Rethinking ‘Normal’ in Reproductive Health

Fear, Hope and Everything In Between

I attended my first doctor’s appointment when I was 16/17. I remember feeling vulnerable and nervous. I remember my mum coaching me on which details to include when describing my symptoms and the level of pain I was experiencing at different times of the month. I remember lying awake the night before writing it all down, to ensure I left nothing out. Taking inventory of the sensations I was feeling in my body, the questions I had for the doctor, and recording everything that felt important. Everything that might help with a diagnosis, with treatment to relieve the agony. I remember my prayer, my plea, written down as well as spoken,

‘Lord be with me tomorrow, let me get some insight into what is happening, and please some relief.’

That doctor’s appointment lasted probably around 10 minutes, if even. I explained everything just like I had prepared, nervously stumbling over some words. Then this male doctor looked at me and said something which ultimately amounted to,

‘Ah yes, an unfortunate side effect of the female condition. Have you tried taking some ibuprofen and having a nap?’

I remember feeling stunned. My stomach dropped and there was this ringing silence in my head. The way he looked at me, with this disappointed frown, combined with his tone, made me feel so small. So childish, so foolish, and overly dramatic that I could only sit there, struggling to hold back tears. I forgot to ask any of the questions I had listed on my phone, I just wanted out of that room. To disappear out of my own skin if that were possible. It felt to me that my suffering had essentially been reduced to young female hysterics by an educated, older man and the blow landed like a punch to the gut.

At that moment it didn’t matter that I knew something was terribly wrong. It didn’t matter that I could still feel the lingering aches in my body post bleed. It didn’t matter that I had spent the previous week in agony, curled in the foetal position on the bathroom floor. This doctor doubted my word, my pain, so suddenly I did too. After all, wasn’t he the educated one? Wouldn’t he know if there was a medical issue in need of further investigation or treatment? If he didn’t see a medical issue here, evidently I must be the real issue. Clearly I’d built this up in my head. Convinced myself it felt worse than it was, when in actual fact I just need to toughen up, get over myself and get on with it.

A ten minute conversation is all it took for me to doubt every single lived experience I’d had over the past two years. Which clearly demonstrates both my youth, but also the serious influence medical professionals have. One seemingly innocuous conversation with a doctor, was the start of a serious internal struggle with far reaching consequences for me.

What Followed Wasn’t Easy…

Now the thing you need to realise is that I was a teenager. Young, insecure, and seriously impressionable. That doctor’s appointment shut down a level of my self belief. It started a horrendous and exhausting back and forward in my own mind that lasted years, and has left scars to this day. I suddenly doubted everything that my body was experiencing. My confidence in recognising when something felt off. My perception of my endurance. My character. Externally I opted for silence, about all of it. No one outside of my family knew of my biological and mental suffering, I never spoke about it. It felt like some sort of dirty, inappropriate, shameful thing. Not because my family felt that way, they were supportive but they respected my silence, my need to contain the struggle. They respected how hurt and vulnerable I felt, so went out of their way to protect my peace.

All through those youthful, vulnerable years, my parents also struggled. They had no way to accurately measure the pain I was experiencing internally. The women on my Mum’s side of the family, including my Mum herself, had experienced painful periods. The Drs had dismissed her, so surely there was nothing sinister going on with me?

The pain wasn’t debilitating every month, which was disorienting, but when it was my parents were there. Soothing me, coaxing me out when I just wanted to curl inwards and disappear. My Dad has always had this steady, unflinching belief in me. When the pain felt unbearable he sat with me providing as much distraction through his silliness and movie suggestions as possible. He gently corrected my self deprecation when I was especially low. He picked me up off the bathroom floor, helped me to and from bed, drove me to appointments. Collected me from school when I had a flare ups and couldn’t move without vomiting. My Dad has been steadfast in his support and belief in me. 

My Mum is the definition of a mother bear. She could never stand to see any of us hurt, so seeing me in such recurring pain was untenable for her. She was trying to let me take responsibility for my own health as much as possible but it was challenging. Her periods had been painful and she’d learned to handle them. I was young, maybe I would adjust too, how do you measure someone else’s pain threshold? Also it wasn’t excruciating every month so we were monitoring, trying to establish patterns that would help us predict when problems might arise. As it became clear there was no pattern emerging, no adjustment to a more normal experience, Mum became militant. 

She refused to take the doctor’s assessment at face value when they tried to dismiss, or minimise what was happening to me. I cannot count the number of times I have seen that woman go toe to toe with professionals over me. Seen her march into appointments and press doctors into action. She researched endless articles online about medication, nutrition, exercise, mental health connected to reproductive health. Mum has a lot of friends and she sought out the medics among them for guidance. She pushed for medical professionals to listen to me, to examine, scan, or advise me. She sought second, and third, and fourth opinions. I watched her push back when doctors spoke down to me. How she tracked every single symptom, its severity, and its consistency. To ensure she was armed with all the information so they couldn’t blow us off because of our lack of preparation. It speaks volumes about the lack of investment in and understanding of women’s reproductive health that the journey was so long and arduous. 

My parents are giants in my eyes, and they quite literally carried me through this aspect of my life for years. All the while pushing me to stand up for myself, to use my voice to advocate for what I needed, and cheered like they won the lottery every time I did. They both pushed and held me in equal measure, showing such care and discernment in both. It’s because they kept refusing to be turned away, and kept bringing me back to doctors that we got any sort of answer or traction at all.

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Forging Ahead

From 2016-2019 I cycled through various types of medications. Several kinds of birth control (standard first response to reproductive pain) tranexamic acid and multiple types & strengths of painkillers. Different types of pills to try to manage my periods and the corresponding symptoms. None of which worked. In fact, birth control actually exacerbated the problem – causing my periods to lengthen, become unpredictable, and the bouts of pain to increase outside of menstruation. It took two years from my first hospital appointment to convince doctors to give me a pelvic scan. The result of which showed one very swollen and inflamed ovary. And both reproductive organs littered with cysts. Cause for concern, but apparently not too much. 

Frustrated with the lack of support and answers, my Mum and I started to search for things to help me manage the pain on my own. While still pushing for medical support. I got my first TENS machine in early 2021 (TENS stands for Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulation) and it was life changing. A portable machine that sends electric currents into the skin through sticky pads to stimulate the nerves and relieve the strain. By alleviating the intensity of my abdominal pain, ensuring it went from sharp, to dull, the TENS machine brought me the gift of sleep. Something I needed desperately. I invested in a pregnancy pillow to better support my body, particularly my back. I was gifted a wraparound hot water bottle that I could strap to myself with Velcro, ensuring ease of use and portability. This coupled with painkillers and Lucozade were and still are the backbone of my self-made survival kit. 

From Lecture Halls to Life Lessons

Starting university marked the beginning of a downward spiral that ultimately resulted in me learning to take responsibility for my own life and how I wanted to live it. I lived in student halls in my first year, sharing space with nine others. An environment that encompassed a puzzling dichotomy of ideals, most of which didn’t appeal to me. The freedom, however, was intoxicating. I had the chance to decide who I was, or the choice to reinvent myself if I wished. 

I was transparent about various aspects of my life, such as my belief in God, my family’s missionary lifestyle, and my hatred for secondary school and how that shaped me. As well as more trivial (but vital) insights into who I was, such as my abiding love for Denzel Washington films, and my avid obsession with fantasy novels. Other things I kept to myself, for instance my health and the corresponding mental decline. I didn’t want to feel like a burden to anyone else; I already felt the weight of that guilt when it came to my family.

Crisis Looming

In late 2021 I felt a change in the type of pain I was experiencing. It became a localised, tight, sharp, pulling pain on my right side. I knew something was wrong. I called the doctors who reluctantly booked an ultrasound. A scan that is supposed to be uncomfortable at worst reduced me to tears because of the pain and tenderness in my abdomen. The call from the doctor with the results of that scan generated mixed emotions.

They found a five and a half centimetre cyst engulfing my right ovary. They said it was serious, and I had to be under observation. If it ruptured, it could damage my ovary and put me at risk of developing severe infections and jeopardise my reproductive system. I remember so clearly answering that phone call in my room and my first immediate reaction was relief. Relief so intense and overpowering that I sank to the bed as I suddenly doubted my legs’ ability to hold me up.

Thank God there was physical evidence. Thank God they could identify the source of the pain I was feeling. Thank God they were taking me seriously. Thank God it wasn’t in my head, that I wasn’t delusional.

You see, walking through the healthcare system has been one of the most dehumanising, insensitive, and invalidating experiences of my life. Most conversations with health care professionals and doctors left me feeling cut off at the knees. It painted an image of me as this nonsensical, dramatic little girl unable to cope with “normal female discomfort”, looking to garner attention or sympathy. Many spoke to me in a way that was patronising and demoralising. It chipped away pieces of my self-efficacy. It generated a war between my mind and body. My mind repeated to me on a cursed loop all the things’ doctors have said or made me relive the feelings those appointments generated. Then my body was screaming for my attention, literally hammering me from the inside to remind me there was a tangible issue and to not ignore it. 

That phone call was the proof I so desperately needed to prove to myself that it wasn’t all in my head. That I wasn’t weak or crazy, that there was a genuine, medical reason for the pain I was experiencing.

The terror came later.

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