Bleeding Silence: My Journey of Endurance Through Over 30 Days, and Why I Waited to Call a Doctor

"Defying Red Flags: My Summer of Denial Through Over 30 Days of Unexplained Bleeding"

"Earlier this summer, amidst perplexing health signals, I found myself muttering, 'This motherfucker right here,' as I grappled with unexpected spotting a week after what I believed to be the conclusion of my menstrual cycle. A familiar sentiment for anyone navigating the nuances of menstruation. Yet, my journey of endurance didn't begin there. It echoes through years of misdiagnoses, dismissive medical encounters, and the persistent pattern of downplaying concerns.

I could trace it back 17 years, to the moment when I received a multiple sclerosis diagnosis after a year of frustrating medical appointments and dismissals. Alternatively, I might rewind 20 years, to my second pelvic exam, marked by a doctor's dismissive laughter and insensitive comments. The echoes extend even further, back to my tumultuous birth 42 years ago when a delayed acknowledgment of distress led to a last-minute emergency caesarian.

Fast forward to this summer, four months after the removal of my IUD, and I found myself in a state of denial amid unexplained bleeding. Having endured my first known encounter with COVID-19, I initially attributed the spotting to the virus. Days passed, and the flow intensified, yet I clung to a surreal optimism, rationalizing the red flags away.

The fifth day brought a revelation—a vivid, unmistakable menstrual flow without the accompanying symptoms. The blood screamed 'STOP,' but I persisted, trapped in a state of magical thinking that lasted over a month. This is a tale of resilience, denial, and the profound lengths we go to convince ourselves that everything is fine, even when the signs say otherwise."

"Confronting the Unthinkable: My Journey through Unexplained Bleeding and the Ongoing Battle for Advocacy

As the unsettling question echoed in my mind — 'Can you get your period twice in one month?' — I turned to Google for answers. At 41 years old, I mused, this could be the onset of perimenopause, a natural adjustment post IUD removal. Instinctively, I dismissed the alarms, a well-practiced response ingrained in many women when it comes to our bodies and periods. The societal narrative teaches us that periods are natural, and we're expected to carry on despite any disruptions. The stigma persists—periods make us appear crazy, irrational. Even in moments of urgency, the first inquiry directed at us is, 'When was the first day of your last period?'

The bleeding persisted, transforming from an inconvenience to a serious concern. Movement became a challenge, fearing accidents or exacerbating the bleeding. This wasn't my first encounter with navigating the complexities of patient advocacy, having weathered the storm of my multiple sclerosis diagnosis in a pre-Affordable Care Act era. Endless hours spent on calls with patient reps, insurance agents, hospitals, and pre-authorization departments became my routine.

Yet, experience in the labyrinth of American medical bureaucracy doesn't always translate to a seamless response. After almost five weeks and a worried plea from my mother, I reached out to my doctor. The urgency escalated when my phone rang less than an hour later, questioning the intensity of my bleeding. The scripted responses I had mastered offered little solace. To my surprise, the directive was clear — 'You need to go to the ER.' A sliver of relief seeped in, marking the beginning of an unforeseen journey through unexplained bleeding and the relentless pursuit of advocacy in the face of the unthinkable."

"Facing the Unseen: My Sojourn through the ER and the Startling Revelation

At the ER, surrounded by the antiseptic hum of medical equipment, my vitals were scrutinized, and I found myself ushered into the realm of a transvaginal ultrasound. As I glimpsed the technician's pallid expression, a simultaneous surge of affirmation and dread coursed through me—confirming my suspicion that something was indeed wrong, yet igniting a new fear at the realization of the gravity.

The physician's assistant returned, her demeanor betraying an underlying concern before she even divulged my results. Alarmed, her gaze fixated on my arm, where the earlier blood draw had transformed into a mesh of crimson rivers, saturating the bandage. A quick inquiry ensued—'Did you take an IV out?'—and the accusatory undertones lingered. I responded in the negative, prompting a nurse to rush in and tend to my arm. The PA, shaking her head, offered an explanation: 'Sometimes when the body has been bleeding for a long time, the blood starts to thin.'

The narrative took an unexpected turn to the realm of fibroids, those inconspicuous entities that had been a fleeting concern in my early 20s. Yet, in the aftermath of IUD removal, their dormant growth surged, particularly two that expanded exponentially. The largest pressed insistently against the uterine wall, infiltrating the cavity. I hadn't been menstruating; I had been unwittingly hemorrhaging from within for over 30 days.

Then came the poignant question, laden with both medical and emotional weight: 'Do you plan on having children?' The subsequent inquiry lingered in the air, 'Are you possibly pregnant?'—an intersection of medical investigation and the profound introspection that comes when one is forced to confront thoughts on motherhood, even when standing perilously close to the precipice of uncertainty."

"Navigating the Silence: A Battle for Recognition Amidst Unrelenting Bleeding

Upon learning I harbored no plans for future pregnancies, the physician's assistant unfolded a spectrum of treatments, ranging from hormonal birth control to a laparoscopic myomectomy. Appointments were scheduled with an OB-GYN for further consultation and determination of the most suitable option. Discharged with a pamphlet on uterine fibroids and heavy menstruation, I halted at the line detailing the need to change a pad every hour.

Interrupting, I queried, 'Isn't there something I can take for the bleeding? That's the reason I came here. I can't function...' The nurse's indifferent shrug met my plea. 'You have fibroids. Fibroids are going to bleed.' Gratitude cloaked my next words, 'Thank you, but I sought help because the bleeding is unmanageable. Even if just for a day or two, there must be something to reduce the amount.' Her dismissive headshake echoed a refusal, as if I had asked for a cure to an incurable ailment. 'We've done all that we can do for you here. You have your labs and test results, and you'll see your doctor in two days.'

The incessant question arises: Why did I wait so long? Why not call the doctor sooner? This is the answer. Thirty years of cyclical bleeding had acquainted me with the inevitable script—pushing to be heard, leaving disappointed and afraid, all while still bleeding. Was the prospect of staying home, changing a pad forever, really so unbearable? It was a conversation I sought to avoid at the cost of enduring daily blood loss and a dependence on prescription-strength iron for anemia.

A few hours post-hospital, a call from the on-call physician offered a glimmer of hope. Medication to halt the bleeding was prescribed. Autumn now blankets the landscape, and the incessant bleeding has ceased. Returning to the IUD, my cycles are gradually normalizing after four months. My normal. It remains a surreal realization that I delayed seeking help to circumvent moments of frustrating gaslighting, willingly enduring a significant loss of blood for the sake of avoiding a conversation I knew too well."

"Unpacking the Weight: The Cumulative Toll of Avoiding Healthcare Conversations

In moments of reflection, I confront the accumulation of those seemingly insignificant 'few moments' that, over a lifetime, burgeon into the collective trauma endured by Black women seeking help and healthcare. The weight of these instances, akin to a snowball effect, forms a backdrop to the struggle for acknowledgment and care.

Yet, even as I forgive myself, I am acutely aware of the broader narrative woven into the fabric of Black women's healthcare experiences. Each hesitated call, every delayed plea for help, contributes to a larger tapestry of collective trauma. The burden of navigating a system that often dismisses or overlooks the concerns of Black women becomes a shared struggle.

As I grapple with the aftermath of my own journey, I am reminded that personal stories possess the power to reshape perceptions, alter perspectives, and foster understanding. The significance of authentic, first-person narratives is profound—they have the capacity to transform lives and bridge gaps in comprehension. At HuffPost, we champion the belief that everyone deserves access to high-quality journalism, regardless of financial constraints.

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"The Power of Personal Narratives: A Commitment to Authenticity and Accessibility

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