THE BALLOON #BalconyChronicles

It is not every day that you see a child blowing on a used condom.

It destabilizes you for a few seconds. You are too shocked to move or say anything. You are watching them enjoying the innocence of childhood ignorance. The girl in green braids, can’t be more than six, is excited that it is her turn. The other one is urging her to blow fast so she can also have a go.

You just had your salad. You can feel it coming back. It was a great salad so you re-direct that energy to shouting;

“Hey! That’s not a balloon. It’s….”

How do you shout at a bunch of kids from two floors up at 1300 hours that the balloon they are handing with so much glee is actually a condom, a used condom?! Do they know what the hell that is?

“…it’s dirty! Where did you get it?”

“We found it! Is it dirty because people have stepped on it?”

(Dirt is good! But what we are dealing with here? Oi!)

“Go throw it away! And don’t put things you pick from the trash in your mouth!”

The one holding the condom gives you a look that you are familiar with because you have used it before. That one for, I am running out of sight so I can continue doing what you have forbidden. You give it a few minutes then walk downstairs to check if they are hiding at a corner and blowing on the balloon.

Sure enough, you find them hiding behind a wall. The seemingly group leader, girl with green braids is still holding the lengthy contraption.

“Did I not tell you to throw ‘that’ away?!”

You am still not ready to conduct a sex ed class on behalf of the parents.

“Why do you still have that ‘thing’ that I told you is not a balloon?”

(Blank stare)

“Si I even shared with the others…” Girl with green braids responds.

I have to admit. I laughed. I laughed hard.

How is that an answer to my question? Kids will try you.

Our building caretaker has joined me. She instructs the girl to wrap the condom with a paper that was lying nearby and give it to her. Caretaker goes ahead and disposes it in our trash cans. There is a stern warning to the girls not to ever pick up that balloon looking thing again, let alone put it in their mouths.

“Go wash your hands…and mouths!” You tell them.

One of the other kids starts spitting immediately. I don’t where the disgust suddenly came from!

Mercy! And we are here making sure children have masks on to shield them from the rona! Meanwhile…

Oreo inspired walks in the era of #Covid19

I have been holed up inside the house for days. I am trying to work, but everytime I open a word document, huge boulders of words are thrown at me. I feel attacked. Why can’t they just flow? I am okay stacking word after word instead of these incoherent boulders. Trying to break them up using my also lacking karate skills, nothing.

Ah. What am I doing? Si I just take a walk to Carrefour and get some Oreo. Oreo will make things better. Always does.

The 20 minute walk to the supermarket is both therapeutic and nerve-wracking. I walk past two men buying pineapple slices from a man with a wheelbarrow. “How are people still eating naked food off the streets? Is it safe?” I wonder. A few minutes later, I hear a man behind me tell me in the most seductive Kiswahili I have heard in a while that my hair looks really really nice in that color. I turn. It’s the two men. The dreadlocked one is the one speaking. I smile and thank him as they walk past me. It’s not long before I see them again buying something from a roadside vendor. I keep a steady pace as I begin to notice the jogging nation increase.

The dreadlocked guy’s companion catches up with me and offers a pack of Nuvita biscuits. Those ones that cost five shillings. I politely decline. He walks on a few meters before dreadlocked guy races past me to join him (meanwhile, I am interrogating my self. Why didn’t you take the biscuits? Would you have taken them if the thought of Corona didn’t exist? Yawa Trezer!)

I feel the wind on my face. Normally this would be therapeutic, but today I can feel microscopic particles enter my nose. I become aware of the fact that I have no mask on so I make a mental note to count this as Day 1. If by day 14 I don’t have symptoms, then it was just dust I felt entering my nostrils. My throat also feels dry. I remember a whatsapp message that encouraged people to drink water every fifteen minutes (the hotter and lemony it is, the better). I forgot the water bottle, so I intentionally swallow saliva every few minutes to moisturize the throat. This is the time saliva has decided to be as thick as the Happy Cow yoghurt I used to sell at my first job post high school.

My apprehension grows as I approach the bridge – the one that has hundreds of people crossing at a time. The one that has different people selling food, clothes, shoes and more food at its feet. What is social distancing? I draw in what I think is a huge chunk of air. Midway through the crowded stretch I decide I will not die from suffocation. I breath out and immediately a conductor holding a spray bottle approaches me shouting a destination. “Uuuuuuwi, not so close!” I tell him with my eyes as I shake my head. Yaani an Oreo is exposing me to Corona like this. I can’t go back though. I have come too far. Si I just finish the journey with…ah. Never mind.

I am crossing the road. There are three traffic cops to my left standing so close to each other. These are the implementors of social distancing? Even them they don’t have face masks. The lady crossing from the other side is wearing gloves that look too big for her. Someone’s elbow touches me and I listen to my skin to determine whether it wants me to sanitize the area or? We go with ‘or’ and the sanitizer stays in the back pocket where it has been all this time waiting for an opportunity to be a hero.

At the mall entrance, I place my phone and bunch of keys on the tray and walk into that security check door that cries when you enter. In my head I just know my phone has virusi now, so the  bath and body works sanitizer comes out to do her thing. It is about five thirty now. Shops are closed. Even the usually full to the brim Java is empty! The seats are just there looking fwaaaa. Lonely. Cold. Unappreciated. Even them once this pandemic is over, they will learn to appreciate the warm bums that will on occasion let out a silent or hissy fart on to their faces – and they will not complain, because anything beats the cold and loneliness they feel at this moment where they too can’t touch fellow tables or chairs.

I meet a friend I haven’t seen in eons outside Carrefour. It takes a few seconds to realize we can’t hug. I miss hugs! We elbow tap and catch up for a while (in hindsight, si people are being told to cough or sneeze into their elbows? Yep. No more elbow taps. The feet taps will have to suffice). I am now inside the supermarket. At first I don’t notice the queues and how far back they go, partly because of the 1.5m rule and also because it is the 1st of April and I guess people have been paid. Mayooo. I literally just want a pack of Oreo. Maybe one or two other things. Humans are pushing three trolleys each. Wueh. I can’t. Imagine I can’t. Whatever I am experiencing with my writing will have to be fixed with carrots and lime juice. I exit the building. Friend is still standing outside waiting for wife who is queuing inside. I wish him luck and begin the exposing walk back home.

Two guys get off the escalator. One of them is holding a clear disposable plastic cup containing alcohol. It looks like pombe. Not juice. They walk out of the main gate and proceed to a group of guys. The cup goes round the group as other young men, including one wearing a very yellow and red Ankara face mask sip from it. I can’t see them now  but I hear them asking each other, “Hamuogopi Corona aki. Tunashare tu kikombe hapa!”

I use the same route home. The guys at the makeshift car wash have left. The man I had passed cutting grass or something is still there. A smartly dressed woman has joined him. His jembe is lying next to a heap of weeds on the sidewalk. Two very very tall Sudanese men jog past. They are not the only ones. Does the directive by mtu wa Corona stay home and jog in the evening? I think I missed it. Let people jog by the way. We are choosing struggles. It’s either Corona or obesity.

Back at the house, I soak the oranges and apples I had picked up in veggie wash before stripping off the outside clothes and hanging then outside. Hehe! Another Whatsapp message tip. I  wrap myself with a leso and sit down to listen to what’s left of Sundowner on KBC English Service. An ads comes on:

“Did you know that COVID – 19 is a respiratory disease that…make sure you wash your hands regularly with soap and water or sanitize using an alcohol based hand gel…keep social distance…”

Barber shop: Day one discoveries.

Prior to the big chop in mid-May this year, I had never entered a barber shop with more than one room. Ah. What am I saying? Room? Most barbers in Nairobi are often assigned a seat in a salon.The modus operandi usually is; enter, greet the ladies and ask if Njoro is around. One of them will holler out (God bless those lungs) Njoro’s name who then appears faster upesi and acknowledges you, “Sema customer. Karibu kiti.” Once seated, a black material is wrapped around you and work begins. Unlike those barber shops in black American movies, I don’t hear these men engaging in intense conversations. Only, “weka cut hapa. Usipunguze sana nishine mpaka nzi ikiland inaslide” kind of things. Maybe it’s because it is a shared space. Women on the other hand don’t care. They are discussing the woman who always comes with half a weave and then tells the hairdresser to start with the back because the front hair can be blowdried or relaxed to blend with the weave. “Si anunue tu kitu itamserve poa jamaneni! Ah?!” Sometimes, the blow drier comb will fall on a poor lady’s head (thup!) because the aggressiveness has to match the agitation this weave woman is causing.

Minutes later, Njoro will reach for a face towel and a small hand basin. He had already asked Esther to warm some water for him. I know you know that infamous immersion heating coil whose insides are always being poked with wires because it blew up and it cannot be thrown away since it was bought just the other day. Yeah. That’s the one that was used.

This one.

Towel is dipped inside the hot water, squeezed and then used to massage the head for a few seconds. How Njoro’s hands never get scalded is a mystery. Let’s not even talk about the customer. Next, some methylated spirit is slapped onto different corners of the head (insert appropriate designation for round heads). Finally, a flywhisk like former President Kenyatta’s rids your neck and other exposed places of loose hair. Pay your hundred bob or less and you are good to go. Kazi safi. Njoro leaves again and awaits another lunged out alert.

I would have probably gone to Njoro too if it were not for the fact that;

1. I would have had to deal with all the women saying, “woiye usikate! Aki watu huwa na nywele poa ndio huwa wanaharibu.” Then second thoughts would have gnawed at my conscious. Also, I couldn’t risk Njoro being lynched for committing such an abomination.

2. It’s not like I don’t believe in Njoro’s overall potential, but what I wanted might have disturbed him small in execution.

So I just accompany big brother and nephew on their next appointment. Brother is very particular about who handles his mane so I trust his personal person.

Weh. Weh. Weh. Upon entry, one encounters a receptionist come cashier.

Disclaimer: This is still an estate barber shop. The road leading to it is not even tarmacked! You eat dust proper but I will tell you how they make up for this. Plus, 2022 is just tomorrow. The area leaders will soon pour something that resembles tarmac and clients will enjoy good roads for about five days.

So. Receptionist, waiting seats and music. Tv iko pale mute. Eheee. There are about three adjustable seats infront of one long mirror. From where I am seated, I can see at least one more room with seats. There’s a bit of banter here too. The only other lady is definitely not in need of a barber. The weave on her head is too expensive. Plus, the way she is eyeing some gentleman implies she has brought her man. Awww. How sweet! Unless…

Opinion poll: Men, do you like it when your girl accompanies you to the barber’s and lovingly, patiently, waits for you? 😍

When our barber walks in, I notice he is spotting a look similar to what I need. My heart settles, albeit slightly. I am still apprehensive about how my oxygen depleting nose will look with this new style [Turns out what is big remains big, regardless].

Chris, the barber, seems too scissor happy by the way. “I’ve got to be fast so you don’t change your mind.” He responds to my concerns, eyes gleaming with anticipation. Talk about loving your job. Soon enough, my thirty-something year old mane is on the floor. Nephew is picking some of it up and asking, “Auntie, sasa wewe ni boy?” How do you even answer that? Kids say the darndest things! The look is almost perfect, but I have to settle because we don’t want to destroy a good thing in pursuit of perfection. I am then ushered into yet ANOTHER room, third one, if you are counting.

Here, four ladies sit awaiting clients. One rises and courteously guides me to one of the sinks where I will get my head? hair? washed. She is good! It is at this point that it dawns on me that the crown is gone. Previously, it would take about five to ten minutes before water reached the scalp. A journey of a thousand strands. Thirsty stems guzzling galons before allowing the roots to quench their thirst and store some for future use. Speed of transmission from tips to roots is now one, two seconds.

“Come.” She calls out and points me to a seat.

Room number four. There is calming music coming from the walls. Good lady is now skillfully massaging my head. Circular motions. Clockwise, anticlockwise. It feels wonderful. What raw deals have I been getting at the salon? But wait, there’s more…

Remember when Teacher Wanjiku did a skit about why she doesn’t allow her man to go to the barber shop any more? Well, I now understand what she was on about. I also get why a man would want to get his hair trimmed every week. My mirror view has shirtless men on recliner seats, eyes shut and faces masked with white cream. Ladies are softly making conversation while gently massaging the head, shoulder, arms. Soft laughter. I told you they make up for the dust you eat outside…

Meanwhile, nephew looks on, astounded, as this bare chested human next to me gets kneaded. Even me I am looking. He doesn’t have a six pack so my gaze doesn’t linger. Nephew’s big inquiring eyes shift from me to him a couple of times. I can see he is trying to figure out why I am not receiving similar treatment. He is so confused. I am afraid he is going to say something typical of three year olds, so I promptly tell him to go check if baba is still being shaved.

“Baba???!!!”

By the way, me no one asked me if I needed a massage. Just, “tukupakie gel?” Why are these services not unisex? This is why we are calling for equal opportunities for both men and women. Maybe an expansion is imminent. Room six for women who stumble on this cave and would like to extend their stay. Thanks.

After the gel and styling, I thank the lady and Chris for such excellent services. I get the nephew and we prepare to exit the building.

The brother is now on phase two; washing. We won’t be waiting for him.

[Safer for me too. I will just say “He wasn’t done,” when mama nephew asks me why baba nephew is not with us. The truth].

#BeingWoman: Grace’s Story

Grace Gathu’s life has been nothing short of what the Oxford dictionary describes as the meaning of her first name. She leaves deposits of charm everywhere she sets foot. The last 8 years have been strenuous, yet her flair remains. Endometriosis has dealt her some serious blows, but she looks forward to hitting the big 3.0 and working towards fulfilling all her dreams.

****

2002:

I can still hear my classmates chuckle. It is not quite the happy occasion for me. I have soiled my dress. I have to tie my sweater round my waist to conceal the red patch. It is so embarrassing. I am 11 years old and my menses are making me feel like a 30 year old woman. I don’t feel normal.

2011:

“Are you sure you have not aborted?”

I was at home the first time I passed out from the pain. I just remember I was walking up the stairs when I blacked out. When I came to, I was in a car with my folks and brother. Their faces were lined with worry. I was in so much pain, like someone was scrapping off my insides with a rake. Whoever it was was not taking any breaks. They kept on scrapping till we got to the hospital, and even then, they were unrelenting. I could not sit still. When I was not seated with my knees touching my chin and my arms wrapped around my legs, I was lying on the cold hard floor, if only to quell the raging fire in my belly.

So it really caught me by surprise when one of the nurses asked the abortion question so blatantly.

Numerous tests later, nothing conclusive was found to be the cause of my torment. There were no fibroids. I was given very strong pain killers to manage the pain. Henceforth, I always had anxiety and panic attacks every time I sensed my periods were around the corner. I knew what that meant, inexplicable pain and discomfort. Nausea. Helplessness. Bloating.

I am too young to have this…

Months later, in a room at the Aga Khan Hospital in Nairobi, a doctor finally told me that I had endometriosis, a chronic condition that occurs when endometrial cell tissue (the cells that grow and shed as part of your menstrual cycle), builds up in places other than your uterus. When these cells try to exit your body with the rest of your endometrial tissue, they swell and become inflamed.

I recall him trying to explain what that meant, but I was not exactly present. I was too young for this! Why me? Why do I have to go through this pain? Then I heard him say it was incurable. What? This agony for the rest of my life? I was in denial. My mother who was with me, was at a loss too. No one from either side of the family had this condition.

The doctor advised that I start hormonal therapy immediately, that is, taking birth control drugs to manage the condition. Mother would hear none of that. I wondered if I was hearing her right. Here was a chance to ease the agony, and she wouldn’t let me have it? She insisted that we look for another solution. I continued taking pain killers, hoping that this other solution would be found before this pain killed me.

The hormones in the birth control pills cause the uterus lining to become thinner, causing periods to become shorter and lighter, thus reducing endometriosis symptoms. Hormonal treatment does not cure endometriosis, but it may help with controlling pain by stopping your periods and preventing endometriosis from getting worse.

It was when I bled everyday for 90 days that I realized how much trouble I was in. In hindsight, I had a similar experience back in primary school where I bled for 30 days. I was told that there was no cause for alarm, my body was just adjusting to the new function. I was an adult now, my body had had enough time to adjust, yet here I was.

Acting on a friend’s recommendation, I traveled about 65 kilometers from Nairobi to Kijabe Hospital to meet a doctor who could walk with me to find out what works best for the ‘my’ endometriosis. Dr. Catherine Chen was God-sent. She began treatment immediately. However, drugs that worked instantly for her other patients backfired on me. I would pass huge clots and as you can imagine by now, the pain was not child’s play. I had developed severe acidity from the drugs administred by previous doctors. I would get endometriosis leg pain, a radiating warm pain that spreads throughout the legs. It gets worse just before my period or afterwards.

My feet also swell during my periods

If I had a shilling for every time someone congratulated me and asked me how far along I was! The bloating makes me look pregnant. I have learnt not to take offense (Ok, sometimes I want to strangle them). I just smile and say, “I am not pregnant.”

One of the most challenging things for an endo warrior is finding a doctor who won’t tell you things like, “Si tuliamua unazaa ndio hii shida iishe?” yet childbirth isn’t a cure for endometriosis. One who is sensitive and gives you the best treatment. We finally figured out what works for me. The meds like Dienogest also sold under the brand name Natazia, control the excessive bleeding. Dr. Chen prescribed these especially because I wasn’t ready to consider invasive surgical measures.

I used to be wary of surgery. The risks that come with insertion of this instrument and that…what if they tamper with my womb? I have heard stories. I want to have children. Dr. Chen recommended surgery, but never insisted. She listened to my fears. She said that before I decide to go under the knife, my body, mind and soul have to be aligned. No conflict. I think I am ready now. I am willing to risk it if only for some reprieve.

Humans are generally nice, but there is a breed forgets that kindness is a virtue.

A boss once told me that she did not understand why I was being so dramatic yet she is also a woman like me and gets cramps during her periods. She asked why I was faking pain. Elsewhere, I was fired because my endometriosis was making me miss work. I was using up all my sick off days and eating into leave days. They wrote underperfomance on the dismissal letter.

As an ambitious career woman, it hurt to hear and go through all this. I wondered if I would ever find a workplace that would not punish me for something beyond my control. What do you know? I am quite happy at my current workplace. I work in human resources and I hope to help create a space that is kind to everyone, especially women with chronic conditions.

There is still work to be done to normalize reproductive health discussions in homes and workplaces. It doesn’t help that topics such as menstrual health are deemed taboo in many Kenyan spaces.

PRESENT DAY:

Some days are good, others, not so much…

Many are the times I have been too frail or discouraged to pray. I would tell God that since He created me, He could chose how I died and if this was it, then He should make it quick instead of having me suffer pointless pain. It is very easy to fall into the pit of depression if you do not have a proper support system.

I see the tears on my mother’s eyes sometimes, wishing she could take away the pain. My father has asked aloud, severally, “Is there no cure for this, my daughter?” On days when I want to give up, my sister encourages me not to, “Just take one more pill.” My brother just wants to see me smile and hear my laughter. My family has been a great pillar of strength.

As beautiful and reassuring as this is, it hasn’t cushioned me from heartache. Men have taken off when they witness what it is like to live with endometriosis. It suddenly dawns on them what it means to be a caregiver. I don’t blame them, it is a huge ask. I am always upfront with them from the onset. I talk about having children – or not, extreme mood swings, insomnia and how a possible lifetime of that looks like. I really have to salute the men who stand by their women, especially in marriage. I see them and my hope is renewed; there is a man out there for me.

I have learnt to put people at arms length. It is hard to be vulnerable about such an intimate part of me with everyone. I try to be there for my friends when I can, scheduling meets as far from my cycle as possible so I can be okay for them – doesn’t always work though. I have lost many friends. Fortunately, I have had some solid friendships for years now. They speak life when I am admitted in hospital.

I got admitted while visiting a sick friend. Attacks are unpredictable.

A key part of being female to me includes a strong surrounding female support system, giving and receiving. I strive to be as kind and supportive to all the females in my life as I can, because I receive a lot of comfort and love in return. Having a strong group fueled by love and affirmation is incredibly important. We should stop tearing each other down, comparing menses and all. We are all unique and our expressions matter.

All said and done, there is no refuge but in God. He has given me strength. If it were not for the people He put in my life, I would be long gone. I still don’t have all the answers to my questions but I have seen Him come through in my pain.

Being Woman is…

I wish I had more tangible and concrete ways to describe what it means to me, because for the most part it just feels like something special. There is something about the way women connect with mankind, connect with the world, that is so deep and kind of cosmic and I love that.

More stories on the #BeingWoman series here.

#BeingWoman: Vivian’s Story

On Saturday, 11th May 2019, Vivian Ogayo Odumbe will turn thirty-seven. She just wants to let loose and dance all night long. Understandably so. The last twenty-six years of her life have been heavy. She has had to learn how to live with life threatening reproductive conditions and still maintain some semblance of sanity and normalcy. Asked how she does it, she shrugs her shoulders and says, “Nothing but the grace of God.” Every day is different, and today, she rises above everything weighing her down to share her story. Superwoman status right there.

Surgery does not scare me anymore. I have had nine so far; three of them caesarean sections and six to deal with my reproductive health issues. I have suffered from Adenomyosis and still dealing with Endometriosis. These two are evil twins.

Endometriosis and adenomyosis are both metaplasia conditions, meaning that the diseased cells will change into the organs in which they invade. In the case of adenomyosis, this causes abnormal uterus cell growth. Due to the similarities, but subtle differences between adenomyosis and endometriosis, adenomyosis is often referred to as the “sister” disease of endometriosis.

Heavy and irregular periods have been a constant since I was 11, in class five, to be precise. We had not even begun learning about adolescence. I am the first born, so no big sister to walk me through the whole experience. My mother and I never had this conversation. To make it worse, sanitary towels were then considered a luxury. So, guess what? I was always staining my dresses because the only other alternatives were tissue paper and old rugged clothes. I often had to tie my sweater around my waist to cover up. The ‘stomach aches’ (later found out they were called cramps), I endured.

Fast forward to Form one, the cramps became worse. I would miss some classes every month because I was in the sick bay getting ‘treatment’ for that and/or severe migraines. The flow was heavy. I really thought it was normal. There was a friend who also suffered the same fate and we would encourage each other during these times. I survived high school, just like I did primary school.

Things that happen in a woman’s body! I cannot explain…

I met my husband while still struggling with my menses. He was so supportive and understanding right from the onset. He has been such a gift. I had been told that my misery would end once the first baby came. Fake news. The pain got worse. Even worse when the second baby came.
Most of the practitioners were pretty much guessing what the problem could be. Some speculated abortions, others hormonal imbalance. I began self-medicating because I knew every time I went into a hospital, I left with progesterone pills or family planning tabs. The pills would reduce the flow significantly, even deal with the pain to some extent. Woe unto you if you stopped taking them. Everything would be restored to factory settings or even escalated. It was like there was no winning.

After my third baby, status quo having been maintained, a colleague suggested I try a gynecologist she believed would give me the proper diagnosis. I remember expressing my frustrations to him (gynae). I was so tired. I was suffering from hypochromia. My skin was so pale.

Hypochromia is a condition that occurs when there is not enough of the pigment that carries oxygen (hemoglobin) in the red blood cells. The most common cause is iron deficiency. In this case, due to heavy prolonged menses.

Numerous tests later, I was finally diagnosed with Diffuse Adenomyosis, the most severe of the three classifications of Adenomyosis.

The other two do not require removal of the uterus.

Hysterectomy…

I was 35 when I decided to have my uterus removed. One would imagine that the decision would probably be slightly easier for me as compared to a woman who has not conceived, carried her baby full term and given birth. On the contrary, I was devastated. It still hurts to date. There are times I regret that decision because I was not done having children, but I was really tired of bleeding. I had been advised that getting pregnant was a risk because I was always bleeding to the point where I was anemic. I had to be on iron supplements every day. At times I would swallow up to ten tablets in one sitting. Hysterectomy was the only way out.

The flow stopped but the pain persisted…

The pain drove me to addiction. I could not live without pain management drugs to the levels of tramadol and morphine injections.

The Endometriosis diagnosis came in 2018. Samples of chocolate cysts (endometrioma) extracted during a surgery were taken to the lab and found to contain endometrial tissues. I was put on hormonal therapy and treatment to try and shrink the tissues, but the pain was insistent. I scoured the internet for information on the condition and in the process, I stumbled on an Endometriosis support group with an international membership. Therein, I found the contacts of an acclaimed doctor in Romania. I contacted him and scheduled an endo excision surgery in February 2019. We are always looking for ways to ease the pain.

Living in constant pain is not funny.

Post surgery in Romania

Workplace…

This year (2019) alone, I have missed at least six weeks at work. I am embarrassed to ask for off days even when I am obviously struggling.
This has been the norm ever since I started working. The soiling was not pretty. When I could not get time off, I perfected the art of layering. I would wear two panties – each with a maxi pad, biker, tights and a trouser. Even so, I would be completely soaked thirty minutes in. I would use up to sixteen pads in a day. During these days I was unable to board matatus as I feared soaking the seats red. I would therefore call a taxi, then place a lesso or scarf and a newspaper to protect the car seat from getting soiled.

Being open and honest really helps. What do you have to lose? I approached the HR and fortunately they did not make a huge fuss. Arrangements were made so I could work from home when need arose.
I am grateful to work in a place where the bosses are very understanding and supportive. Human.

Stigma exists in places of worship, schools and workplaces. The silence is killing us, so I decided I will not be party to mass murder. I consulted with my bosses at work and they consented to my making a presentation to the office staff, about 200 in total. I titled it ‘Silent War.’ I spoke about Endometriosis, Adenomyosis and my experience with both conditions. From the feedback I got, the presentation was both enlightening and shocking.

I crave for more opportunities to create awareness.

Everyone is affected. Women could be victims while men are caregivers to wives, sisters and daughters. I feel like men are often fully on board once they are aware of the situation. Women, on the other hand are something else. Unless they are going through the same thing, they will seize every opportunity to castigate you, consequently raising the stigma bar.

Depression, suicide and hope…

Surgery does not fix everything, more so one’s mental and emotional well-being. The expectation usually is that I will bounce back completely, physically and mentally. That I will make up for lost time and be extra productive. This is the cause of anxiety for many survivors. Just before the Romania trip, I had therapy sessions with a Counseling Psychologist for the first time in my life. The sessions really helped me deal with certain issues. Depression is always hanging around like oxygen. I recently went online and typed ‘How to commit suicide’ on the search bar. I was lonely, in pain and felt like no one understood me. I shared the screenshot with a friend and we talked it out. Living in constant pain of this kind is not something I would wish on my worst enemy. It is difficult, but I choose life everyday just so my boys do not grow up without a mother. They have been through so much, always seeing their mother in pain or bandaged up.

I once found out that my 11-year-old had googled “Can Endometriosis kill someone?” My heart broke to pieces.

Following the endo-excision surgery, I am hopeful of a relatively pain and drug free life for some years. There is no definite cure for endometriosis. It may reccur or relapse in future.

Being Woman is…

…abnormal strength.

That said, women need to support each other. It is unfair when a fellow woman tells you that your pain is all in your mind. Just because our menstrual experiences are different does not mean my pain is not real.

Hear me now! Painful periods are not normal.

PS: More stories in this series here