The day I knew I had to take charge of my health was the third time that month I ended up in the ER. I was bleeding so heavily that when I went to the bathroom, clots the size of grapes dropped into the toilet — thick, dark and unending. I scrubbed the floor so no one else would see the mess, embarrassed by something I couldn’t control.
When the nurse asked me to put on the gown minus underwear, a clot fell to the floor. I turned red in embarrassment, and I heard both my husband and the nurse gasp.
Still, they sent me home. No answers. No medication. No follow-up call from my primary care physician. Just more pain, more confusion and the quiet realization that if I wanted to survive, I’d have to become my own advocate.
The issue dates back to my teenage years. Maybe then, it was too early for my doctors to detect that I was having periods every two months, which was abnormal, but I’m pretty sure it was problematic in my 20s.
I was told that maybe I had polycystic ovary syndrome, or PCOS, a hormonal disorder that causes irregular periods, infertility and excess hair growth, but I was never actually tested for it. I have always been a plump baddie, so the inevitable weight conversation overrode the complaints of skipped periods, excruciating cramps and heavy bleeding when my cycle did make its appearance.
