Hope

by Rhian Ivory

  1. Mood swings

  2. Intense anger and conflict with other people

  3. Tension, anxiety, and irritability

  4. Difficulty concentrating/forgetfulness

  5. Depression and feelings of hopelessness

  6. Change in appetite

  7. Feeling out of control

  8. Fatigue and sleep problems

  9. Cramps and bloating

  10. Headaches

  Great. I score a perfect 10. There’s another bit which asks if there’s a ‘history of mood or anxiety or history of premenstrual mood dysregulation in my family’. I am not going to ask Mum about that. I start to hand it back to her but she’s not having it.

  ‘Nope. Read the bit about behavioural symptoms first.’ Pryia places her silver metallic nail on the leaflet.

  PMDD mood symptoms only present for a specific amount of time, usually the week before menstruation.

  ‘Does that sound familiar?’

  There’s not much point denying it, so I nod and then read on.

  Most women suffer from PMS at some point in their lives but premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD) is different. It causes emotional and physical symptoms, like PMS, but women with PMDD find their symptoms debilitating, and they often interfere with their daily lives, including work, school, social life, and relationships.

  It’s not as if I’ve ever been normal and now it’s actually official. There is something properly the matter with me. A thing with a scary name. In bold.

  ‘My doctor gave me a leaflet like this when I was first diagnosed. There weren’t any books to read, so this is all I had,’ Pryia tells me, as if she’s discussing what she’s going to have for lunch today. She’s not even lowering her voice. Anyone in the staffroom could overhear her. ‘I was at university, one of my friends in the house I was sharing forced me to go and see my GP. I’m glad he did, even though I hated him for a bit. I thought I was crazy or hoped that he was. And I was mortified when he brought it up. I presumed everyone felt like me but just handled it better than I did,’ she carries on, as if this subject is something people can chat about.

  ‘And they helped you?’ I ask, desperate to know.

  ‘My GP, then I saw a cognitive behavioural therapist. Know what that is?’ she checks. I shake my head. ‘CBT’s like counselling but more specialist. The aim is to change the way you think about certain things. There are all these exercises you can do and once you start charting your periods you spot the signs and can be prepared. Have you got the Clue app?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, what’s that?’

  ‘Get it. It’s brilliant, its fem tech, it charts your periods, your moods, what you eat and it lets you know when you’ve got a period coming up or when you’re about to get PMS. Here, look.’ She opens her phone and presses on a white circle with a red flower symbol on it. ‘See, it asks me to put in today’s data and then there’s all these other options about bleeding, emotions, how much sleep you’ve had, how much sex you’ve had or not and so on.’ She shoves her phone in her pocket. ‘I’d be lost without it. I’ve tried charting my periods on a calendar and in a diary but I always forget. That’s one of the problems for me – I get a bit forgetful, well, a lot forgetful actually. Drives Katie mad. Do you get that?’

  I think she already knows the answer. I nod with relief.

  This is really happening. I’m someone with a problem that can be sorted out with leaflets, an app and maybe some medicine. She carries on talking. ‘I was misdiagnosed with depression to start with and put on the wrong kind of antidepressants for me. Took a while to find the right ones.’ She smiles as if this is something to smile about. ‘So I stopped taking them and tried to manage it through diet and exercise, but then I had a bit of a relapse and … that’s a story for another day. Anyway, a different GP prescribed the right tablets and they worked quite quickly. I’m on them now, I’ll probably be on them for a long time, but that’s fine: whatever works,’ she finishes.

  I want to skip back to Pryia’s story for another day and hear more about this relapse. I want to ask her what she did. I wonder if it’s as awful or as stupid as some of the things I’ve done. Instead I opt for something easier.

  ‘What happens if you stop taking them? Have they changed your personality?’ I have to hold my hand over my mouth to stop more questions gushing out.

  ‘I don’t know what would happen if I stopped taking them. I’m not ready to find out. Not right now. I need help and … I think you might too.’ She stops talking to see if I’m alright, if I’m handling what she’s saying. I’ve got no idea what to do with my face. ‘You have to know one thing – none of this is your fault.’ She leans in close and says it again, tapping me on the arm as she says each word. ‘You haven’t let yourself down, you aren’t weak. You’re the opposite. Just think about everything you’ve been dealing with, all by yourself. And the best thing is that you aren’t always going to feel like this,’ she adds.

  ‘Really?’ I want to believe her but it sounds like a fairy tale.

  ‘I’m not saying that the tablets can magic everything away and I’ll be honest, your bad days might get worse occasionally, but one day you’ll realise that you’re having more good days, I promise.’ I want to trust her, so much. ‘But, Hope, you have to be honest, with yourself first and then with everyone else. And you have to talk to your mum,’ she says.

  I shake my head. There’s no way I’m telling anyone, especially not Mum. This would be enough to push her over the edge. She’s already close enough.

  ‘What about Callie then?’

  I shake my head again.

  ‘Your mum must have noticed what’s been going on with you?’ Pryia presses. ‘It’s not like you can hide it every month, is it?’

  ‘She thinks it’s about my dad, or drama college or both. To be honest it has been easier to let her think that. How do I tell her something that sounds so weird and melodramatic? I don’t want to freak her out and give her more stuff to stress about. I’m not sure I can deal with it and until I can deal with it there’s no way I’m dumping this on her,’ I tell Pryia.

  ‘But you can deal with it, you have to. It’s that simple. It’s your body and you need to own it. Coming out will be easier than keeping all these secrets. Aren’t you tired of all the secrets, Hope?’ she asks and she’s right, I am. ‘You know, the more you talk about your periods, the less embarrassed you’ll feel, and when you stop feeling embarrassed you can face anything. I talk about mine all the time, to anyone who’ll listen! I make a point of it because half the world has them, yeah? Why should we be shy and quiet about it?’

  She’s right. Even though she’s embarrassingly loud, I know she’s right.

  ‘But it can’t be that simple, can it?’

  ‘It’s as simple as you make it,’ she says, not willing to let me off the hook. ‘There’s no need to make your life harder than it already is.’

  I look around the room; people are talking, making cups of tea and laughing about something, totally and utterly oblivious to what’s just happened to me, what Pryia has just said. I fold the leaflet away neatly and put it into my bag so I can read it again later. Pryia stops talking and all the buzzing and interference in my head makes way for a different noise, one that sounds a bit like hope.

  I hadn’t expected Nonno to offer to take me to my optician’s appointment but he insisted. We catch the bus together and sit in comfortable silence on the uncomfortable seats. He’s brought his walking stick with him. He’d been in denial about needing it the last time I saw him. He’s dressed in a crisp, white, pressed linen shirt, which on anyone else would be creased by now, soft cream trousers and highly polished brown leather shoes which match his hat. He looks like a catalogue model with his dark skin and smiling brown eyes. I can see why Nonna put up with his cheek and teasing. He’s still a very handsome man – he reminds me of Dad. When we get off the bus he takes a moment or two to find his feet and then sets off at a brisk pace, as if to say, ‘I’v
e still got it, try keeping up with me, young lady.’

  Dad and I always went to the opticians together, since I was five, every check-up, every new pair of glasses, was him and me. Specs and Checks he called it and afterwards he’d take me to a café for an espresso and cake and we’d sit and write songs together in one of the little notebooks he used to buy me. I wonder if Nonno will try and do the same and if I’ll mind. Dad and I visited them all before deciding that The Bird’s Nest was our favourite. We used to give each coffee shop or café a mark out of ten for the cake, the coffee and the toilet facilities. Last year I wouldn’t even go to the opticians, I couldn’t bear it. Nonno hadn’t asked, he’d decided for the both of us. Not that he needs his eyes testing, he claims they’re still perfect.

  ‘Why don’t you wait out here and I’ll come and meet you once I’m done?’ I suggest.

  He nods his head once, kisses me on both my cheeks and walks over to the newsagents. This is something I’m going to have to get used to doing on my own. Soon Nonno will be back in Italy. On my own is fine. I just can’t cope with someone being there for me one minute and not the next.

  I check my phone as I wait for the optician to see me. Nothing. Absolutely nothing, apart from one from Callie with her holiday flight times and a link to the fancy villa she’s staying in. Her mum and dad seem to think it’ll be the last year she wants to go on holiday with them so they’re making a big deal of it. Months ago, she asked me to come with her. Looking at the photos she’s sent me of the villa I wish I’d said yes. Too late now.

  *

  ‘How did it go?’ Nonno asks when I come out. He stands up from the bench and holds his arm out to me. I notice it is shaking a little and I realise that he needs to lean on me rather than the other way round.

  ‘Fine, no real change in my eyes so these are good for now.’ I reply, fiddling with my glasses. They always feel weird when I put them back on after an eye test.

  ‘Shall we walk along the river?’ Nonno takes his arm off mine to lean on his walking stick instead. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time your father ran away?’ I love the fact that he doesn’t talk about the weather, or what we’re having for tea, or anything else that holds no interest for me.

  ‘No!’ I say, surprised. I’ve heard most of Nonno’s stories about Dad, it’s one of the best things about talking to him, his endless stories reaching from Dad’s past to my present.

  ‘Well, he wasn’t a little boy, he was a bit older than you, in fact. He made mistakes in his exams, he didn’t want to stay at home with us, but he didn’t know what else to do. Your Nonna told him Get a job, work things out! They rowed, you can imagine? She told him, Fix it, Franco, as if it was that easy. Renata’s fire was not easy to put out once lit – a passionate heart for a passionate woman,’ he says softly, pausing to pick up a stick and throw it in the river and to catch his breath. We watch the ducks and swans examine the stick before moving away, disappointed.

  ‘I bet!’ I love hearing stories about Nonna’s famous temper, it makes me feel less lonely.

  ‘I left them to it, but called to my good friend, Luca, in Ireland and asked if Franco could come and stay with them in Dublin, just for a little while. Luca and I have been friends all our lives, he too has a granddaughter, Lucia. She’s an actress, you know, on the stage. Luca is so proud, so proud of her.’

  He passes the information to me to see what I will do with it. But I don’t want it right now. I want Dad’s story. I want Dad. I’d known Dad had lived in Dublin for a year and that he’d met Mum there while she was on holiday, but I never really asked what he was doing in Ireland in the first place. I’d just presumed it was music and study. Or maybe he needed to travel, like Riley. ‘Your nonna was furious with me, she accused me of sending your papa away in disgrace. Ha! She would not listen to me. And of course, we all visit him, your Aunt Gianna too. We all stayed with Luca and his wife. I showed Renata that Franco was fine, that things work out, even if we don’t know how they will work out,’ Nonno continues, walking and talking.

  ‘And?’ I ask, wanting the next instalment.

  ‘He told us he wanted to re-sit his exams in Dublin, so your nonna, Auntie Gianna and I left him there. Then there were the auditions – lots of them – and then he met your mamma. The rest you know: he moved to Cardiff to be with her, they got married and then there was you, piccolina. But it wasn’t all smooth paths and plain sails, he made mistakes and he had to fix them.’ I see where he’s going. ‘He had to find a different path,’ he adds, in case I’ve missed the moral of this tale.

  ‘So you think I’ve messed up my exams like Dad did?’ I turn to face him.

  ‘No, I don’t say that. But I do say you can fix it. You might just need to take a different path to get there, like Robert Frost says – the one less travelled – and that might make all the difference? But perhaps you don’t want to hear this just now. I think maybe you don’t want to listen to an old man talking about the past and poetry.’ He smiles.

  I’ve heard enough about Dad and how he fixed things.

  ‘What’s she been in?’ No need to explain who I’m talking about.

  ‘Lucia? Ah, I think she is in Stratford now, with the RSC.’ He waits.

  ‘The RSC?’ I check, even though I know he can only mean that one.

  ‘Yes, the Royal Shakespeare Company,’ he clarifies, smiling. He rolls the ‘r’ of Royal making it sound even grander. Was this whole conversation about Dad really a present, with this wrapped up in the middle of it?

  ‘Have you been to Stratford, Nonno?’

  ‘Not in a long time, not for too long.’ He sighs, and stops to get his breath back.

  ‘We could go, you and me? I mean, if you’d like to?’

  I wonder if it’s possible just to make something happen by asking.

  ‘Ah, a day trip you mean? Bene!’ I didn’t mean just that. I don’t want a day of boating on the river Avon or a touristy trip to Shakespeare’s house. Stratford means something different to me.

  ‘What’s she in?’ I delay the big question I want to ask.

  ‘You’ll never guess! They are doing your Top Girls! A new all-female production – director, actors, set, lighting, sound, costume, all of it! And no one else has seen it yet but I hear tickets have already sold out,’ he adds with a flourish.

  ‘Could you … do you know her well enough to ask a favour?’ I force the words out. Even the word favour sounds too rude. Clumsy. But I push on all the same.

  ‘What is it that you need, piccolina? What is it that you want to ask?’ he prompts when I’m slow to respond.

  ‘Could I meet her? Or could I… maybe watch them rehearse? I wouldn’t get in the way or anything.’ He waves this away with his hand. ‘It doesn’t matter if that’s too much.’ He must think I’m using him to get what I want.

  ‘Of course I will ask!’ he declares. ‘I can only ask, sì?’ He smiles again.

  ‘They might not and that’s fine but…’ I don’t know how well he knows this girl and her family.

  ‘I will do the asking and then you will do the pushing open of the door, sì?’ He says the last bit so theatrically that the ducks scatter across the river. ‘And don’t worry about what to tell your mother. You leave your mamma to me,’ he adds.

  ‘Sì,’ I reply happily, even though there’s no need to reassure him, because I hadn’t even thought about Mum.

  When we get home just before lunch, Mum is out. She’s left a note telling us she’s across the field walking Scout. Nonno quickly begins to make Sunday lunch. He puts music on – a bit of Carmen – singing, chopping, washing, preparing, in his element, which releases me from his company. In my room I switch my laptop on and google workshops at the RSC. I lose at least an hour before checking my email. Nothing. I wonder what I’ve done, what I’ve said that’s offended Riley. I type another one, just in case he hasn’t received any of the others, they might have gone in his spam box or something. I wonder if it is possible to make something happ
en just by asking.

  I hear the backdoor slam shut and then Scout bark. I delete it. Then I type it again.

  Maybe we could meet up?

  And press send before I can change my mind.

  I know when I call the doctor’s surgery on my Monday morning break, that it’s a long shot. I kind of hope the receptionist will tell me to ring back next week and I’ll be able to hang up and moan about how useless they are.

  ‘Can you tell me what’s wrong?’ the receptionist asks. Seriously? In my head I give her an answer which if I said it out loud would probably bar me from the surgery for life. But as I’m in the toilets at the hospital, I opt for the slightly politer version.

  ‘Um … my periods,’ I whisper, completely embarrassed. This one word has its usual effect, at least it stops her asking any more questions. But why am I embarrassed? I shouldn’t be embarrassed, she must have heard much worse before, surely? I hate this feeling of being on show, having to talk out loud to a complete stranger. I bet she doesn’t really need to know, she probably won’t even tell the doctor. When she offers me an evening appointment that’s been cancelled I take it. I can’t leave this any longer, I’ve left it too long already.

  After Mum and Nonno finally leave for choir, I power-walk to the doctor’s surgery, head down and ready to avoid everyone. Inside I press the touch screen to confirm my appointment, so much better than having to talk to the receptionist. I sit on the green chairs, pretending to be completely fine with sitting in a room full of strangers, before going into a smaller room to tell another stranger all the vile and hideous things that are wrong with me. I take my phone out and email Riley.

  I’m at the doctors.

  He likes a hook, something to grab his attention. Hopefully this should do it. I’m so bored. I look up at the screen on the wall. The next patient is Mrs Cassidy. I sigh. I bet she’s got something straight forward like a skin rash or an ear infection. I send another email.