I Know It Was The Blood

“Faith without works is dead,” and that’s why I yelled at my doctor to “do something” about 18 years of abnormal bleeding, dangerous anemia, and a lack of diagnosis that has me climbing the walls once a month, every single month. 

At 34 years old, I have survived 223 grueling menstrual cycles (and counting) that most medical professionals have just shrugged off as “that sucks, periods = bad” But this isn’t a blog about my period (I’m willing to talk about that with whoever and whenever). 

It’s a lamentation of the medical profession’s disregard for Black women’s bodies and how “faith” has left us languishing. Because He won’t give you more than you can bare… right? Well… this feels like being in the forest, fighting the bear. 

It’s also an exploration of a lifelong stream of being ignored, and what it does to our bodies, our minds, and our spirits. 

That United States - “land of the free”, the freest greatest country that has ever existed freely ever - has some of the worst outcomes for maternal mortality (specifically Black women) in the “developed” world (developed in quotes because what even is “developed” without access to healthcare, let’s be fucking for real). Anecdotally and based on good science numbers, we know that Black women’s pain isn’t believed or treated appropriately; our access to healthcare is defined by our zipcodes, the number of commas in your bank account, and/or how long you’re willing to yell in your doctor’s office; and for far too long too many of us have suffered with ailments that we’ve been told were “normal,” only for TikTok and Reddit to give us the push we needed to seek immediate care. 

Well, when the world has emphasized and drowned us in memes that our worth is amplified based on our ability to endure, “tribulation worketh patience.” (Romans 5:3) 

My tribulation worketh my last nerve. Which brings us back to my uterus. We’ve built a collective narrative around menstruation being horribly disruptive, but no one has ever communicated the right amount of horror that indicates healthy processing of bodily functions. And as for me and my house, growing up, no one was to talk about periods, no one was supposed to know when you were afflicted by your period, and every shred of evidence of a period was to disappear. 

And on January 1, 2006, all of the magic tricks in the world couldn’t keep my period invisible. But this time, me and my uterus had just started our tumultuous relationship. My mom handed me some pads and a book and bid me good luck. But in the middle of DisneyWorld - Epcot to be exact - supersize, ultra, biggest size you could get pads were stuffed into my pockets in preparation for the long day. And by noon: 1) I had run out of pads, 2) I was bleeding through my pants, and 3) the worst part - I had to tell my mom. 

My mom has been an emergency room nurse my whole life, which means that any “emergency” we had at home, wasn’t. Trying to tell her what was happening in the middle of a crowded bathroom had her confused, because of course I had to be using the jumbo pads wrong. It’s just not possible that I was bleeding enough to leak through my clothes. After more interrogation, she finally asked “is it always like this?” 

To which I responded, “yes.” 

She bought every pad she could find in every bathroom machine at DisneyWorld, bought me an oversized shirt to cover the blood on my pants, and committed to getting me to a doctor when we got home. 

18 years and over 200 (mostly) horrific periods later, I’ve tried birth control (gained weight, felt like I was losing my mind, was told I’d have to take it forever), was vegan (worked for a lot of other health benefits, my uterus didn’t care), ultrasounds (inside, outside, all around), etcetera, etcetera. And found professional after professional who simply said “we can’t find anything wrong,” but didn’t show interest in finding what was wrong. One doctor, committed to disrupting the ways Western medicine fucks us all over, got me into a hematologist for routine labs and iron infusions. She tried her damndest to get me the correct tests for diagnoses and treatment, to which my insurance company said (paraphrased) “this diagnosis isn’t bad enough, come back when it’s cancer or a hysterectomy.” 

And that… was my last straw (so I thought). I yelled to the universe that I would not go another year with hellacious periods… or my uterus. Rip it out, study it for science, throw it against the wall - I just want relief. 

I found a new OB/GYN (a childless, mid-40s Caribbean, Black woman). And proudly exclaimed, “I would like a hysterectomy.” I’ve been working on this scary thing where I state my needs, so this was starting off promising. The Medical Assistant laughed and said “no one’s gonna give you a hysterectomy at your age, what if you change your mind.”

If we were in a TV show, this is the part where I stare at the camera, breaking the fourth wall.

A lot more things happened that day and in the months that followed, including: using Google, TikTok, and Reddit to reference tests and diagnoses that needed to be explored, and taking my mother to one of the appointments as proof that I don’t want kids, I haven’t for a while, and I am very serious about putting my uterus in a box and offering it to the depths of the ocean. 

At the very moment I am writing this blog, I’ve been given another option. A fellow menstruation survivor and friend of Bae recommended acupuncture. She said it was miraculous for her.. and by golly, I was willing to try. I’m typing this after my first six sessions. Spilling my guts to the doctor and exclaiming my desperation, I told her I’m willing to try many things before a hysterectomy, but I just needed to not feel like a lab rat being tossed around by big pharma. 

During round one of getting poked… I was hit with an epiphany. I believe in abundance. I believe we deserve abundance. I want very much to move from abundance and not desperation. Abundance. Abundance. Abundance. And resorting to a hysterectomy, I can admit, was an act of desperation. An understandable cry for relief. What could it look like and feel like to move like water… calculated, precise, and unrelenting. Water is not desperate. Acupuncture (for me) is abundance. Being open and prepared for another way of being is abundance. And it is a privilege. And it’s giving my body, mind, and spirit another chance at relief - before we get to the “after you’ve done all you can.” 

All this to say, in the Good Book tells the story of a “woman with an issue of blood.” She’s nameless, but I see her. I am her. “Under the care of many doctors and had spent all she had” only to stay the same, or get worse. In an act of abundant, crazy faith she touched “the hem of his garment,” knowing it was worth a shot. Jesus said “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.”

You don’t have to believe in the Big G to believe in faith or manifestation or that a better world is not only possible but required. And trusting in your head and/or your heart is a piece of the magic recipe. Maybe don’t go touching random men’s clothes in crowds believing in your healing, but how are you willing to get big and loud about the life you deserve. In what ways do you trust your gut and body to communicate your deepest needs. 

Sometimes, it’s the scary thing. It’s also the necessary thing. 

I know it will be all of this blood that restores, creates, and builds my faith in a lot of things and people. And let me tell y’all something, if I come out of 2024 with a lighter flow, one less organ, and/or a few fibroids lighter… prepare to be sick of me. 

**if for nothing else… acupuncture will cure my fear of needles… I swear**