Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
It’s a paranoia most women have when visiting their gynecologist, though it should be as regular as brushing my teeth for me. I’ve been poked and prodded for years. It started the week I got my first period, which was at the disgusting age of eleven, and although I could have ended it when forced to move out of my home at the tender age of fifteen, the pain associated with my diagnosis wouldn’t allow it.
Endometriosis has been kicking my ass for over a decade, and it has gotten to the point I can no longer ignore it.
I shift my eyes from my handbag that I hope is concealing panties I only ever pull out when I want to pretend I’m enjoying the rollercoaster ride known as adulthood, when Dr. Hemway sighs.
He’s reviewing the results of the laparoscopy surgery I undertook two years ago. I was meant to return for the results the following week, but with finances tight and the outcome not overly concerning for someone missing their maternal gene, I put it off for as long as possible.
I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t feel like I was going to perish from excessive cramps and abnormal flow every twenty-eight days or if Dr. Hemway allowed phone consultations.
“Is it bad?” I ask, too impatient to wait.
He peers up at me, his kind eyes glistening with concern now instead of the disappointment of my prolonged lack of contact. “I’ve seen worse.”
He hits me with a look I can only assume a father gives his daughter when he’s about to deliver bad news, before he sits on a wheely chair and rolls closer to my bedside. I’ll never experience his expression for real because I’ve never met my father. He left before I was born, which is ridiculous to admit since my baby sister is six years younger than me and has an identical bloodline.
“But there are no guarantees the endometrial tissue hasn’t extended past your uterine wall. It could now be in your fallopian tubes and ovaries as well. I will have to order additional tests.”
“Could that be the cause of the additional pain I’m experiencing?”
He twists his lips before slowly shaking his head. “Not necessarily. The severity of the diagnosis doesn’t often correspond with the pain allotment. Even someone with minor scarring can face immense pain.”
I jerk up my chin in understanding. When I was first diagnosed with endometriosis, the damage was minimal, even with my pain threshold being recorded at an eleven out of ten.
After placing my patient record on top of the torture instruments every woman hates, making me hopeful the nurse’s assumption he’d want to examine me is fraudulent, Dr. Hemway wheels closer.
“If you would rather skip additional tests, we have a handful of other options at our disposal.”
I wait, not needing to encourage him to continue. He loves to talk, and although I’d prefer he remain quiet while examining me, his ramblings give me something to concentrate on other than the pain.
“Oral contraceptives to control your hormones, or progestins to stop your menstrual period entirely. Another laparoscopic ablation or a laparotomy.” His expression changes, cautioning me to catch my breath before I lose the chance. “Or, depending on the severity of your pain, we could consider a full hysterectomy.”
The last option is new. He’s never mentioned it before. It announces that my options are becoming more limited the longer I ignore my diagnosis and that I was stupid for leaving my condition unmanaged for so long.
“A full hysterectomy?” I murmur, needing a moment to think. He nods. “Would that make me…?” I struggle to find which word to go with first. Pain-free should be at the top of the list, but unwomanly is the only word my brain conjures.
Women are constantly judged on their ability to rear offspring. In my family, your entire existence is based on your fertility status. When my body failed to uphold my mother’s belief on what makes me a woman, I was discarded like a broken toy.
I can only imagine her response when she learns I may have to remove “the one thing that makes me a woman” to live a pain-free existence.
Dr. Hemway must see something I didn’t mean to express. “A hysterectomy is our last option. Before committing to that course of action, we have many routes to explore.” I discover the reason for the unease in his tone when he murmurs, “But they all come at a cost, Zoya.”
Embarrassment colors my tone. “How much?”
He appears as ashamed as I am about discussing finances while I’m not wearing any panties. His deep timbre just hides it better. “The hormone therapy I would recommend for someone in your stage of prognosis commences at approximately two thousand six hundred.”
“For the entire treatment?”
My heart sinks to my feet when he shakes his head. “Per month.”