Page 115 of Overtime
I bark out an awkward laugh that makes my abdomen spasm painfully. “Mom, please stop. If you keep saying absurd stuff like that, I’ll have to laugh, and it makes my womb hurt.”
“Then, what is wrong with your…” With a frown, she leans down and whispers, “Nether regions?”
Where’s a black hole when you need one to swallow you whole?
“My uterus, mother. You know my periods are murderous.”
Her whole face, so much like Meg’s, with slim cheeks and a pointy nose, scrunches up. “To the point of fainting?”
I sigh. “Yes, this isn’t the first time.”
“What do you mean by that?”
At the edge in her voice, I realize that, uh, yeah… I made teenage Meg swear she’d never tell our mother, and Meg happens to be really good at keeping secrets. She’s turned it into a professional career, even.
So, nine years later, I finally confess the whole story to Mom. One afternoon, some months after I’d gotten my first period, Meg and I were alone at home. I had a really bad pain episode and basically dropped like an anvil in the middle of a conversation with my sister. Cue her panicking, thinking I’d just spontaneously died on her, until I came to a few minutes later.
Of course, being a responsible person, Meg wanted to tell Mom the second she walked through the door. But I was twelve, okay? Everything about periods was extremely embarrassing, and we both knew Mom’s capacity for making a whole mountain range out of a molehill. I begged Meg to not say anything unless it happened again, and it didn’t. She sort of forgot about it.
Except I didn’t. Knowing that, with every period, I could get pain so severe I could lose consciousness has made me walk oneggshells every month—or whenever my dang period does end up arriving. I have to walk closer to furniture, move slower, do less, and I’ve been okay taking all those precautions.
Until today, when I thought I could outrun a whole elite athlete. Or rather, not him, but my feelings for him. I simply have Mom’s talent of making a whole mountain range out of a molehill. The time has come to accept that I truly am her daughter.
When I finish the tale, Mom’s jaw is dropped. “Maddie! Why did you never say so?”
“I have.” I know I sound like a whiny baby, and I don’t care. “I’ve told you a million times my periods are extremely bad, and you never believed me.”
“You never said they’re bad enough to faint!”
“Well, you should’ve just taken me at my word! You and every doctor who’s thought I was exaggerating for attention!”
“Shh! This is a hospital, for goodness’ sake.”
We both shut up at the admonishment. I hide under the blanket, but Mom has nowhere to go, so she sits there, her cheeks as red as apples and wearing an expression that says this is far from over. But as far as I’m concerned, it is. I’m done telling her my body hates me. And I’m even more done talking to her about anything and having her dismissing it.
The silence between us stretches unbearably until a doctor shows up at the foot of my bed. He grabs a chart, scans it quickly, and joins Mom at the side of the bed.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Pranad, RE.”
“RE?” Mom and I ask at the same time. We exchange an annoyed glance.
“Reproductive Endocrinologist.”
Mom draws in a sharp breath, and I cut in before she talks. “Mom, for the last time, I amnotpreg?—”
“She’s not pregnant,” the doctor says with a nod. “But she may need a gynecologist who also specializes in hormones. That’s me.”
“Oh.”
While Mom eases back in her chair, I sit up straighter. “Hormones? Do I have a problem with my hormones?”
“Maybe. We’ll run some tests starting now if you’re up for it.”
“Oh, I am so up for it.” Tears brim in my eyes as if on cue. “I’m so ready to finally figure out what the hell is wrong with me.”
“Madeline, language!”
“Fine, Mother. I will express myself in clearer terms.” Turning to the doctor, I ask, “Dr. Pranad, can you please help me find out what in the actual hell is wrong with me?”
