Instead of making this about him, he’s attentive. Worried about me.
“It’s no problem at all. Really,” he says, stroking a tendril of hair away from my face with his thumb. “I just want you to be okay. And your pain is my pain, too. You don’t deal with this alone anymore.”
“How—how did you know what helps?”
He shrugs. “I did some research while you were sleeping.” He frowns, his gaze meeting mine. “Ivy, I knew cramps weren’t pleasant, but I had absolutely no idea this condition was so painful. I’m so sorry you have to deal with this.” He strokes my jaw with a finger, swiping a hair away. “You’ve got me now. I’ll stay here until this settles.”
His words hit me, tears forming at the corners of my eyes, and I squint them back.
I always feel so alone when this hits, like it’s something I have to face by myself. Very few people understand the extent of the pain, unless they’ve experienced it for themselves or a friend has opened up to them who has.
Endometriosis is a lonely illness, and its cousin adenomyosis is even less well understood. Lucky me has both, like a twisted family reunion with lots of breakdancing in my womb.
For the next few hours, Soren stays close. “What else do you need?”
This tenderness from him is fresh, a kind of concern that I’m not used to—a juxtaposition with the violent and dark specter I know he can be. Not that he’s ever directed that my way.
“This doesn’t seem normal,” he says at one point after I gasp and double over in pain again, throwing myself into the fetal position and rocking vigorously, whimpering while tears run from the corners of my eyes.
“Well, yes and no,” I say, flinching as the soldiers change up their weapons and attack my womb instead with ten thousand tiny spears. “A lot of women have this. There aren’t many options unless you want a full hysterectomy, and that has its own side effects, especially when you’re younger.”
“I just didn’t realize,” he frowns. “Nobody really talks about it.”
For years, I’ve been made to feel that I’m exaggerating. That I just have a tiny bit of inconvenient period pain that I’m blowing up into something way bigger, way more severe.
But Soren is taking me seriously. Like it matters.
By this point, I’m fatigued and cranky and I just want to lie there and try to distract myself with a true crime podcast—something,anythingthat will take my mind off the war being waged inside my body.
His being here is soothing, but it’s also starting to make me feel smothered. As if I need to be as attuned to his response to my pain as the pain itself. It might be all in my head, but it’s making me anxious.
“Go do some work,” I croak out. “Please. I do better when I don’t have to perform for other people. When I can just lie here and feel like a complete mess and work through the pain on my own.”
He studies me for a second. But then he must see that I mean what I’m saying, because he hands me the glass of water and nods, his expression resetting to neutral. “Okay,” he says. “Another sip first. Your throat is dry, and it’ll help with the pain if you stay hydrated.”
For what feels like forever, I stay on the bed, shifting uncomfortably with a regularity that bores me. Twisting this way and that, rotating sides, alternating between sitting and lying down, pigeon pose and happy baby. Listening to tales of murder and psychopathy, occasionally being pulled into a twisted tale dark enough to give my mind a moment of reprieve.
My favorite true crime podcast—where they blend warpedstories with dark humor and camaraderie between two female friends—even has me laughing out loud a couple of times, the laughter slightly easing the tension in my belly.
A few times, I sense a presence, like Soren might be hovering just outside the door, but he doesn’t come in.
Later in the day, right as an episode of the podcast finishes, he returns with a post-it note in his hand. He passes it to me, a serious expression on his face. It has an address on it, as well as a date and time. “I know you have your own doctor, but this OB/GYN is meant to specialize in endometriosis and adenomyosis, and they’re meant to be the best in town. They’re trying a few new treatment therapies that are showing positive initial results. They’ve made space for you.”
I look at him, my mouth parting. “Oh wow, thank you so much, Soren. This is incredibly thoughtful.”
He watches me for a second. “I told you,” he says quietly. “I’ll take care of you.”
And I let out a small breath. Because he really is.
I’ve been desperate for answers for so long, but I’ve become resigned to the fact that unless I undertake drastic surgery that will leave my bones brittle and other consequences, I’m stuck with this ongoing pain. It rips me away from my day-to-day, and it only seems to be getting worse as time passes.
But Soren’s general persistence about being there for me—and his undivided attention—clearly extends to this. To something I’ve always had to fight alone. Until now.
After experimenting with the TENS machine, the short sharp bursts contracting my muscles in a way I find fascinating, I go to the shower again and let the hot water run over me. As before, it offers a reprieve as the steam curls around me, the heat warming my bones and allowing my muscles a chance to breathe.
After, I lie back in bed with the heating pad, my latest dose of ibuprofen finally sinking in. As it makes its way through my pain-riddled body, I can almost feel its progression through every nerve receptor as they dull in sequence, one by one.
I notice myself drifting back to sleep, and I welcome it with hunger. I try not to let my body know how eager I am for slumber, lest it decide I’m too needy and jolt me back awake. Because my body seems much more like my nemesis than a friend right now, and I don’t trust her at all.