Delicate, Tender, Soft. They were many adjectives he could have used to describe me. Instead, he chose weak. Or he wouldn’t have thought it mattered because I was only a child, and he a full-fledged adult, not just any full-fledged adult, but my father, could say whatever he liked. So among the vast sea of words available, he chose weak.
He said, “Look at you, you are so weak.”
Not in a derisive manner or in passing but like he truly believed it. He thought of me as weak, like one thought of a certain fresh flower in their home as beautiful, and every of their action emanated from that single epiphany. That was my Dad. But this is not about him, in fact, this could be about him being perfectly right.
Moving forward, to a hot day in my final year in junior school. When I felt sticky between the legs, only to find out that I had become a woman. My menstruation started early at age eleven, but I wasn’t surprised to see this new friend, as most of my classmates had seen theirs for the first time that year or the year before. In fact, seeing it was like receiving an invite to the club. I was happy, everyone was happy for me. This had to be a good thing for sure. Even though it was blood, in a very private area. The months that followed the blood continued, I remember getting stained in public a couple of times and having curious boys look at me absurdly. But it was all good, I was normal, this was part of the package of being normal. I have to admit one thing about the series of public embarrassment I faced with being stained in public. First, I wasn’t paying attention to those ovulatory signs or even keeping a calendar, I was in boarding school and I still thought the pads available did not suit me. I was a heavy flow. So it made sense that I got stained easily. The next thing that happened was not so easy to brush off or explain away. I mean with getting stained in public, they were sweet boys who would walk up to me and whisper in my ears, or better yet tell a girl to inform me.
What happened next was different, and no one told me, listen dear this could happen so watch out. It was a sudden pain, the cramps and distress associated with my periods were awful. The cramps, thankfully, happened only on the first day, even though that did not make it less painful and the only way I could find relief was to take a painkiller and fall asleep. The pain demanded that I played dead for the day. If not it was all agony. In my set, I didn’t have the worst dysmenorrhea. They were girls having theirs for most days of their menstruation, they were others vomiting, and burning with fever. In a way even the pain bonded us, we knew what to do when it started, we were always ready to help each other. We could live with this as long as we understood.
I walked into the university. Ha-ha, I didn’t just walk in, JAMB humbled me for some time. But I got in. At University, my dysmenorrhea had enemies, they were girls who had no idea what was going on with me. They were living their life and having periods without pain. I didn’t know that was possible. In secondary school, different girls had their pain at different times in their cycle. But at University, dysmenorrhea was no big deal. They were others with worse symptoms who understood. Their hot bottle water was always ready, tea, and painkillers, just in case. But among those I knew, the latter were very few. By this time having a painful period monthly was acceptable, they were few months that surprised me and my period came pain free. I was ready for either. I was not a girl anymore.
12 am, laying on my bed in an empty campus room. I had woken up with a strong cramping at my right side. I began vomiting too. I knew this wasn’t period pain. This felt new and severe, and the only time I had experienced something similar was at home, around the same dead hour, my mother had prayed for me, and when I continued rolling in pain, we had driven to our family hospital. The doctor wasn’t around and the nurses after examining me told me it was nothing serious and it was just ovulation pain. They gave me an injection and I apologized to my mother for causing her worry. Now, I was alone in my room, vomiting and in severe pain. I called my mother and she did the first thing I thought she would do, pray for me and bless the water I was going to drink. It did not matter what she said, I knew calling her to hear her voice would put me at ease. It always did. The call ended abruptly, because by then I was already incoherent. I think I was speaking in tongues. I called my friend and when she arrived we found a car to take us to the hospital. I have to inform you beforehand, this was happening in West Africa. So when we got to the hospital and there was no doctor on seat, I wasn’t surprised. I can’t remember all the comforting words my friend had to say to me that night. Now, I feel both sorry and grateful to her, because I kept telling her that I wanted to die. Because it was better than being in that kind of pain. The nurses gave me a painkiller which proved futile, they were reluctant to give me something stronger as they assumed I might be exaggerating what I was going through. They must have reasons for thinking that, but I made so much noise, that eventually they caved.
I woke up the next day, my friend looking down at me, we had to do some test, and she was missing school because of me. The doctors had to rule out ectopic pregnancy, and many other conditions. Eventually, they told me in private that I have to do a surgery, that I had Ovarian torsion, and it started as a cyst at first and then it grew big and twisted around itself and now it’s more complicated so surgery was my only option. I remember, I used to say I never wanted to have surgery, but at that moment I didn’t care, the drug was wearing off and that god-awful pain was returning. I agreed quickly, and the doctor looked unsure. I wanted to tell him that I was nineteen, and it was okay. I am sure he knew that pain just like every other emotion clouds judgment. I am not going to go into detail with the surgery, except to say, that I was awake, the anesthesia was only for my waist below, and the male doctor said to the male intern who was by his side that this was a perfect example of ovarian torsion. He took out the dark mass that was my Ovary and in about an hour, the surgery was done.
My mother travelled to see me, she was a bit confused but happy to see me doing alright. When I told her there was a surgery and something was removed, she spoke to the doctor immediately. There was a little drama when my father was informed but everything was settled when they realized the surgery was necessary. I got a lot of my classmates visiting and my mother was there with me throughout. My recovery was speedy.
I didn’t overthink or worry about anything except for the huge scar on my pelvic area, besides the doctor had said, One Ovary would serve my reproductive purposes when the time came.
Well, not until the summer holiday did the intense pain return. In my cry for help, I had to wake the entire family. It started like they all did, me telling my mother, she praying for me, and then the pain increasing and us ending up at an odd hour in an empty hospital. This time my father was involved and obviously more distressed than I was. Weakness might be in my body but it was never in my mind. It wasn’t that I was not afraid, I was. The first time I had the pain and it was misdiagnosed as ovulation pain, I remember that on the ride to the hospital, without so much fuss, I said a prayer, if I was going to die, it was unexpected but it was okay. On this incident, I wasn’t thinking of death, I was in pain, vomiting and crying, but I knew I wasn’t going to die. So I didn’t understand my father’s obvious distress but I took it as affection. The doctors’ confirmed what I thought after a series of lab test. It was ovarian cyst. I found every procedure agonizing, from scanning to the multiple injections a day to the vein on my wrist getting swollen from too many drips, but I appreciated this attempt in order to keep my only ovary intact.
After that successful attempt at avoiding another surgery, my period vanished, the dysmenorrhea I had come to terms with left because I wasn’t seeing any periods.
I waited eagerly for blood and it did not come. I noticed my body change in subtle ways, like growing very hot all of a sudden in a room with normal temperature. I started feeling lethargic on some days and overly emotional on others.
My sex drive reduced drastically, I mean before, I used to get turned on by everything. And lastly, I found myself visiting the hospital more often that I liked, wasted hours queuing to see a doctor.
Often, I’d think of my fathers’ words, why I remember them now and why I clutch them close even when I should let go. I have tried to be objective in my thoughts, that’s why I would have the audacity to wonder if he was right. That maybe this part of myself that he could easily see and reach was fragile, delicate, and soft, that my body and mind were disparate embodiments who needed each other to create a sense of balance.
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