I am gripping at my lower abdomen in a fetal position.
My pelvis pulsates and tightens.
I imagine someone wringing a rag within me.
Cece Feinburg Public Relations/World Red Eye
I am 15, and an unapologetic Tomboy, no stranger to injuries from skim boarding and flag football.
My mother attempts to sooth my contorting figure.
Befuddled, she dials an emergency nurse hotline listed in a pamphlet.
Cece Feinburg Public Relations/World Red Eye
In our pre-Internet, pre-cellphone-obsessed world, this phone number was the only resource we had.
My mother begins relaying the nurses inquiries to me one-by-one, each meeting a dead end.
She clicks on the speakerphone, and a soft voice emerges.
Liana in Italy, before her endometriosis flared out of control.
Sweety, are you getting your period?
My mother gets me into the bathroom and the crimson swirl in the toilet briefly quells my tensions.
I yell through the cracked door, But why does it hurt so bad?
The speaker crackles with professional wisdom: Some of us are just unlucky when it comes to our womanhood.
Seven, eight, or nine days of bleeding.
This was all normal, they told me.
So I put on my overachiever cap, sucked it up and carried on.
When I snagged my first serious boyfriend in college, it was time to talk birth control.
During my pap exam, I emphasized my agonizing monthly visitor.
The pill should help alleviate the cramps, ensured my Planned Parenthood gynecologist.
Through coupling, I discovered that sex was not always pleasant: Sometimesit hurt enough to stop.
I braced myself for whatever category my internal hurricane chose to arrive as.
The web became my secondary textbook: I took to it to help categorize my symptoms.
That was the first time I came across the word that would reshift my adult life:endometriosis.
The spotting during sex started at 25.
Mortified, self-shamed and now relocated, I made an appointment with a new female gynecologist.
Ultrasound results prompted my doctor to diagnosis me with fibroids and prescribe a generic Seasonique birth control regimen.
Henceforth, my period would come every 90 days (hurray!
), limiting my distressing bouts.
I brought up endometriosis, but was assured I was too young to act on my instincts.
But do limit the red meat, she advised.
Some studies show their hormones help fibroids grow.
My sporadic spotting and spasms made intimacy frightening.
I could not imagine having to explain my drippings to a potential partner.
My fibroids did not appear on my two-year follow-up ultrasound.
Possible human error, she casually explained.
Another bad doctor down.
Then the flare up happened.
It was the summer of 2015.
I was 29 and had taken a trip to Europe, which derailed my birth control schedule.
My body reacted viciously.
Meals were met with discomfort or hours-long bathroom sessions.
My weight fluctuated and my stomach bloated beyond my pant size.
I spotted almost daily, running through sanitary napkins like toilet paper.
Cramps would stop me in my tracks.
The fatigue consumed any daily enthusiasm I had left.
By noon, I inexplicably needed to lie down to rest.
I ended workouts early.
I stopped attending work and social outings.
I see-sawed from rebuking my body to feeling completely disconnected from it.
I had been dating someone for six months.
My bowel irregularities awoke us both at odd hours.
Hed bring me cold water and held me until the pain receded, but we both lost sleep.
As I grew more frustrated with myself, he grew more frustrated with me.
The woman before him could barely pry herself from bed.
My sex drive dissipated; few positions were pleasurable.
Our fights became frequent and personal.
We were inches from splitting up: We both missed the same woman.
After a failed pregnancy test had eliminated my only logical explanation, my endometriosis hunch resurfaced.
Her only child came viaIVF, and her choice to backseat her endometrial symptoms led to an emergency hysterectomy.
She raved about the doctor who cared for her during her procedure.
He was an expert in these challenging womanly matters, so I made an appointment with him for October.
Like separated twins, they both shared similar if I knew then what I know now… sentiments.
He moved my internal lady bits about; it felt like pressing on a bruise.
I began breathing deeply and shifting my hips squeamishly.
Were almost done, I promise, he assured.
When he finished, he removed his gloves and leaned against the counter, arms crossed.
I dont know anything about your personal life.
But I must ask, do you want children?
I want the option, at least.
But I dont know your life situation.
The procedure would lend me childbearing time and alleviate most symptoms, but not indefinitely.
Did we want children?
If so, when and how?
If I couldnt conceive, would he leave me?
There were silent car rides and many misunderstandings.
Realitys gravity pulled me into a dark, hollow place matched only by my physically weakened state.
Endometriosis had confiscated my life.
A month later, on November 17, 2015, I logged onto Facebook and saw Lena Dunham trending.
She had written an essay abouthaving endometriosiscalled The Sickest Girl, and its bodily betrayals mirrored mine.
Reading it left my laptop blotted by uncontrollable tears.
I let them flood me with their honesty.
It was time to move forward.
I sent my boyfriend the article link.
That night, before I drifted into slumber, he turned to meet my eyes.
I love you, he said confidently, and Im with you whether this works or not.
For once, I could not feel a thing!
Four coagulated incisions lay hidden under my hospital dress.
The post-surgical torments barged in the day after surgery.
I was a conscious vegetable: Bending, turning, and reaching were undoable.
My limbs had to function isolated from my core.
I swelled and bruised.
I slept for 10 to 12 hours a day, not including naps.
I lost five pounds in a week.
That helpless teenage girl emerged, relying on her mothers daily aid.
During the two weeks after surgery, bowel movements were traumatic events.
Id bite down on a towel and scream until it was over.
I forcibly peed; my strained muscles resisted the natural act.
Why the hell did I do this again?
I got my answer when I went in for my post-surgical check-in.
This one tugged on your rectum.
He pointed to the white fibrous tissue begging to snap.
See how close this was to your fallopian tubes and ovaries?
I am now three weeks out from surgery.
I can drive, but sex, workouts, and travel are still two weeks out, at minimum.
Carrying anything over five pounds is forbidden.
Essentially, Im delaying the conditions return by zapping its hormonally powered proteins.
While recovering, she saw my tagged photo and joined the thread.
Home recuperating and wishing you deepest comfort, she wrote.
From one laid up endo sis to another.
*Names have been changed.
