Period

by Kate Farrell

  AS I RAN, I THOUGHT ABOUT HOW ALL OF US HAVE BEEN EFFECTIVELY SOCIALIZED TO PRETEND PERIODS DON’T EXIST.

  I remember thinking, My body has my back so hard right now. The female body is incredible. We haven’t even stopped running once. I want us to finish strong. We didn’t stop running once.

  FINISH LINE

  The 2015 London Marathon was everything for me. I trained for a year and then it happened and it really was an incredible, unforgettable thing. We ran for women who can’t show their periods in public and for women who can’t compete in athletic events. We ran for our friends who have suffered through period cramps while doing work, and for women who have survived breast cancer. We ran for those who are afraid to bleed because of their gender identity. We ran in solidarity side by side and we crossed the finish line hand in hand.

  To this day, I analyze a lot of what I do against how I felt during the marathon. I recall the strength to channel positivity and to value working as a team over working individually. I think about goal-setting and executing. I think about pain and fear, and what it feels like to overcome them. And I think about feminism, body positivity, and having the ovaries to practice what you preach.

  I Can’t Walk but I Can Bleed

  SANTINA MUHA

  I want to start by saying that while I may be in a wheelchair, I’m only definitively speaking for myself here. I can tell you how I do things. Just like people who can walk all handle their periods differently, all have different preferences and symptoms and flows, so do people who can’t walk. For example, I have full use of my arms and hands, and am considered very high functioning. I live alone, shower on my own, get myself dressed, etc. People with higher levels of injury than me, such as quadriplegics, often need assistance with daily routines, and so they may need more assistance when they’re menstruating. So while I can make some assumptions about what it’s like to have your period as a girl in a wheelchair, I never want to seem like I’m speaking on everyone’s behalf in any way. But, since I’m here, I may as well tell you a little bit about how I deal with my period in my situation.

  A car accident when I was almost six years old severed my spine at the T-11 level, which means I am paralyzed at the eleventh vertebrae of the thoracic level, or more simply, from the waist down. In elementary school, this never really seemed to matter. Actually, it kind of made me cool because young kids love riding things with wheels. I rode to school in my own special bus and I got to skip gym whenever I wanted. And because my insurance company had to make my house compliant with the ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act), my bedroom and personal bathroom were huge, bigger than my parents’. Yes, that’s right, I had my own personal bathroom at the age of seven. I felt a little bit like a celebrity.

  Kids would ask me dumb questions, because they were kids, and I’d be excited to answer them because I felt like I was smart and experienced. Questions like: “How do you sleep if you’re in a wheelchair?” And I’d say, “Well, I transfer into my bed and lie down and sleep, just like you! Want to see?” And then I’d show them how I transfer and I was seriously the coolest.

  But then came middle school, which was a weird time for me because that’s when kids start to want to blend in. I was a young girl just trying to be like everyone else, yet I was the only girl in my school in a wheelchair. Pretty ironic how the girl in the wheelchair can’t help but stand out, huh?

  Being in a wheelchair in middle school still drew a lot of attention from kids, but not the cool attention I was used to. Now they were asking me questions I didn’t know the answers to yet, like: “Can you have sex?” How was I supposed to know? I was twelve! I didn’t know what was working down there or how. I had had several surgeries on my stomach area and even my bladder, but as far as I knew, my ovaries and all that were in normal shape. I mean, there was no chapter in fifth-grade health class about paralyzed girls, so I just assumed everything they were teaching the class applied to me.

  No one had ever taken me aside, no doctor had ever mentioned it to me, and my mom had never given me any warnings that I might be different. So when my friends started getting their periods, I got excited because I knew mine must be coming soon. And I knew that would make me just like my friends again. Well, at least in one category of life for one week of every month.

  I remember one weekend when I was in sixth grade, my BFFJES (Best Friend For Just Elementary School) was sleeping over and she got her period and my mom had to get her a clean pair of pants to wear. I was so jealous. At pool parties that summer a few girls would say they couldn’t go swimming because they were on their periods. They whispered it and pretended to be embarrassed about it, but you could totally tell they were secretly bragging.

  I still hadn’t gotten mine yet, but I was holding strong. I wasn’t afraid. I honestly can’t remember a time when I thought being paralyzed would affect whether or not I’d get my period. Also, it’s worth it to note that back then I was less afraid of everything. Not only did I never think being in a wheelchair would affect my dating life, but I thought I would actually marry Luke Perry (aka in my day Dylan McKay on Beverly Hills, 90210; currently aka Archie’s dad on Riverdale). If periods were a thing we didn’t get until we were in our twenties, I probably would have started worrying about it every day starting on my twentieth birthday. Because now I worry about everything! But then I didn’t.

  And then, one day, one glorious day that I can’t remember at all but it must have happened because I totally have my period, I got my period! I seriously cannot remember a thing about it. I didn’t celebrate or have a period party. My mom didn’t buy me a “becoming a woman” gift. I always used to ask my mom how old she was when she got her period and she’d say, “I don’t remember—thirteen? Fourteen?” I couldn’t believe she couldn’t remember this monumental moment of her life. And now, if you ask me how old I was when I got my period, I say the same exact thing. It had to be sometime around that age, though, because in seventh grade my boobs were an A cup, and in eighth grade they were suddenly a C cup. I also got my braces off and started wearing makeup then. It was a real She’s All That year for me. I’m sure I secretly bragged every chance I got for the next few months so the world would know I was officially a woman (which is delusional because now, almost twenty years later, I still don’t know if I’m officially a “woman”). But at the time I thought that was it. It was official.

  Of course at the time I was a teenager, and I was one of those terrible teenage girls who are so happy and fun around their friends, but so exasperated and humiliated and angry around their mother and close family members. I’d say I wasn’t bad enough for my mom to take me on the terrible teens episodes of The Maury Show, but I was bad enough for her to make me watch those episodes when I got home from school. So since I was already angsty and sad and angry every other minute, I wasn’t too mad about having PMS. If anything, I liked it for giving me an excuse for being a little bitchy at least twelve weeks of the year. It wasn’t until my teenage brain started to mellow out a little that I could feel the contrast of emotions during that special time of the month. I started to hate PMS. And this is where being paralyzed comes back into play.

  Our bodies do this amazing thing where they send us signals when we’re in pain. But there are certain areas of my body that I can’t feel as well as others. Don’t think this gets me out of cramps. If I’m experiencing menstrual pain in a part of my body that I can’t “feel,” my body will sort of redirect the pain to a place where I can feel. A more technical term for this is autonomic dysreflexia. Autonomic dysreflexia typically affects people with a slightly higher level of injury than I have (more like T-6), but I have experienced some symptoms. For example, when I was younger, I fractured my femur. I couldn’t feel the pain in my leg, so I didn’t know I had injured myself, but then I started experiencing chills, a fever, a terrible headache, and blurry vision. These same things occur when I have a urinary tract infection. And when I’m having a particularly bad month in the menstruation departme
nt, these same symptoms can pop up then.

  If you think about it, you can imagine how confusing and frustrating this might be. Whenever I get a very bad headache, not only do I have to ask myself if I drank enough water today or am I stressed out or any of the usual suspects that cause a headache, I also have to inspect my body to make sure there are no obvious breaks or bruises or issues below the belt. What this means for my period is that most months I have the pleasure of feeling cramps in the parts where I can feel, then a migraine from the parts that I can’t feel as much. Cool, right?:-/ I mean, I guess it really is cool and amazing that our bodies do that, but also I wouldn’t mind catching a break and not feeling the pain at all!

  When my body is going crazy, feeling pain and sending it to different places, my brain gets confused and then I get agitated and that’s when all the worst stuff starts happening. Like that feeling where if you killed someone, you think you could probably get off on insanity because your brain doesn’t even feel like itself in that moment (I’m exaggerating—please don’t think I’m a killer, but you know what I mean).

  Sometimes I used to get so mad and I’d know it was too mad. I could still hear that rational part in my brain that’s like, “Um, I think we’re overreacting right now.” But my period brain is strong. She’s like, “WHAT?? YOU THINK WE’RE OVERREACTING? OH REALLY? SO SOMEONE TAKES THE LAST STRING CHEESE THAT YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO EAT (or insert dumb thing to be mad about here) AND YOU JUST WANT US TO MOVE ON AND NOT LET THEM KNOW HOW THIS MADE YOU FEEL?!?! HOW WILL THEY EVER LEARN? ARE YOU A PUSHOVER? DO I LIVE IN A PUSHOVER’S HEAD? I DON’T THINK SO.” And then my rational brain is like, “Okay, okay, you win. Go nuts.”

  Period brain intimidates rational brain every time. I got on birth control way before I started having sex for this reason. My gyno said it could help with symptoms. I don’t know if it did. I have no idea. But I’m still on birth control to this day, mostly because I’m afraid if I go off of it I’ll experience terrible hormonal symptoms and that terrifies me. On the flip side, though, birth control can increase your chances of forming blood clots, which I’m already at risk for in my situation, so I’m starting to explore my options in regards to this.

  Then there are the things I have to think about when it comes to my method of stopping the blood flow. When I was younger, I used tampons much more than I do now. I learned how to use tampons like many girls do, I think—from a friend. In my case from my best friend, Cindy, who was one year older than me. Cindy was on the other side of my personal bathroom door, giving me verbal instructions in real time. It took a few tries, but I finally got it. My other best friend, Jen, who was a year younger than me, recently reminded me that I was the one who taught her how to put in a tampon over the phone, so I guess that proves my theory. Also, neither Cindy nor Jen are paralyzed, so that goes to show putting in a tampon is pretty universal. It’s interesting that I made Cindy stand on the other side of the door, because she’d been in the bathroom with me hundreds of times when I peed. But for some reason, this was a more private—maybe even sacred—event. To this day, when a friend and I go into a restroom as a pair, I don’t think twice about them being there while I’m peeing, but when I have my period I ask them to turn around. I know as a fellow ovary carrier they’ve seen period blood. And I don’t know why my brain makes it more gross than pee. I guess because it’s messier? Either way, I usually warn them it looks like a zombie movie down there and could they please just face the door for a minute? As I was writing that, I was thinking, “Is that TMI?” but then I realized everything I’m telling you is TMI and that’s why you’re reading!

  So let me explain why I’m more of a pad girl now. Neither are comfortable. But tampons scare me. I try to stay away from illnesses that give you confusing symptoms, since I already have enough of that going on, and that’s exactly what toxic shock syndrome (TSS) sounds like it does. I know TSS is very rare, but it is associated with tampon use, and I don’t want to risk it even if it’s never going to happen. I already have to be very careful, as someone living with a spinal cord injury, to pay attention to my body and look out for signals of autonomic dysreflexia. I don’t want to increase my chances of anything else, because I may not recognize the symptoms and just chalk it up to my body reacting to my period, sending signals everywhere. Although now that I’ve Googled it and I know I can get TSS from bacteria getting in my bloodstream even if I’m not wearing a tampon, I’m probably going to be scared I have it all the time.

  So I basically just stick to pads. (No pun intended. Just kidding—pun always intended.) I’m sitting most of the time anyway, so I don’t have to worry too much about my butt looking bulky. Also, and I guess this is one of the advantages to being in a wheelchair when you get your period, if there’s any accidental bleed through, you can’t really see it because you can’t see my behind area. (Which usually I’m mad about. Thank God I have big boobs to make up for it. I may not be pulling in any butt guys, but I got those boob guys on lock.) Also, while we’re on the subject of bleeding through, here’s a pro tip in case you didn’t know it—hydrogen peroxide gets out bloodstains really well.

  So I guess having my period is mostly the same for me as it is for someone who isn’t paralyzed. One instance where I wish I could walk is when I’m not expecting to get it and I sit on the toilet to pee and realize, oops, I got my period. I can’t get up and run to my room and grab a clean pair of underwear. But I just need to plan ahead a little. I try to always keep a clean pair of underwear in one of the drawers next to my toilet, along with pads, baby wipes, and a towel. Being in a wheelchair calls for a lot of thinking ahead. And because I always carry a “just in case” bag on my wheelchair, I always have pads and tampons on me. And hair ties. And gummy candy. Okay, I’m a rolling CVS.

  I HAVE NO PROBLEM TELLING A ROOM FULL OF PEOPLE, MALE AND/OR FEMALE, THAT I’M ON MY PERIOD. IT’S A PART OF LIFE. IT’S LITERALLY A PART OF THE CREATION OF LIFE.

  Sometimes we think of periods as a humiliating thing. But we shouldn’t. I mean, was I embarrassed that Christmas when my dog dragged my bloody pads out of the garbage and into the living room for all to see? Of course. And thank you to my mom for cleaning that situation up as quickly as she could. But about half the population gets their period. I have no problem telling a room full of people, male and/or female, that I’m on my period. It’s a part of life. It’s literally a part of the creation of life. It’s not an easy thing to deal with every single month. But as much as I complain about my period when I have it, I guess there’s a part of me that likes it, or at least appreciates it. There are too many conversations I don’t feel like I can fully participate in with my girlfriends already, such as how bad their feet feel after a day of walking around in heels, or how hard it is to hover over a public toilet, or how they don’t feel like getting something because it’s all the way upstairs. But I can trade stories with my girlfriends about heavy flows and PMS-y moments. I can cancel a thing I didn’t really want to do anyway because my cramps are too much, just like they do. I can be late and wonder if somehow, someway, even though we did everything right, I could be pregnant. So yes, in many ways I’m different. But for better or worse, I can complain about my period with the best of them. And I think that’s pretty great.

  There’s a First for Everything

  INGRID NILSEN

  Experiencing a first in life is always memorable—whether it’s your first day of school, first kiss, or first loss of a loved one. Firsts are often signifiers of one door closing and another door opening. They are powerful new beginnings that will shape us in ways that are only revealed to us through the grace of time. So, as someone who has now been menstruating for almost fifteen years, I’m able to look back on some of my period firsts in ways I never have before. My period, as annoying, frustrating, and painful as it can be sometimes, has taught me so much about my body and my life. Here are three pivotal, bloody moments.

  MY FIRST TIME

  At fifteen, I was the last per
son in my circle of friends to get her period. I had been faking it for about a year, not wanting to be left out of the “What do you use?” and “Ugh, cramps suck!” conversations. These seemingly small, mundane interactions were ultimately moments of sincere bonding among girls around me; something I noticed and felt excluded from. So every day, I wished and prayed that I would receive the keys to this ultra-elite kingdom. I thought the day would never come—until it finally did.

  Menarche came for me on a Saturday. I woke up thirsty, so I went downstairs in a sleepy daze and poured myself a glass of orange juice. My underwear felt kind of wet, which was a little weird, but I brushed it off as standard vaginal discharge. I had been so vigilant and on “period watch” for so long—there was no way this was that moment.

  I had every intention of getting back into bed but went to the bathroom for a quick pee. It was early in the morning and the sun was just coming up over the trees in our backyard. I was on autopilot, just trying to find the fastest route back to sleep. My eyes were heavy, and as I sat on the toilet, I looked around the room to keep myself from nodding off. To my left, I saw the new plastic shower curtain my mom had just put up. The pattern was a slightly different variation of the same thing we always had in that bathroom: fish. Directly in front of me was the towel rack. I could see the little chips in the paint that were only visible when the rack was bare. They were literal pieces from my past, probably going back to when I was about six or seven and insisted on putting stickers everywhere, despite my parents telling me not to.

  Then I looked down. I jumped. I was so startled when I saw my baby-blue Paul Frank pajamas covered in blood. They were soaked. I couldn’t even see the original color of my underwear. Everything was covered in crimson goop. I went to wipe myself, and there was even more blood on the tissue. I thought I was going to pass out, but instead I burst into tears and got into bed with my mom—bloody pj’s and all.