I got my period for the first time soon after my 13th birthday. We were in the throes of preparing to move from Baltimore to Miami due to my father taking a new job. I was so eager to begin menstruating; my best friend had gotten her period early. Not that when girls got their periods was a competition, but it did smack of one. It was akin to attaining a badge of honor; you were now a woman.
That was the feeling before I began to menstruate. Afterwards, there were the debilitating cramps and the mess of it to contend with. And, for sure, when a girl had her period, she was obligated to hide it from everyone, as if it was something to be ashamed of. The ultimate humiliation was to have to run to the nurse's office at school with a blood stain blooming on the back of your skirt.
When I bled this first time, my mother sat next to me on my bed and slapped my face. I was stunned. I knew I hadn't done anything wrong! She explained that in the old days, girls were not told about menstruation, and so the first time was so distressing that they could go into shock. Mothers would slap their faces to bring them out of it. Why this tradition continued to be passed down was a mystery to me, as we now knew all about periods. If I had had a daughter, she certainly wouldn't have received the slap. What my granddaughter got was a big hug.
With my sister being 6 1/2 years older, we had supplies on hand. In those days, we used a white elastic belt that had attachments hanging down in the front and back to clip to a pad. It was awkward and uncomfortable. Of course, many things women had to wear in those days were not made for comfort - like girdles and garter belts to hold up stockings. Pads with adhesive didn't exist, nor did pantyhose. I wasn't told about tampons until years later. They weren't seen to be appropriate for young girls.
My mother was actually very happy to see me get my period. She had an aunt who had never menstruated; her female organs never developed properly, and the family was worried that this might be a genetic trait that could get passed down. My sister was the oldest of the cousins, and I imagine the women in the extended family all held their breath until she menstruated. But all turned out well; all the female cousins matured normally.
My periods were irregular for a while, which was not uncommon. But throughout my teenage years, I suffered with extremely painful cramps. I remember times that I could only lie down on the bathroom floor because it hurt so much. I became a regular consumer of Midol, the advertised pain relief for menstrual cramps. It didn't help a huge amount. People told me that things would get better once I had children. That proved to be true to an extent, but not entirely.
Pregnant me, 1974
I had just turned 26 when I got pregnant with Max. We had lived for a short time with some friends who had a baby, and I fell in love with her. And so, baby lust kicked in.
Fortunately, it did not take long for me to get pregnant, and once past the fatigue and vague nausea of the first trimester, I loved being pregnant. We found some local midwives and planned a home birth. Unfortunately, when my waters broke, I didn't go into labor. I should have gone to the hospital after a day or two of waiting, but my midwives were inexperienced and didn't send me. I was also so committed to having my baby at home that I didn't want to consider it. When I finally went into labor after about four days, it didn't progress much. The midwives finally thought I was fully dilated, but I wasn't, and it wasn’t even close. They had me pushing all night. It became clear that I needed to go to the hospital. The doctors freaked out, sure that the baby was in trouble. They jacked me up on Pitocin to speed things up, and in my pain and exhaustion, I accepted a shot of Demerol to ease the pain. It didn't work as expected, but instead made me woozy and less able to cope with everything. I then got an epidural, which was a relief. They pulled Max out with forceps and whisked him off to the intensive care nursery. I was an exhausted mess. I had to be ferried across the hospital every few hours to see and nurse him. He was so lucky to not have gotten an infection, but they kept him on antibiotics for several days. When my milk came in, I ran a fever. I was later told this was not uncommon. But they wouldn't let me see Max, and I spent one whole day crying. Finally, he was released, and we got to take him home.
Writing this, forty-nine years later, I still feel sad and sorry. All the painful memories flood back in, and along with them, the realization of how we, I, jeopardized his life. We were young and stupid, dedicated to the "natural" way of doing things. When that didn't work out, we didn't easily let go of what we thought was right. As much as I have issues with our allopathic medical system, I admit that it has saved my life more than once. This was the first time - my life and Max’s, too.
I carried a lot of guilt about Max's birth for a long time. Maybe I still do. I felt like a failure because I did not have a natural birth, that I should have refused pain meds. I'm just thankful that, in the end, despite our bad decisions and rigidity, despite all the pain and grief, my beautiful son was fine.
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