Part 1
Cheynie rolled over and let out a guttural groan. The new position was no better. She tried to curl her knees up to her chest. Then she tried to lay on her stomach with the pillow stuffed under her torso. The pain persisted. She checked her phone and the screen read 3:02 a.m. She had to be up in three hours but with this pain, she wasn’t sure if she would be up to going anywhere. She tried to lay flat on her back with one heating pad on her tummy and one under her back. She pursed her lips together as another groan rose up from within. This position wouldn’t work either.
She could remember how startled she was when these sharp, piercing pains started visiting her monthly. They arrived before the blood-stained her underwear. Her mom called her a late bloomer because her two older sisters matured at a much faster rate sans the pain. Their monthly moments came in swift and fast right when they turned 11 ½ years old. Cheynie was on the brink of her thirteenth birthday when the pain finally accompanied the blood. Her mother took each one of her sisters out for ice cream to explain what was happening with their bodies and what that meant to the future of their family, a husband and natural aspects of being a woman. Yet, when her time came, they had spent so much time in the hospital already that she received her speech from a white male doctor who explained menstrual rituals and reproduction while she crunched on ice chips. She had heard the familiar story and researched the delay of menstrual onset so much, she could recite the speech to any other young girl. One day she would be more than equipped to have the special speech with her young daughter, should, she be so fortunate to have one.
The first time she went to a doctor to address the pain, the nurse took her weight and height before taking her and her mom into a room to discuss the what Cheynie was experiencing and what to expect during the appointment. She spoke slow and paused often when asking questions such as “do you understand?” and “how does that make you feel?”
Cheynie wanted to explain to the nurse, she was in physical pain, not slow. Her mom would answer the questions on her behalf but from time to time, she would look at Cheynie and encourage her to explain the pain, where it was and how long it lasted.
Cheynie remembered feeling grown up because she answered the questions with precision and a matter-of-factness that she saw her Daddy use when talking to strangers. She straightened her back like he did and looked the nurse straight in the eye. Her father called it being a “straight shooter” and letting them know “you mean business.” She was here to let the staff know, she meant business about ridding her body of the sharp, stabbing pain that visited her more frequently than anything else.
Nothing the nurse said surprised her because the night before the appointment, her mom sat her down to prepare her for what the doctor was going to do. She used words like discomfort, violating, new and frightening. Her mom had cried softly while Daddy prayed over her. Cheynie hadn’t been very worried but seeing her mom cry made her a bit fretful. She rubbed her back and smiled into her mom’s eyes to comfort her and explain how she was willing to do whatever it took. No temporary pain from a doctor’s appointment could compare to shooting pains Cheynie woke up to multiple times a month. She was determined to suffer through whatever the doctor did if he could figure out a way to make it stop.
Once in the exam room, she had to spread her legs wide and put her feet up in these awkward metal stirrups. She imagined she was doing toe-touches the way her gymnastics coach taught her at camp. The doctor had to coax her to inch her bottom down to the edge of the table. Her mother squeezed her right hand while the nurse held her left. The doctor had enlarged nostrils and humongous ears with tufts of white hair sticking out of each one. She remembered wondering if he could hear the churning noise her insides made without having to stick that metal tool inside of her. Her mother stood in tears and kept whispering, “my baby, my baby” as she stroked Cheynie’s hair back into its ponytail.
The doctor smiled while he spoke to Cheynie but when she could only see the tops of his forehead, she could tell he was frowning because three distinct lines appeared on his forehead looking like waves. Once done, he snapped his gloves off and mumbled something to the nurse who wrote feverishly in the folder she kept nearby by.
The next step was to spread a cold, gooey substance on Cheynie’s abdomen and use what the doctor called a “magic wand” because it would allow him to see her insides on the screen. He made sounds like “mmhmm” or “awwww” and nodded as he moved the wand back and forth while staring at the screen. The screen looked like a blur of white and gray with distinct white balls sprinkled throughout.
He pointed to one of the balls that looked to be the size of a quarter and used an unfamiliar term.
Cheynie’s mom, in the sass she infrequently used, said, “in English please.”
The doctor apologized and said, “Cheynie has fibroids.”
Stay tuned for Part 2!
