I usually find myself tossing and turning around midnight, only to receive a not-so-pleasant gift when I wake up. By now, it’s become somewhat of a nighttime ritual.
It starts with a simmering heat that turns into a roaring fire (aka cramps). Then, the constant back-and-forth shift of my pad would cause a frustration like you wouldn’t believe. (At this point, I can only hope the tampon I added to the mix will catch the overflow.)
Suddenly, my anxiety decides to join the party: Did I even put in a tampon? How long has it been in there?
I’m so comfortable and my pillow is exactly how I like it, so I choose not to move. Then the letters “TSS” flash through my mind as if they’re playing on an old television screen in a horror film.
After a few moments of hesitation, I unwillingly get up to check. Of course, I was worried over nothing. And, of course, NOW I have to pee.
Removing the tampon was an adventure on its own. I basically needed a search team to find the string. But the worst was yet to come. Pulling a tampon out, for me at least, is painful. It’s almost like my entire insides are attached to the tampon.
Each time I tugged on that tiny string, I wanted to die. I had to take an enormous breath every time.
After changing and washing up, I went back to bed. Except for this time, I couldn’t comfortable and my pillow was all wrong. Not only that, but my fluffy llama socks were beginning to feel ridiculously hot.
I snuggled up and sighed heavily again – this time I tossed myself around in hopes of shaking the bed to wake my husband. Why should I be the only one up? I even acted as though I was having a nightmare and began mumbling words loud enough for him to hear. I let out a small cry so he could save me from the “horrible” nightmare-ish dream (and the unbearable pain) I was suffering from.
Suddenly, I changed my mind. I thought twice about waking him. He would end up dozing off on my lap while I sat there watching the clock wondering when the pain would eventually subside. I would probably start to resent the fact that he was born with a penis, or that he was sleeping when I couldn’t.
Instead, I obnoxiously huffed and tossed the blankets off. I went into the kitchen, downed a few migraine-reducing pills to accommodate my throbbing, hormonal headache, and then I found myself on the couch alone and channel surfing until I found “Snapped” (very comforting).
I could only imagine what I looked like, curled up on the couch writhing from the back, leg, and pelvic cramping. I assume I probably resembled a toothless 90-year-old woman who’d just sucked on a sour fruit.
I exhausted myself enough to want to sleep, but not enough to actually do so. Then I got to thinking about how many years I have been doing this. How many years will it continue? How many of my fellow #EndoBabes were also awake and unable to sleep doing the exact same thing? And what about those fierce #EndoSisters who are forced to work with this pain or those who are experiencing it for the first time? Those were the ones I felt sorry for.
The young women who were awake and bleeding non-stop with cramps so bad they were vomiting or unable to get up, at all. Girls who did absolutely nothing wrong, but were born with body parts that just didn’t work right…
I eventually fell asleep a few hours later. I thought of my own two daughters and wondered if they will be cursed with Endometriosis like the previous generations of women in our family did. The thought killed me. Giving my girls this incurable disease was the worst feeling – maybe worse than the condition itself. The only comfort I had was knowing they would have me to help them and perhaps by then there would be a cure or an effective treatment.
At the very least, my two sweet girls would have a veteran who’s dealt with pain and insomnia enough to hold them on the couch and dry their tears away.
At least I would be able to tell them I understand and ensure them that they’re not alone.
