Chapter Text
She is 14, when she wakes up to sodden sheets, and a pulsating ache in her lower stomach and back. Her first thought is, “Well I’ve lived a nice 14 years.” She then recalls the vague talk on womanhood her mother had given her a year ago, and the hushed whispers she has overheard from girls at school. She supposes she’s not dying then. She bunches up the soiled sheets and tiptoes across the creaky floorboards. She’s halfway to the bathroom when she collides with a tall, shadowed figure. The sheets fall to the floor with a soft thump. “Sorry, Bach,” her Da says with an apologetic smile. He picks up the sheets before she can stop him. His face turns a shade of white she didn’t even think was possible. “I’ll get your Mam,” he sputters. Her Mam tucks her into bed with an exasperated sigh, after another vague talk on the beauty of womanhood. “There’s no beauty in this,” she had groused petulantly, when she had seen the clunky belt she was expected to wear. A withering look from her Mam had quickly silenced her. She spends the rest of the day curled up in bed, a hot water bottle pressed to her aching stomach. Her Mam tells her it will get easier. It doesn’t.
She is 16, the first time she faints in public. Sweat drips onto her test paper despite the blanket of snow that covers the ground. “Are you alright?” Nosy Eleanor Davis whispers from the desk beside her. She’s afraid that if she answers, the bile in her stomach will make an unwelcome appearance. Eleanor turns to the front. “Miss Perry,” she says with an exaggerated wave of her hand, “Delia’s ill.” She opens up her mouth to tell Miss Perry that she’s fine. She is always fine. The world goes black before a single syllable can escape her mouth. She wakes up on the sick room cot, to her Mam’s looming face. They walk home, despite the fact that she can hardly stand up straight. “Honestly, cariad,” her Mam says as they trek through the snow. The warmth of the loving pet name contradicts the string of hurtful words that follow. “Every woman goes through this. I don’t know why you’re being so dramatic.” She doesn’t bother to tell her Mam that she isn’t. She knows she won’t believe her.
She is just shy of 19, the first and only time she seeks out an answer for the reason behind her pain. “Some women just have painful cycles” the doctor says with a flippant shrug, after she spouts off the list of symptoms that have plagued her for five years. He can’t even say the word. She longs to scream, to shout, to screech. To tell him that he hasn’t spent nights sobbing, unable to sleep because of the pain. Hasn’t lost friends because of all the study sessions, parties, and commiserations over boyfriends or the lack thereof that she could not attend because she could barely crawl out of bed. Hasn’t spent night, after night, after night, gazing up at the ceiling of her childhood bedroom, a scalding hot water bottle pressed to her twisting stomach, trying to temper her fear and shame of her body and the pain it causes. She doesn’t tell him any of that though. Instead, she gives a polite nod, picks up her purse, thanks him, and leaves.
She is twenty, the first time Patsy finds her curled up on the bathroom floor of the nurses’ home. “Fancy seeing you here,” she says with a wry grin, her face ashen. Patsy balks. Ten minutes later, after a far-too-lengthy conversation about how this is an expected occurrence for her, she is tucked into bed with the hot water bottle that has become one of her best friends and a cool cloth pressed to her sweaty forehead. Patsy clambers in next to her and wraps her gangly arms around her. Lying next to Patsy almost makes the pain disappear. Almost is the key word, though.
She is 24, the first time someone tells her it isn’t normal. She stands in the kitchen of Nonotnous House, hands trembling, filling up the hot water bottle she has grown to despise over the years. “Late night?” comes a blithe voice from behind her. She yelps. The contents of her hot water bottle splash mostly onto the counter and floor. A Welsh swear tumbles past her lips. Sorry, Trixie says hastily, making a graceful beeline towards the mess. Her eyes widen to the size of saucers when she catches a glimpse of the sink. Delia, she says, her voice filled with alarm, “there’s steam coming from the tap!” She gives a slight shrug and a sheepish smile. “The only way a hot water bottle has any effect on me is if it’s steaming hot.” “Sweetie,” Trixie says eyes soft, voice gentle. “That isn’t normal.” She blinks. Not even Patsy has uttered those words.
She is 26 and lying in a hospital bed when she finally receives a diagnosis. She is surrounded by a gaggle of pimple-faced boys in ill-fitted coats, who already think they know better than everyone else. Including the patient. “Excuse me, Dr Slater, sir,” remarks one especially nervous-faced boy, after the doctor finishes examining and presenting her like a circus act. “What is the name of this condition?” “Endometriosis,” answers the doctor, his face unreadable. She blinks, stunned. There is a name for the pain she has endured since she was fourteen. To her surprise though, it is the labelling of the condition that elicits the most fear of all.