It wasn’t just the pain, but the exhaustion that came with it—knowing what was to come next. Period for the next ten days. Multiple Leaked underwear. Crying over the lack of Polin scenes in Bridgerton season three for the thousandth time, and pain. Lots and lots of it.
Having PCOS was an unsolvable health issue. Doctors didn’t understand it, prescribing birth control pills and Metformin to solve the problem when it went much deeper than that.
Mine started with missed periods.
Then increased testosterone.
Weight gain, then weight loss, then weight gain, and repeat.
Never static, never-ending, always there even when I thought I’d get better.
For a while, my periods were normal. Until the stress of being CEO hit.
Any other day and I would’ve celebrated at the appearance of the devil’s favourite drink. But today was my wedding day. I had to put on a ruse, pretend I loved Christian—pretend, yeah sure—-talk to Harry…
Suffice to say, I wouldn’t survive. “Umaima, this isn’t good.”
Umaima’s quick disbelief vanished into a happy smile. “No, this isgreat. You should be happy you aren’t missing another month again.”
“Of course, yeah. But I don’t know if you forgot but I’m kind of getting married today.”
Umaima pursed her lips with a tilted head. Then she slapped a hand over her mouth, “Oh shit! Right.” She rushed over to her bag and dumped everything out on the floor.
“What are you doing?”
“I swore I packed some pads in here.” She stuck her head inside the tiny clutch. “Let me get you some pads—wait, you need the heavy kind from Costco, that’ll take me an hour. What the fuck do I do?”
“Umaima,” I put a hand on her arm to stop her from panicking. She was making me nervous, and I was already freaking out. “I have a diaper pad in my bag. It should be fine.”
It wouldn’t be fine. I’d get a big stain on my dress and have to explain why there was a stain on my dress to Christian, then explain to him why I wasn’t prepared but then he wouldn’t care because he doesn’t care about me and theneveryone would know I have health issues and then the world would start spreading more information about me and people would hate me more and I wouldn’t know what to do about it. I’d stand there like an idiot while they’d talk about me, and Christian wouldn’t solve this problem because he wouldn’t know how to.
There were only so many ways to solve a girl and her period issues.
“This isterrible.”
“I’ll survive.”
We both stared at each other in pure girl to girl empathy.
It was one thing to get your period and deal with cramps.
It was another thing to get your period and deal withsixmonths’ worth of cramps.
A knock sounded from the door and in came an ecstatic woman with a clipboard in her hand. She didn’t seem the least bit concerned about why the bride and her best friend were on the floor with junk dumped around us.
“Hey girls, just wanted to let you know it’s time to head out.”
Umaima and I stared at each other in horror.
Getting my period on my wedding day had to be some kind of bad omen, right?
I didn’t knowwhether it was the blood rushing out of my uterus, but my eyes watered the moment I got out of the car and stared up at the church.
The historic stone church stood beautifully against the backdrop of a disappearing blue sky, its towering spire soaring heavenward and ornamented with intricate carvings reminiscent of years past.
Many weddings, funerals, and prayers kept this place together.
When the driver told us it was outside of the city, I thought Christian secured a place twenty minutes away.