Chapter 45
IVY
For the first few seconds, as I wake, I don’t notice it. I stretch deeply, languid, extending my arms above my head and my feet as far as they’ll go in the opposite direction.
I let out a solid yawn as I stretch, reveling in the coziness of Soren’s luxurious linens. I smile to myself about the day ahead, looking forward to whatever it brings.
Then I feel it.
The deep, dull ache forming low in my abdomen.
The familiar feeling jolts me fully awake, any semblance of a slow morning quickly gone as I realize what’s happening.
Fuck.
Careful, I extract myself from the covers.
Soren’s breathing continues, slow and controlled, in his sleep.
I pad to the bathroom, pour myself a glass of water and pop a couple of ibuprofen, and then return to bed. Hopefully I can get ahead of it this time.
I should have kept better track, anticipated it, been more proactive and started twenty-four hours ago. But every month it seems to take me by surprise. I always feel foolish, as if I haven’t had decades to learn from my mistakes and get this better under control.
Forcing my eyes closed, I get into the fetal position and attempt to will myself back into slumber. I’m tired, but it’s hard to sleep with this growing discomfort and what I know will soon follow.
I manage to drift off again, but my nap is short-lived. I wake to a jabbing sensation low on the right side of my abdomen. The pain comes on quickly, then, the dull ache quickly morphing into something much sharper and more uncomfortable.
Within the hour, it feels like a thousand tiny little soldiers are stabbing at my cervix with razor-sharp knives.
And it’s not just my lower abdomen and all the women parts housed in that area.
A dull, consuming ache radiates down my right hip and thigh. It feels like my bones are diseased, riddled with a rot, a cancer that has me digging my fingers into the flesh of my thigh in an attempt to ebb the pain.
The bleeding starts then, too, announcing the arrival of my period with a fanfare that I wish it would just keep to itself.
An initial gush, and then a full river of crimson.
Mixed in with some dark clots that give me a fright every time my body decides to expel one.
No matter how many times it happens, it never hesitates to freak me out and wonder if I need to rush to the hospital because I’m losing something I shouldn’t be.
The pain quickly escalates from uncomfortable to unbearable. My stomach roils, nausea starting to overwhelm me.
Before long, the pain reaches fever pitch, twelve out of ten.
I’ve thought about this pain scale a lot.
Whenever I’ve shared it with anyone except the odd female OB/GYN who actually understands, I’ve been met with derision, or a small smile that’s meant to convey, “I know you’re exaggerating, but I’m going to humor you and pretend that what you’re saying is accurate, you weak fuck. ”
Not wanting to inconvenience Soren, once again I get out of bed and tiptoe to the bathroom as quietly as possible.
I turn on the shower, as hot as it will go. I peel off my pajamas and then I step inside, and the steam curls around me as I let the water run over my lower back. I turn, letting it cascade over my swollen abdomen.
As the water rushes over me, I inhale and then exhale deeply, using the force of my breath to first tense and then soften my stomach area. Trying to train it to let go, to release these painful contractions.
The hot water cascading over me provides temporary relief, but I know it won’t last.
I squat first, shifting my weight from side to side, relieving the pressure on my abdomen, the force of bearing down providing some reprieve for my cervix and uterus and all the organs that are screaming at me.
Then I sit down with my legs in front of me, letting the water continue to run over my lower back, soothing the tight knots forming as I brace from the pain. Rocking back and forth, I cradle my tender abdomen in my hands.
It feels distended, bloated, my stomach which is normally fairly flat looking as if I’ve put on a ton of weight overnight.
Endo is definitely a sick and twisted friend of body dysmorphia, and if I went out in this state I’m fairly sure I’d be asked how far along I am.
But my appearance is the least of my worries when it comes to this illness.
There’s a soft knock at the door.
Fuck. I must have been too loud.
The last thing I wanted to do was disturb Soren’s sleep.
“Ivy. What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” I say, but my voice doesn’t convince even me.
“I’m coming in,” he says, the door already opening.
“I’m fine,” I say again, even less sure this time. Embarrassed. I don’t want to burden him with this. It’s enough that I have to deal with it, but he shouldn’t have to. It’s something that should be kept to myself, taken care of discreetly. Privately.
Soren enters, a frown on his face as he sees me curled up in the bottom of the shower.
He crosses the room quickly, crouching in front of me, his hand closing around mine. “Ivy, what’s going on?”
I sigh. “It’s my endometriosis, and the other thing I have. Turns out they’re flaring pretty bad this month.”
His frown deepens, a crease forming between his eyes. “I didn’t realize it got this bad. You’re clearly in a lot of pain. Can I do anything?” His expression tightens. “Do I need to take you to the hospital?”
I laugh softly. “No, it’s fine. I don’t need to go to the hospital. There’s nothing to do except ride it out. It’s just something I have to deal with every month or so.”
With the glorious ‘luck’ of getting my period at the age of nine, I’ve encountered painful periods for most of my life.
When they began, my mother took me to a gynecologist—hers, and she loved him—and he gave me the absolute creeps. But he did his job, and after making me mainline a gallon of water he took an ultrasound and diagnosed me with ‘likely endometriosis.’
An invisible disease. One that people who don’t have it seem to think is a mental problem, a sign of weakness. A delusion.
He said at the time that it was the culprit leading to the painful periods, and that the cure would be for me to have children when I was young.
Well, that didn’t happen.
I’m on birth control, and I skip my period for as long as I can, but the breakthrough bleeding is rough and almost as painful as if I went through my cycle unassisted. Perhaps better than my friend who was handed addictive pain pills that almost cost her life.
The choices we face.
A cramp hits—severe—and I bend over, tears forming at the corners of my eyes.
“Ow,” I say, weak and helpless, cradling my stomach.
“Ivy,” Soren gasps. His jaw tightens. “I just wish there was something I could do. There has to be something. You shouldn’t be dealing with this alone.”
“Just sit with me if you want,” I say, feeling sheepish at the suggestion. I really wish I hadn’t woken him. “You don’t have to, though—I know how to deal with this.”
But he doesn’t budge. Just sits with me, his hands steady at my back, fingers pressing slow, deliberate circles. Squeezing my hand as the cramps continue to riddle my body, his grip firming when the pain spikes.
Finally, the pain gives a small respite.
Soren pulls me to my feet, steadying me before reaching for a towel so fluffy I’d find it delicious if I wasn’t in so much pain, drying me with quiet efficiency.
I pull my glamorous period panties on and return to bed, where I miraculously find myself drifting into a restless sleep. Soren watches the entire thing, something unreadable settling behind his eyes.