Crazy little thing called life

I remember when I was younger I thought getting your period was cool because it meant growing up. I wish I could go back, and slap myself.
~Unknown

When I was young, I remember getting my first visit from "Aunt Flow" and, although I was slightly terrified, I was so proud of it. Outwardly, I was awkward, and embarrassed, but inwardly, I was beaming. I had done it. I had joined the ranks of womanhood. For months before that "special visit" I had secretly worn panty liners, "Just in case", much like a girl stuffing her bra, and fooling herself into being a "real woman." The commercials for feminine products made having your period look like a party, and I was sure confetti would fall from the sky. I just knew other women would somehow know what was going on inside me, and give me the little secret nod, a knowing glance of sisterhood. I had joined a league of women who were ...awesome.
This feeling lasted a full day.

My joy at this milestone in life was soon replaced by horror as ungodly things happened to my body. Blood, and other unmentionable gelatinous globs became the stuff of nightmares. Swimming pools were a source of terror, and wearing anything but black sweatpants was a calculated risk. On top of the horror of the event it's self, I was not prepared for the effect it would have on my body. I was one of the lucky ones whom Mother Nature decided to doubly bless. From the beginning, I suffered from horrendous cramps. I remember being in the kitchen talking to my grandmother, and crying. I slid down the counter, and sat on the floor, sobbing, because my back hurt so badly. (No, I was not dramatic :D )

Fast forward a couple of years, and I was an old pro at controlling that monthly "visit." Only, as an added joy, I never knew when to expect my unwanted companion. I have friends who know down to the half-hour when they will "start." Well, Have a cookie why don't you. (I hate them) I, however, to this day, do not know if I will start on the 5th or the 15th. One of my worst memories and one of my proudest moments are all wrapped up into one day. I was a Paige for the state Senate, and I was working on the floor, delivering papers and information to the Senators, during a live, televised session. One of the jobs was to collect papers that they placed on the floor next to their desk, signaling that they needed said papers taken to their office. It was a pretty cool experience. You got to dress up, and wear a gold pin, that gave you behind-the-scenes access to most of the capitol. I walked proudly,carrying my already tall frame high as I made my way through the back halls as if I owned the place. I remember, I was wearing a beautiful light khaki pant suit, and I felt untouchable. I was on the floor, bending, and straightening, and bending again, picking up those papers. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, a friend came up behind me, and whispered to me, "You have to leave." She guided me from behind, with a hand on my shoulder, sticking quite close to me. My mind was whirling. What had I done? Did I deliver something to the wrong office? Is someone dead? I was not ready for the answer. She discretely led me to a corner of the room, and whispered, "You are leaking" Leaking? What? I didn't get her grasp, until she nodded toward "that area". Horrified, I rushed to the nearest restroom, the senators room, where we were actually not allowed to go. I didn't care. I had to hide. Mother nature had issued a surprise attack, and she had gone all out. My once crisp, clean light khaki suit was now a solid rusty crimson on the whole crotch and backside. My underwear were unsalvageable. I wanted to die. I had to call the only emergency contact that was allowed to pick me up, and it was my grandfather. I had to walk through the Capitol, head dropped in shame, and suit jacket unprofessionally tied around my waist to attempt to cover most of the carnage. He had to go into the store and buy me some pads (I had not yet discovered that tampons were my best friend)and take me to my hotel room, where I had to make a quick change and clean myself up. All this was embarrassing enough, but on my way back to the capitol, the true gravity of the situation hit me... it had been televised. That's right. I'm not sure to this day if anyone actually saw it, but I can't believe no one did. I was the tallest person walking about on the floor, wearing a light suit, with a bloody bulls eye on my backside. How I went back and finished out that week, I will never know.

I don't know how many times I was told that all of the humiliation and the pain was "totally worth it." It's a beautiful thing, and it is a privilege that only women have. "If you didn't have periods, you wouldn't have babies". I bought into this, and I have now suffered through 16 years of monthly "blessings." (I will never understand why we have to start so early though. How about lets not even have to think about "the birds and the bees" until we are old enough to actually understand them - OK?)These dreaded "blessings" were (are) the controlling factor in my life. The week before, I would start feeling gross, and then I would have world war III in my Uterus for a week, and then after, I would feel almost as bad. There are only a few days a month I don't have a headache, or feel just nauseous enough to make me crabby. I was told that once I was married, and sexually active, that my periods would regulate, and that the cramping, etc. would actually diminish slightly. LIES. It may have happened to a few people, but I will never give anyone that false hope.

So, having now given you a glimpse into my medical past, you might be wondering why I am literally begging God for my period to come and SOON. It seems life has come full circle, and I am once again that young, naive girl.

Except, this time, I NEED it to come. My first appointment for my actual IVF cycle is on the 12th. (Baseline Ultrasound) this is to be done on the 3rd day of your cycle and at no other point. If I do not start today, I will have to call the Dr. and cancel the appointment. Yes, it may be put off only a few days, but every day is precious. Every day I am late means one more day until I am able to get pregnant. You would think that after almost 3 years of waiting, a couple of days would not be that big of a deal, but that's simply not the case. Mother Nature has tortured me for 16 years. She has ruined parties, sleepovers, jobs, romantic evenings, cute undies and peaceful weekends. Is it to much to ask that she cooperate with me on just this one instance?