’d dull the edge of my dysmenorrhea. A couple of months after starting the pill, I called the office and told the receptionist that I needed to see the doctor again. The pills weren’t helping. Three weeks later, I was on a gurney being anesthetized for surgery.