I woke up at… err… 9:45am with the ganas to use the bathroom and before you know it I thought I was gonna keel over and die. OK I can be pretty dramatic (God Bless My Mama for aguantaring my High School years, err, most of my childhood) but on the pain scale, if 10 is the worst I was at a 7.
The thing is: It was my Period. I have learned how to teach Middle Schoolers about menstruation and I’ve drawn diagrams of the female anatomy and explained PMS and ovulation and fertilization and forms of birth control, and all of this in a foreign language, Spanish, but THIS COULD NOT BE EXPLAINED in English, Spanish or K’iche’. Sitting on the toilet counting the steps I would have to take to make it back to my bed like Bird Box from the house to the river, Clara came upstairs and said: “Seño ya me voy al juyub’ con la Mama y regreso al mediodía.” She was going to cut coffee. I could literally manage a feeble ‘utz la’ which is está bien, and I hobbled back to my bed with a roll of toilet paper because it felt like a dragon was going to burst out of my uterus.
I laid down and let the next 40 minutes pass in extreme pain. I texted Rachel, my site mate, not sure what she could do to help me but sure I did not want to be alone. In between moans and deep breaths I contemplated the plight of anyone who has ever been sick and alone. I ran down the list of potential ailments: UTI? Kidney stones? Cyst on uterus? Cyst made the most sense to me, from what I’d heard about them… In those moments, I am not sure which is worse: sickness or isolation. We all know that sickness is definitely the worst, but the power of company makes the absence of it intensify physical pain.
They say that Laughter is the universal language, but I think it might be pain.
It wasn’t before long that Rachel came to my rescue. I could hear her come in through the side lamina door and say “Saqirik Nan” to Abuelita “Buenos Días Señora” and imagine Abuelita’s general confusion about what was going on. Ni modo, Abuelita would just have to let it be. And. God. Bless. Rachel. Through the course of the morning she jotted down my symptoms, called the medical office, brought me my favorite crackers/cookies María’s, tea, a hot water solution for my gut, a functioning thermometer and ibuprofen. I was definitely cold, like I could feel in my body that my hands and feet had gone frigid and it was an honest-to-goodness true Peace Corps moment when I asked Rachel to feel my forehead but her hands were still so much colder than my body because of the pila water that it didn’t vale la pena for her to even try. The thing is: It gets so cold in Santa Clara that our public water is always frigid and it makes our hands freezing right after you wash them. De hecho, my host family doesn’t wash the dishes at night for this reason. But it was so true, even my natural temperature being lower than normal was still not as cold as Rachel’s icy hands. THANKS PILA.
USA: don’t ever take for granted the beauty of instant hot-water coming out of the tap. I say that knowing that that is what you will do. But, ponder it the next time you use the bathroom and don’t walk away with liquid nitrogen for hands, okay?
It only took an hour to get Medical on the phone (which was annoying for several reasons, one being that by the time they called the pain had subsided and I felt like a fraud). But we came up with a plan and I am going into the office today for an ultrasound (Don’t Worry Mom. I’m in good, icy, hands).
To be honest, it was good that my host family wasn’t there. As much as I love them and they take such good care of me, sometimes we look at bodies so differently that it’s too frustrating to try to understand each other at moments like these. I’ve written about this before but their natural remedies for things sometimes crack me up. Diarrhea? 8 oz of liquor with bitter coffee and lime juice, down the hatch.. Don’t eat avocado at night because it’s a “cold” food.. Cold air can enter your body through your belly button.. If a bone is fractured or muscle tissue gets sprained, just RUB THE BONE BACK INTO PLACE.. Put tomato juice on burns… The list, my dears, goes on and on. So the last thing I needed to hear was something like: “Maybe it’s because you’re tired” to explain The Scary Movie being produced by my reproductive organs, which is precisely what Clara suggested when I recounted the incident to her later that night.
I grabbed my computer in between one of Rachel’s errands as I had ONE JOB this day: send in my documents to complete my grad school application. I opened my email and was shocked by a subject line in my inbox: “Congratulations and Welcome to ASU.” While I am trying to complete the other application to University of Arizona, I get accepted to the first school whom I contacted last year around March so almost a year ago. Even though I still don’t know if I got the scholarship, which is the real dream, I dreamt about receiving this email…. and this was definitely the weirdest moment to be receiving it. P.S. It’s so strange how quickly your priorities can shift when you meet someone (a la gentleman caller). I am still excited about grad school, do not for one second get me wrong, but matters of the heart have a funny way of stirring up the pot can I get an amen? And on top of all of this, your uterus reminds you that you can’t predict or control what you have successfully managed to survive your whole life until this morning (which is: your damn period).
After taking my temperature thrice, it was confirmed that my temperature had plunged below what is normal (granted this was an hour or more after the pain had subsided so I imagine it was even lower in the thick of it). We converted celsius to fahrenheit and reported back to Medical. After I had taken lots of ibuprofen, sipped tea and put the blankets back on, I was finally back to 36.7 degrees celsius. Rachel headed home and it was me, María’s cookies and Netflix for the rest of the morning + thoughts of grad school and waiting for a text from my gentleman caller. Womanhood.
By 8:30pm I had taken a peanut butter-induced 2-hour nap, had eaten beans and chao mein with my host Mom and Abuelita for dinner and was sitting down to do Yoga with Adriene, Menstruation Edition on youtube, had my pillows ready and my mat stretched across my floor and began to breath deeply and stretch my neck when my phone began to vibrate. I thought it might be my gentleman caller but the screen displayed “María Mendoza” and “porque no me contesta” it said in my text messages. I picked up and she told me: “there isn’t a camioneta, can I come in?” I could hear her voice through my phone and through my window. Ummmmmmmm yes, sure. Yes you can come in. I was downstairs and untying my Host Mom’s maximum security lasso knot to keep out the robbers, drunks and street dogs and I saw my long-time friend Seño María.
Seño María is and was the first person to understand my work in Santa Clara, to support me and to work with me. She is 45 and single, never-married, and I am, well, not that far behind. She has a beautiful home in San Juan and lives there alone (which is unusual). Most people live with their families until they get married, especially women. She has invited me to stay with her many times. She is super-involved in her church, sings in the choir and teaches middle school (which is how we met). Seño María is a lifelong friend.
When she walked through the lamina door she embraced me in a very unusual way. She held on tightly to me in a thick hug, you know how some hugs feel thick?, and didn’t let me go. Maybe 20 seconds she was in my arms. My host mom spoke to her in K’iche’ and Seño María responded, even though she speaks Tz’utujil, not K’iche’ (the languages are similar), and I could see that she was upset. My host mom said: “Are you crying?” and she responded: “for the cold!” which is the universal excuse for all abnormalities in Santa Clara. “Because of the cold!” And I told Seño Mary to come upstairs. She sat on my bed and her eyes filled with tears. It broke my heart. I quickly furnished my fleece pants, an extra toothbrush and some tissues. She explained to me that she felt scared, it was late and she was waiting alone for the bus. She realized it wasn’t going to come. It struck me as odd because Seño Mary has family who live in Santa Clara, not far at all from me, but she decided to come to my house.
The crazy thing is that she still doesn’t know where she is going to work this year. The way the public school system works here is that you don’t assigned to which school you will teach (and in which town) until the school year is under way. They can’t assign teachers to their placements at the end of the previous year because they don’t get their budget until the year starts. With all due respect to this beautiful country which I love, it’s a hot mess. And the vegetables in that soup, stirred around every which way, are the teachers not knowing where they are going to land. Last year Seño Mary worked at THREE DIFFERENT SCHOOLS. And we thought the thing was worked out until she got her placement this year and cabal, it said Santa Clara again. She doesn’t live in Santa Clara so she has to rely on the buses that go down to the lake to bring her home. If she gets done with work late at night, she is S.O.L. I wish this situation was unusual but teachers go through it every year.
I heated up the water to brew her tea and read the Yogi Tea Affirmation on the tag expecting it to be one I’ve already seen like: “Compassion has no limit, kindness has no enemy” but this one was different. It said: “Life is a flow of love; your participation is requested.” First of all, pun intended Yogi Tea. Flow. On the first day of the most painful period of my life.. cheeky. And secondly, damn. Damn damn damn. Be awake to love and answer your phone when your friend calls you crying outside, even if you’ve had a crazy morning too. Is hosting slumber parties a part of my job descript? It doesn’t matter, my participation is requested. In one single Tuesday I got into grad school, my sitemate rescued me from certain ruin and on Friday I get an ultrasound of my uterus at no cost to me. Yes, I will participate. Seño María put on my extra pair of pajama fleece pants and to be honest, she seemed so lost in them. No wonder when I said: “La primera vez que la estoy viendo en pantalón!” she responded: “Es la primera vez!” The first time 45 year-old Seño Mary put on pants. Ever. Yes that means she even sleeps in her woven corte skirt, too, that is until this pyjamada we are having (pajama party). Just like my host mom and Abuelita. The day is full of hi’s and lo’s and firsts, and whether they be painful, precious or completely unpredicted, there is life asking for my participation. And even though this is a wild roller coaster, I am really happy to be on board.