On March 3rd, I went to a hospital and requested an appointment with a gynaecologist. The receiving nurse examined me from head to toe as if her eyes were body scanners, detecting my problem even before I uttered it. I could almost hear her brain sifting through numerous signs of sickness, attempting to figure out which one I was experiencing. I smiled and tried to maintain the confidence in my voice. I thought that maybe if I presented strength and confidence, she would not think that I had a problem. Yet, there I was, in a hospital. Of course, I had a problem.
We have all been to the hospital and know how it works. Daktari asks you many questions and depending on your answers, Daktari will tell you what ails you. Nothing can prepare you for your first visit to the gynaecologist. Every question thrown your way feels like a bombshell detonated in your presence. You cannot ascertain, for the life of you, if the specialist wants to help you or torture you. And these people, they are patient. They know how to wait for answers. It is the gift of experience. They have, after all, been asking hard questions for a long time.
*
First question: How old are you? This one is easy. Second question: When was your menarche? Easy. Are you sexually active? Eee, this one is easy too. When last did you see your period? I cannot remember. That is why I am here. Are your periods painful? When you do experience periods, how often do they come? Let me tell you Daktari, my period shows up once a year like an annual general meeting. I am here so that you can tell me why this is so.
At this point, I am thinking that whoever said the lady-doctor asks the hardest questions was lying or exaggerating or both. Too early, too soon.
When last did you have sex? Eee, Daktari, that one is a bit personal. I’m sorry but it is important that you answer these questions. Sawa Daktari. Do you experience pain during sex? Before, during or after sex? Daktari, this one is not an easy question.
Daktari scribbles away on his notepad as though acknowledging the faults of my previous lovers and making a note to himself to give them an earful. He eyes me with a plain expression on his face before asking in a very even tone as though we were discussing the weather. Do you enjoy sex? Eeee, Daktari! Why are you asking questions of this nature? But I know why Daktari is asking the questions he is asking. I want to know something about my privates and to tell me that which I want to know, he has to know my privates.
Do you have hair growing in any abnormal places on your body? See, there is this one hair that stands tall just close to my right areola, like a lone tree on a hill. Does that count? I know it is a lot more than some men can say about the hair on their chests. Daktari laughs.
Ever had a pap smear? Cervical cancer screening? Breast cancer screening? Daktari, I don’t know what a pap-smear is.
By the time Daktari is finished asking me questions, I imagine that he would be able to make an anatomically correct model of me if given a mound of clay. I feel naked. So I hug myself a little, for comfort. He scribbles away on his notepad while announcing that I have to get my hormones and insulin levels checked. At the mention of tests, my eyes dart to the corner of the room where the curtains have been drawn to reveal that doctor’s table where you lay down and prop your feet up before the specialist pries your legs apart to conduct an examination. If Daktari tells me to sit at that table, I am leaving. Almost without realizing it, I cross my legs together and make myself small.
Following this visit to the specialist, I went through the many recommended tests. The costs of said tests, on top of Daktari’s consultation fees, left me broke. Why do I have to pay so much just to be told that I am sick and that I will have to pay more to get better? This is unfair. Later on, Daktari would explain to me that I had a condition called polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS). He would further explain that it was not curable, but the symptoms could be managed. He explained the symptoms and made me see why he was asking those many private questions. I was then advised to lose weight, eat healthily and return when I was ready to have children. Sigh! I walked out of the hospital with my shoulders hung in defeat, dragging my feet and my handbag along as I went. I still smiled at the nurse at the reception, just to remind her that I was okay. I was fine.
*
Coming to terms with my diagnosis was not easy. At first, I tried to disregard the news. I had been living well for a long time and this news was not going to change anything. However, every new day came with an understanding of why things were as they were. There was a reason why I shaved my legs more frequently than my friends did, and despite the barrage of hair products on my dresser, the hair on my head did not grow, and my hairline dwindled backwards. I now understood why I could get so bloated for so long that the people around me often assumed that I was expectant. There were rumours, I heard them all.
I realized that I was not lazy, I was simply weak and my hormones were raging wars inside my body. Wars that I was losing. I could now explain the sudden changes in my weight and appetite and my futile struggles to lose weight. Google was not kind with this revelation. I spent many days and nights reading about my symptoms and the condition that I had been diagnosed with, checking all boxes in agreement. I searched for medication, diet and workout plans. Some of the remedies I found were horrifying yet tried and proven. Admittedly, there was a tiny glimmer of hope at the back of my mind that somewhere on Larry Page’s vast internet, I would find a voice telling me that Daktari had lied and that I was fine. I did not find such a voice. And that is when I broke down.
I wailed and mourned about my fate. I cursed my uterus and my ovaries and my hormones for giving me that condition. Often, it was just my body shaking with anger and sorrow because I could not get tears to come out of my eyes. I badly wanted the tears to come out. So, I drank a lot of water. The tears never came. And I shook some more. Like every poet, I channelled my gloom and doom into creative energy and bled my heart out in poetry; writing heart-wrenching poems that will never see the light of day. When I could not create my sorrows away, I hopped onto a treadmill and ran. Those who saw me said that I looked as though I was running away from something. I laughed and smiled with them, telling them that they were hilarious. But it was true, I was constantly trying to outrun my sorrows.
*
Living with and managing PCOS has been a struggle and a daily test in endurance.
I am angry that my body is a small riot and I have to spend every dime I have fixing it. I recognize that I am privileged to be able to afford this and to get a regimen for managing my health. I acknowledge that there are many women and girls who may be suffering from conditions such as PCOS and do not know about it. Nobody will tell them because they cannot cough up the monies for consultation, diagnosis and treatment. This makes my body shake in anger and despair.
I am upset that girls are bullied and shamed into silence when they talk about their periods. When they seek assistance for periods not seen, they are forcibly tested for pregnancy and their problems are suffocated with sermons about virginity. If not pregnant, these girls are told to pause their worries and fears until they are married and wanting to have children. Then, they can start panicking and running to the doctors.
I am angry that pain has been normalized. That to be a woman is to be in pain and the strength of a woman is determined by how much pain she can endure. Pain is not normal. Your body is trying to tell you that there is something wrong. Pain should not be ignored and anyone who says otherwise should be whacked in the head.
The female reproductive system presents many challenges to the female body yet this area is not properly researched. Current treatment for reproductive and menstrual conditions and complications is stuck in the dark ages. Specialists give horrendous medical recommendations and sprinkle the recommendation for weight loss on top of all these like salt on an already bad steak. It breaks my heart to see all the restrictive diets peddled to women as remedies to control sicknesses we did not ask for. No gluten. No dairy. No sugar. No meat. No carbs. What then are we supposed to eat? I am angry that it is all trial and error when it comes to women’s bodies. I am angry that young people’s sexuality is policed and that there is stigma and judgment from families, communities and society. There are many barriers to realizing good sexual and reproductive health.
While seeking to be in community with women like myself, I have sat with women whose stories will break your heart. These women suffer PCOS, endometriosis, adenomyosis, premenstrual dysphoric disorders, fibroids, blocked tubes, retroverted uteruses, and pelvic inflammatory diseases among many other complications. These women have visited countless specialists, survived surgery after surgery and taken up all treatment recommendations under the sun—medicinal and traditional. They have tried, tested and are exhausted.
Women go through many traumas. While being forced to perform strength—pretend that everything is okay and right—women are at the same time condemned for their bodies turning up against them. They are told that it is their fault that their bodies are acting up and that they should tough it out. Insensitive comments are made about their weight, appearance and presentation. Society hurts women and says that it is okay for these women to be left behind because they have problems.
I want to shout about our pains from rooftops. I want to hold space for women and girls to exist as they are. I want to extend empathy and grace. I want to fight and make the world stop until all women can hear the truth; that our bodies can rise up against us; that there is a war and our bodies are bearing the brunt of it; that a badge of strength is a shackle and to be wary of it. I want to tell women that it is okay to not be okay. For “I am not free while any woman is unfree, even when her shackles are different from my own.” Audre Lorde