Chapter 46
IVY
Awhile later, I wake to another savage twinge in my abdomen. “Fucking hell,” I cry to myself as a wave of pain rushes over me, brutal and relentless.
“Ivy,” Soren’s voice calls out softly from the hallway. “I’m here for you,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”
Still groggy, I open my eyes. The space is different than when I fell back asleep but, in my fog, I can’t immediately place why.
He comes in holding a tray and a bag, which he places carefully on the dresser behind him. Then he turns to face me. “Here,” he says, already holding out a glass of water and a couple of pills. “Drink. Take these.”
I take the glass and the pills from him. The water is cool as I sip. The pills lodge in my throat and I gag, but manage to choke them down.
He reaches behind him and produces a plate with toast and jam. “Eat this, so the ibuprofen doesn’t shred your stomach.”
I take the plate from him. My stomach roils at the thought of eating, but if I’m going to be able to force anything down it’d be toast. And I know from experience that the ibuprofen will do a number on my gut, tearing it apart and putting me off food for days if I don’t force something down now.
“Tha—thank you,” I say, thrown by how prepared he is.
I take a bite of the toast, the butteriness of it spreading throughout my mouth. And it helps. Not completely, but a little. The edge dulls. The tightness eases. My shoulders drop slightly.
“And here,” he says, gesturing to a bookshelf I hadn’t noticed before. It has a couple of bags on it that also seem new to this room.
He reaches into one of the bags, producing a bulky item.
He untangles a cord, plugs it into an outlet and hands the object to me, and it quickly becomes warm. “Heating pad,” he says, “Medium, but it’s got a bunch of settings so you can adjust it to what feels best.”
I lift my pajama top and press the plush pad to my abdomen. Heat seeps in, immediate. Relief starts to bloom under the surface. Not gone, but softer. More manageable.
My eyes drift closed for a second as the heat settles deeper into my body. Everything softening. Everything easing.
He grabs something else from the bag and hands me a little box covered in a plastic layer. “And here’s a device that’s meant to help as well.”
I read the writing. “A TENS machine? Oh wow, I’ve heard of these. They’re meant to help a lot. Tha—thank you. You didn’t need to do any of this.”
Past partners have barely gotten me a glass of water during my period, their mouths tight as they go through the motions of saying, “Can I get you anything?” Not daring to say it out loud, but making it very clear through their body language and general countenance that my debilitating, chronic illness is an inconvenience for them.
They’ve avoided me, hiding in the other room to watch sports or home renovation shows.
Or insisting on cooking steaks and other pungent foods they just had to have right then, despite my obvious food aversion.
The fact they’d had me running to the bathroom to expel the limited contents of my stomach didn’t seem to faze them.
But Soren is clearly different. Worlds apart.
Instead of making this about him, he’s attentive. Worried about me.
“It’s no problem at all. Really,” he says, stroking a tendril of hair away from my face with his thumb. “I just want you to be okay. And your pain is my pain, too. You don’t deal with this alone anymore.”
“How—how did you know what helps?”
He shrugs. “I did some research while you were sleeping.” He frowns, his gaze meeting mine.
“Ivy, I knew cramps weren’t pleasant, but I had absolutely no idea this condition was so painful.
I’m so sorry you have to deal with this.
” He strokes my jaw with a finger, swiping a hair away.
“You’ve got me now. I’ll stay here until this settles. ”
His words hit me, tears forming at the corners of my eyes, and I squint them back.
I always feel so alone when this hits, like it’s something I have to face by myself. Very few people understand the extent of the pain, unless they’ve experienced it for themselves or a friend has opened up to them who has.
Endometriosis is a lonely illness, and its cousin adenomyosis is even less well understood. Lucky me has both, like a twisted family reunion with lots of breakdancing in my womb.
For the next few hours, Soren stays close. “What else do you need?”
This tenderness from him is fresh, a kind of concern that I’m not used to—a juxtaposition with the violent and dark specter I know he can be. Not that he’s ever directed that my way.
“This doesn’t seem normal,” he says at one point after I gasp and double over in pain again, throwing myself into the fetal position and rocking vigorously, whimpering while tears run from the corners of my eyes.
“Well, yes and no,” I say, flinching as the soldiers change up their weapons and attack my womb instead with ten thousand tiny spears. “A lot of women have this. There aren’t many options unless you want a full hysterectomy, and that has its own side effects, especially when you’re younger.”
“I just didn’t realize,” he frowns. “Nobody really talks about it.”
For years, I’ve been made to feel that I’m exaggerating. That I just have a tiny bit of inconvenient period pain that I’m blowing up into something way bigger, way more severe.
But Soren is taking me seriously. Like it matters.
By this point, I’m fatigued and cranky and I just want to lie there and try to distract myself with a true crime podcast—something, anything that will take my mind off the war being waged inside my body.
His being here is soothing, but it’s also starting to make me feel smothered. As if I need to be as attuned to his response to my pain as the pain itself. It might be all in my head, but it’s making me anxious.
“Go do some work,” I croak out. “Please. I do better when I don’t have to perform for other people. When I can just lie here and feel like a complete mess and work through the pain on my own.”
He studies me for a second. But then he must see that I mean what I’m saying, because he hands me the glass of water and nods, his expression resetting to neutral. “Okay,” he says. “Another sip first. Your throat is dry, and it’ll help with the pain if you stay hydrated.”
For what feels like forever, I stay on the bed, shifting uncomfortably with a regularity that bores me.
Twisting this way and that, rotating sides, alternating between sitting and lying down, pigeon pose and happy baby.
Listening to tales of murder and psychopathy, occasionally being pulled into a twisted tale dark enough to give my mind a moment of reprieve.
My favorite true crime podcast—where they blend warped stories with dark humor and camaraderie between two female friends—even has me laughing out loud a couple of times, the laughter slightly easing the tension in my belly.
A few times, I sense a presence, like Soren might be hovering just outside the door, but he doesn’t come in.
Later in the day, right as an episode of the podcast finishes, he returns with a post-it note in his hand.
He passes it to me, a serious expression on his face.
It has an address on it, as well as a date and time.
“I know you have your own doctor, but this OB/GYN is meant to specialize in endometriosis and adenomyosis, and they’re meant to be the best in town.
They’re trying a few new treatment therapies that are showing positive initial results. They’ve made space for you.”
I look at him, my mouth parting. “Oh wow, thank you so much, Soren. This is incredibly thoughtful.”
He watches me for a second. “I told you,” he says quietly. “I’ll take care of you.”
And I let out a small breath. Because he really is.
I’ve been desperate for answers for so long, but I’ve become resigned to the fact that unless I undertake drastic surgery that will leave my bones brittle and other consequences, I’m stuck with this ongoing pain.
It rips me away from my day-to-day, and it only seems to be getting worse as time passes.
But Soren’s general persistence about being there for me—and his undivided attention—clearly extends to this. To something I’ve always had to fight alone. Until now.
After experimenting with the TENS machine, the short sharp bursts contracting my muscles in a way I find fascinating, I go to the shower again and let the hot water run over me.
As before, it offers a reprieve as the steam curls around me, the heat warming my bones and allowing my muscles a chance to breathe.
After, I lie back in bed with the heating pad, my latest dose of ibuprofen finally sinking in. As it makes its way through my pain-riddled body, I can almost feel its progression through every nerve receptor as they dull in sequence, one by one.
I notice myself drifting back to sleep, and I welcome it with hunger. I try not to let my body know how eager I am for slumber, lest it decide I’m too needy and jolt me back awake. Because my body seems much more like my nemesis than a friend right now, and I don’t trust her at all.
Sleep is especially important, because I know this is the cue that means I should feel a lot better when I wake again. From experience, I know my appetite should be returned, and the pain still there but far less debilitating. Fingers crossed.
When I wake, Soren is watching me from the doorway, concern still etched into his brow. “Hey,” he says gently, entering the room.
He moves to the top of the bed, his hand brushing lightly over my shoulder—a quiet, grounding touch. He helps me sit up, adjusting the pillows behind me so they cushion my back. “Any better?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I whisper, taking inventory of the pain that’s still very much present but now far more manageable. Perhaps a seven or eight on a scale of ten, not pleasant by any means, but no longer off the charts. “Getting there.”
“Good,” he nods, then he steps out of the room again, quietly pulling the door shut behind him.
I don’t think too hard about what it would have been like if he wasn’t here to help me—about what it would have been like to endure this by myself in Miami with Adrian the only one around.
About whether I would’ve eaten. Whether I would’ve pushed through the pain, or ignored it until it got worse like I usually do.
Whether I would have been supported or sneered at like I was a silly woman embellishing my pain.
Because I already know the answer.
I would have done all of those things, and all of those things would have been done to me.
But Soren didn’t let any of that happen.
And, for once, I don’t feel judged. I don’t feel minimized. I don’t feel like a burden.
I feel cared for.
Yet there’s a gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach that has nothing to do with my health issues.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve come to learn, good things and tender moments never last.