Part 1: The long road to diagnosis

I've never had a painless period. Seriously, it's like my uterus has had a personal vendetta against me and it all started when I was just eleven years old. I'll never forget the day I got my period. I was hit with a sharp, stabbing pain that caused me to black out in the middle of class. When I regained consciousness, I was mortified to discover that my crotch was soaked in blood. It was hardly a glamorous initiation into womanhood. The pain was so intense that I felt like I was on the verge of death. The pain was not just limited to my pelvis, but it spread to my rectum as well. It felt like someone was stabbing me repeatedly with a hot knife. On top of that, I was hit by relentless vomiting, diarrhea, and my body temperature soared so high that the nurse's office felt like a sweat lodge. I was desperate for relief and even contemplated lying naked on the cold bathroom floor just to cool off. The situation became so unbearable that the school nurse had to call my mother to come and pick me up.

My mom, having dealt with her own share of women's reproductive issues, tried to console me, but I was screaming in agony the entire car ride to my abuela's house. I thought when I got to my abuela's house she would console me and make me feel better like she used to every time I got sick as a child. Unfortunately, my abuela's "welcome to womanhood" speech was about as comforting as a root canal. I remember her telling me, "This is part of being a woman mija," as she handed me a heating pad. I thought to myself "Thanks for the heads up abuela!"

Growing up in a Latino household, the topic of women's reproductive health was like a big, fat elephant in the room that nobody wanted to acknowledge. It was as if talking about periods or birth control was taboo, like it was something to be ashamed of or kept hidden. I felt like I was in the dark, navigating a maze of pain and confusion with no compass. I had no idea what was normal and what wasn't. I didn't know that passing out from pain during your period wasn't something that everyone experienced. I didn't know that bleeding through a pad or tampon every 15 minutes wasn't just a minor inconvenience. It was like being handed a map with all the wrong directions and being told to figure it out on your own.

As I laid in bed, curled up in the fetal position I couldn't help but wonder how other women managed to go about their day with the same problems I was facing. I mean, how did they do it? Were they secret superheroes? Maybe they just had really good drugs. I had to know.

From that day on, my menstrual cycles have been a monthly nightmare, filled with excruciating pain and discomfort. My periods would last anywhere from two to six weeks. I bled so profusely that I felt like a faucet that refused to shut off. On top of the heavy bleeding, I experienced stabbing pelvic pain, hot and cold sweats, and bowel movements so painful that they made me black out. This monthly nightmare wasn't just painful, but also mortifying. Students would spread rumors about potential reasons for why I was blacking out in class. Some thought I was pregnant, malnourished, a drug user and the list goes on. I felt endless pain and shame throughout my years. As if going through puberty wasn’t hard enough.

At 13, I started birth control to manage my cramps, but it made me feel terrible and often extended my bleeding. Every six months, my doctor would switch my birth control to see if it would offer me any relief. My hormones felt like they were on a never-ending roller coaster ride. No matter the birth control method, the debilitating pain persisted every month. My teenage years were like a never-ending medical drama - think Grey's Anatomy, but with a lot more throwing up. I spent more time in doctor's offices than I did at the mall, which is saying something back then.

The doctors were just as stumped as I was. I was diagnosed with more conditions than a hypochondriac's dream board, but none of them seemed to fit the bill. It was like I was starring in my own medical mystery show. I was constantly sick, throwing up, and in pain, but all my tests always came back negative. I liked to think of it as keeping the doctors on their toes. It's important to keep them humble and curious, right? Just kidding - I just wanted to feel better and move on with my life.

This continued till I got to college. College was supposed to be a time of fun, parties, and personal growth but for me, it was more like a never-ending pain party. In class, when the pain got so bad I was like a fainting goat - I'd just drop to the floor like a sack of potatoes. My body sure new how to keep class interesting. Again I was the girl who always blacked out in class. On one particularly memorable day, I was stuck in bumper to bumper traffic en route to school when I was blindsided by the most excruciating pain I'd ever endured. It felt like my insides were hosting a knife fight! Panicking, I pulled over and called my boyfriend at the time to come rescue me. At that moment, I was convinced that my appendix had gone rogue and was on the verge of self-destruction.

Channeling the essence of a superhero, my partner swooped in, gently picked me up, and placed me in his car. Together, we raced toward the ER, my body shivering from a mixture of fear and unimaginable pain. Upon arrival at the hospital, the nurse, suspecting my appendix was on the brink of bursting, treated me with the urgency of a VIP. For a fleeting moment, I felt like a celebrity —although one in terrible pain. The medical team conducted an ultrasound, drew blood, and in the blink of an eye, a morphine IV was being inserted into my arm. My pain swiftly morphed into stomach-churning nausea, as if my insides were a whirlpool of discomfort. My boyfriend, wide-eyed and frightened, watched my lifeless body sprawled across the hospital bed. The prospect of emergency surgery loomed over us like a menacing storm cloud. I drifted in and out of consciousness, leaving my boyfriend to navigate the choppy waters of my medical crisis. 

After what felt like an eternity of suspense, the doctor finally revealed that I had an ovarian cyst that had burst! They planned to monitor me for a while and warned that I could expect some discomfort and pain for the next few days. It was then that I understood my body was waging a full-scale war against me, and I was stuck in the middle of the battlefield.

Caught in the hazy embrace of morphine, I still managed to recognize the genuine care in the on-call doctor's eyes and bedside manner. In my altered state, I asked for her contact information as if I were attempting to score a date for Friday night. (I assure you, it was the drugs talking!) Unbeknownst to me at the time, this doctor would eventually end up changing my life forever.