I Remember, Part 6
I remember going to Dr. Swerdloff for my annual physical when I was twelve. I felt so humiliated, lying on the examination table dressed in nothing but a crinkly paper gown, as she examined my vagina, her latex-gloved fingers spreading me, taking a good look at the part of me no one had ever seen, at least not since puberty. Diaper changes when I was an infant didn’t count because I couldn’t remember that humiliation. Dr. Swerdloff looked at my pink, exposed sex and asked, in professional tones, “Menstruating yet?”
“No,” I said, blushing.
She withdrew her gloved hand from my body and gently pushed my knees together, letting me at least hide the inner folds of my sex. She pulled the paper gown down over me, covering me to mid-thigh. I felt immensely better.
“It’s coming!” she sang. “It’s coming.”
I thought she must be able to see something in the works down there — something telling her that in the next few weeks (maybe months at the most) I would finally be a woman. If not in years, at least, in that all important monthly ritual that all women can understand.
Was my vagina a special color? Did it look a certain, more grown up way? There was certainly something about it — something new and womanly that had made Dr. Swerdloff sit up and take notice. I thought she must know how very important and worrisome this whole thing was to me, as a twelve year old girl. My mother had gotten her first period at the tender age of ten. So, I was already years behind schedule! I was certain the doctor knew that. So she was letting me know that, with all her medical training, experience, and expertise, she could see the telltale signs that my period — late though it was — was definitely on its way.
When we went home, I went into my mother’s bathroom and grabbed a handful of maxi pads. I wasn’t so silly that I put one on right then… No, of course not. But I wanted to be prepared for when it did happen.
To add to my growing preoccupation with my biological clock, I had been reading what was then my favorite book, Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret by Judy Blume. I just loved Ms. Blume for understanding my concerns and putting them in a book so I could read it, privately, and not have to discuss this embarrassing subject with my mom. I carried those maxi pads around in my school bag until they were so tattered and grimy, they’d be of no use anyway, even if that magical, red day should appear.
I turned thirteen. Nothing.
By fourteen, I was convinced that something was wrong with me. Ashamed, I lied to my friends about it. If it ever came up, I just pretended I’d had mine for years, that I was just like them-normal. When they complained about cramps or PMS, I commiserated with them as if I too experienced these annoyances on a regular basis.
When I turned fifteen and still had not begun my monthly courses, I had made my peace with the fact that I was completely abnormal. An anomaly of womanhood. A sexless wonder. I would never have children, which was probably a good thing, when you thought about over- population and the enormous responsibility of mothers.
I had made my peace with it.
And then one day, I found a tiny bit of something reddish brown on the toilet paper after using the restroom.
What is that? I asked myself. My heart was in my throat.
Oh no, I thought.
Because now my longing for my period had turned to dread. I reasoned that what looked like a normal female rite of passage, so mundane and ordinary, was actually a curse. I felt blessed — touched by an angel — because God had seen fit to spare me that base indignity endured by legions of women from time immemorial.
I was not prepared. I had long since stopped carrying preemptive maxi pads around with me. I thought I’d been called to a higher pureness than blood and child-bearing. This tiny brownish, rusty-looking spot on a piece of bathroom tissue was a lead weight, dragging me violently back to the realm of ordinary mortal women..
Oh no, I thought again. Out loud I said, ”Oh crap!”
I searched all the cupboards in both bathrooms and found nothing! No feminine products at all. I began to panic. What if I bled so much that I soaked my clothes and everyone could see? That had happened to girls at school. If it happened to me, could I bear the shame of everyone knowing all about my humiliating ordeal?
Oh the treachery! My own body turned against me.
Temporarily, I shoved an enormous wad of crumpled up toilet paper in my panties and went in search of my mother. She was in the dining room, her Bible and journal spread out on the table before her. She was writing furiously in her perfect, looping script. Normally, I knew and understood that her journal and devotional time was her special time with God when she was best left undisturbed.
But….
This was a cataclysmic event — a major upheaval in my comfortable existence and Mama was the only person I could talk to about it. Not only was this a top priority, but I was sure it was understood that this was also top secret. Confidential. Strictly need-to-know, and Mama needed to know, only because I needed maxi pads. If not for that. I wouldn’t even have told her. I had funny ideas of secrets and body shame. This certainly belonged in the secret category and maybe halfway in the shame one.
“Mama!” I burst into the room with an urgent whisper. I knew that Papa was not in the house, but I didn’t want my little sister or (just the thought was dreadful and humiliating) my brother to know.
She looked up, expectantly. Obviously, I wouldn’t have burst in on her quiet time, especially in that urgent manner if it wasn’t important.
“Yes,” she said, expectantly.
“Mama, I can’t find any pads,” I whispered.
“Pads?” She looked blank, uncomprehending.
“Yes! I whispered fiercely. “Maxi pads,” I clarified.
“Oh!’ She was suddenly all solicitude. “Oh yes, we’re all out. I planned to buy some on my next trip to the store, but…”
She looked at me, her eyes shining.
“Is this your first cycle?”
“Yes,” I muttered and looked down, embarrassed.
“Okay!” she said. “I’ll just go and get some now. It it heavy?”
“No. There’s hardly anything.”
“Good,” she said. “Then we have time and you can just use some toilet paper for now.”
“I am.”
She nodded and hugged me. “Congratulations, honey!” she said. “You’re a woman now.”
I blushed to the roots of my hair.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, extricating myself from her embrace. I went into my bedroom, and sat on my bed, trying to come to grips with this disaster.
Whatever, I thought. I’m still never getting married or having kids.
I felt a little better. It was only a little tiny bit of blood. I was still me. That hadn’t changed.
About half an hour later, there was a soft knock at my door.
“Come in,” I called.
Mama entered with a box of maxi pads in her hand.
“Here you go, Tangee”, she said, placing the box on my desk by the window. I jumped up and covered the box with a t-shirt that I had tossed aside earlier, on the desk.
“I don’t want anyone to see them,” I explained.
“Oh, okay,” she shrugged. “Well, go on into the bathroom and when you’re done, come out to the dining room. It’s time for lunch.”
I did as she said. When I came out of the bathroom, I went down the hall to the kitchen breakfast nook and froze in horror.
There, on the table, was a huge bouquet of carnations and baby’s breath.
My sister took my hand and danced around me singing, “The flowers are for you, Tanya!”
“Why? “I asked. “From who?”
“From Papa!”
“Hmm,” was all the reply I gave. I could feel a flash of heat in my face and neck as I approached the table and took the pink envelope propped up against the vase. My father’s nearly illegible handwriting hinted at my name: T squiggle, it said. I opened the envelope and pulled out a card with flowers all over the front that said something about congratulations. My dad had written:
My Dea(squiggles) T(squiggles)
Cong(squiggles) on be(squiggles)g a woman today (perfectly legible).
Love, Papa
OH. MY. GOD.
I felt waves of embarrassment, and incredible anger towards my mother, the so-called keeper of my important secrets, who had shattered all my trust.
Of course I got over it, but that was my initial reaction to my parents’ love and concern for me on that day.
© 2019 Tanya Joham—all rights reserved
The Storm Writer 