Parties, Periods, and Paracetamol

Clare wakes up feeling horrible, her mouth sandpaper dry. Somehow, her whole body is knotted and twisted into her bed sheets. Her head is pounding. Sadly, she is not waking up from an alcohol-fueled evening or a one-night stand. It is day four of a February heatwave and she is struggling. This could be attributed to the heat, and potentially also the fact she has been living off sliced cucumbers and hummus for days.

Sighing, Clare kicks off her sheets that are slightly damp with sweat, thrashing against them as their creeping tendrils hold her close. She stands up to make the bed, finding a small circle of dark red staring back at her amongst the white cotton. As if the heat is not enough to quash her happiness, she now has her period. She sneaks downstairs to the bathroom, putting her sheets in the wash and herself in the shower, the warm water caressing her skin.

Opening the bathroom cupboard, she searches through one, two, three empty packets of ibuprofen, paracetamol, and naproxen, before she finds a packet with a few pills left in the blister sheet. She carefully sticks a pad into her underwear, thankful that she is not in a public bathroom, because whoever made pads so loud to unwrap deserves jail time. Clare sighs and wishes that she could donate her uterus to someone who was in need of one.

Clare has endometriosis and, much to her chagrin, she has been told time and time again that not much can be done about it. Apparently, the root of the problem is some stubborn and unruly tissue that grows outside her uterus when it shouldn’t. It can be surgically removed, but it will just come back again like a pesky ex-boyfriend, so for now she exists on a diet of painkillers and heat packs once a month, while feeling like her pelvis is being ripped out by a fishhook.

In an attempt to get diagnosed, she went to three different GPs, who told her that period pain is ‘unfortunately a normal part of a woman’s life,’ before finally being referred to a women’s health specialist. Then came the ultrasounds, and the doctors gave her a ‘working diagnosis’. To give her a definitive diagnosis she would have to have a laparoscopy – a literal surgery – which, being a uni student, she does not have the time or money for. The whole situation makes her frustrated beyond belief. She spends a large amount of her public transport time having vicious internal rants, questioning the medical system’s ability to actually do its job.

On her way to the kitchen, Clare hears movement from Sofia’s room down the hall and feels her heart speed up when she hears the door open, and the footsteps move towards the kitchen.

‘Good morning!’ says Sofia, smiling like the sun itself, with her hair askew and pyjamas rumpled.

‘Good morning,’ Clare responds with a smile.

‘Have you got uni today?’

‘Nah, I luckily get Fridays off.’

‘Same! Thank goodness,’ Sofia lets out a chuckle and gestures to her rumpled clothes.

‘Big night?’ Clare grins and catches eyes with Sofia, her heart taking off again.

‘Yeah, quite a night, plus Tiffany was there so how could I say no?’

Sofia’s eyes sparkle and Clare’s heart slows down and crumbles a little on the inside. She knows all about Tiffany, Sofia’s angel, her muse, her everything.

‘Speaking of which,’ Sofia continues, ‘Tom is hosting a massive party tonight, and you should so come!’

Clare laughs. ‘Thanks, but I’m okay.’

‘No! You have to!’

Clare smiles, saying she will definitely keep it in mind, before Sofia slinks away to use the shower.

She makes a cup of ginger tea and stares at the small cracks in the walls of the kitchen. This house has probably seen a lot of people in its time, a lot of women just like her, washing their blood covered laundry and having a crisis over being potentially in love with their housemates. It makes her feel like her problems are manageable, and that she shouldn’t worry so much about how much she hates Tiffany, or how much she loves Sofia.

Clare didn’t even know she liked girls until she met Sofia. She had gone through her life thinking some boys were gorgeous and she would love to be their girlfriend. She had admired some girls and the way they seemed to glow, lighting up a whole room. She was shy around them, but thought it was her admiration, not anything romantic. Then Sofia. Her pounding heart when they talked. The dreams she had of them kissing and more, waking up dazed.

The sun streams in the windows, making patterns on the ugly, mustard-yellow linoleum floor. Clare feels the pain in her lower back, faint but telltale, along with a deep overwhelming sad feeling that sits heavily in her chest. She feels like this quite often, a sadness at nothing, but today she attributes it to her feelings about Sofia and her dreaded period.

She hears the washing machine beep, and drags herself to the bathroom, pulling her sheets out of the machine and into the laundry basket. She really cannot be bothered to hang them outside. After a minute, she puts her sheets in the dryer and feels as if climate change is happening solely because of her.

She decides that despite the thrumming energy of the day, she has to go back to bed. She climbs up the stairs and nestles herself in her uncovered mattress and duvet. She puts two towels under her so that her blood doesn’t creep onto anything again.

She wakes up to the sound of happy voices, feeling much better, but she takes two more painkillers anyway. She gets up to make her way downstairs, checking herself in the mirror to make sure she doesn’t look like the undead.

‘Clare!!’ yells Sofia from out in the back garden. The garden that is made up of a square of bricks and some herbs in pots.

‘Clare!!!’ repeats Jamie, their other housemate. ‘Come out here!’

Clare smiles and obeys, trotting outside to join them all. Tiffany smiles in a very warm and welcoming way and greets Clare, who returns the greeting with, hopefully, an equally warm air. Sofia asks what she has been up to, and Clare tells her she has been sleeping away her period.

‘You poor thing,’ says Jamie with sympathy. She then smiles and holds out a mug.

‘Have a drink babe, it helps with pain you know. Plus, you need to be somewhat pissed before we get to Tom’s party.’

Clare had totally forgotten about the party but takes the drink anyway. She is feeling so much better now with the sun shining down on the four girls in the garden. The summer feeling is so strong and beautiful, as she sips her drink. It is a disgusting ratio of vodka to lemonade, but she doesn’t mind.

About forty minutes later they are all tipsy and Clare can’t stop thinking about how beautiful Sofia is. They are all chatting about a recent celebrity scandal when Tiffany gives Sofia a cute little kiss and they both smile so adoringly at each other that Clare feels that heavy chest-ache of sadness again. But only for a second, because Jamie stands up with a dramatic flair, holding the bottle of vodka in her hand, asking,

‘So, who is coming to Tom’s?’

Clare nearly says no, but with the vodka buzzing through her bones and her cramps long gone, she feels amazing. Tiffany would have Sofia all to herself otherwise. She runs upstairs to put a different outfit on, settling on a black floaty maxi skirt and a cute red strapless top. She grabs her wallet and phone, and they are out the door, onto the tram, and on their way to the party.

They all arrive at the party. A guy who is not Tom opens the door and lets them in, before dashing away again. The four girls stand in the middle of the crowded room and let the music wash over them, along with the smell of sweat and spirits. Clare zones out for a minute and feels a tap on her shoulder, turning to see Sofia holding a cup of something out to her. She takes it, thanking her, and brings it to her lips. Sofia gestures to the deck outside the house, and the group of girls make their way out. They begin dancing together, but Jamie disappears somewhere with a guy she knew from high school. Clare is then faced with Sofia and Tiffany very intensely making out with each other. She feels such a rush of anger and disappointment, but also duty as a friend to leave them alone.

Then, she feels a cramp.

Clare knows, despite her semi-drunken haze, that it is time for her to leave. She has a brief window of time to get herself out of here, and back home, before she loses the ability to walk without throwing up. Picking up her phone, she texts Jamie and Sofia that she is going home and calls an Uber. It is half an hour away – such is the joy of a Friday night.

Standing in the middle of the crowded dance floor, Clare feels herself sadden once again. Why does this happen? Why can’t I be the one kissing Sofia, or the one dancing in pure ecstasy? She is sick to death of having to carry her pain around and let it ruin otherwise enjoyable nights. She has lived in her body her whole life, and yet most of the time she feels a stranger to it.

She walks out the front door and decides to sit on the porch until her ride arrives.

‘Hey.’

She turns around and sees a guy about her age, blonde curly hair and a nice smile, sitting on a bench.

‘Hey,’ she says.

‘You obviously hate parties as much as me, leaving at ten.’

‘Ah, it’s not the worst I’ve been to,’ she says as a cramp zaps her like a lightning strike and she hunches over a little.

‘Oh. Are you alright?’ He stutters a little and comes over closer.

The cramp subsides.

‘Yeah, it’s just my period being a bitch.’

Clare normally would not say this to a stranger, but what has she really got to lose? She doesn’t know him and will likely never see him again. She can say whatever the hell she wants.

‘Oh, that sucks, do you usually get cramps pretty bad?’

Not an ounce of disgust on his face, like he talks about periods every day.

‘Yeah, every month like clockwork,’ rolling her eyes.

‘Here, come sit,’ he gestures to the bench, and Clare walks over and sits down, her legs aching.

‘I’m Henry, by the way.’

‘Clare.’

‘Do you want me to keep you company while you wait for your ride?’

‘That would be nice,’ she responds with a smile. ‘Thank you.’

Clare and Henry sit, and they talk for the next half an hour. They talk about periods. They talk about shit parties. She is surprised at how comfortable she feels, here with this random stranger, on another random stranger’s front porch.

Summer is in the air, and she can smell it on the wind.

Her ride arrives, and he walks her to the car, which she is very thankful for. Halfway to the car, he stops and asks for her number. She gives it to him and smiles, the remnants of her achy sadness finding wings and floating away into the warm evening air.

On the short drive home, Clare holds herself together, for she is nauseous and in a lot of pain. But she is happy that she went to the party, and she is happy that there are people in the world like Henry.