Period Pain

by Marie Tan ‘21

One of the most distinct memories I have of my mother was when she talked about periods. When I was three or so, I remember going to the bathroom and seeing blood stains on the toilet right after my mother used it. Worried, I inquired if she was sick; she simply replied, “It’s something that happens to girls when they grow up! It means that you can have a baby.” So, naturally, I was very excited about getting my period. Getting my period meant that I was officially a grown-up.

Right before sex-ed in fifth grade, I got my period. I remember thinking that my stomach had started to hurt. At the end of the day, I went to use the bathroom and realized what the source of the cramps were. Quickly, I left school and walked back home, eager to tell my parents the good news. 

When I told my dad, he was excited. “You know in China, we give our neighbors red rice when a daughter has her period!” Please don’t do that, I told my dad. 

My mom, on the other hand, was a bit more worried. “Did you go to the nurse?” No. “Does it hurt a lot?” Not really. “Oh okay.” That was a weird reaction. After all, my earliest memory was of her explaining to me how exciting it was to get a period. My memory must have been slightly off… 

My younger brother entered middle school, where he was just starting to take sex-ed classes. “What’s a period, mom?” he asked. 

“It’s when there’s blood that comes out of a girl’s body so she can make another egg to make a baby,” my mother eloquently explained. 

“Does it hurt?” My brother widened his eyes and looked over at me. 

My mother paused. “Yes, it does. So, help a girl if she’s on her period.” I felt a sharp pang in the lower half of my abdomen. 

My periods continued to be somewhat irregular even in 8th grade. I never knew when it was coming, and when it did, it came with terrible cramps. Sometimes, it hurt so much that I couldn’t move. It became particularly bad during a math quiz. Usually I would pass math quizzes with flying colors. This quiz was on geometric proofs, something that I enjoyed very much. (Now, not so much. Oh, how wonderful middle school was.) Suddenly, I felt a knife-like stab in my uterus. Ah, it’s my period. It’s okay, I’ll just finish this quiz. I was halfway done already. 

And another stab. Okay, this really hurts. And another. And another, and another… My hand froze. My cramps hurt so much that I literally could not think. I trembled. I teared up. Time was ticking, so I rushed to finish my quiz. Not my best work, I thought to myself. As I stood up to turn in my quiz, I fainted.

The next thing I remember was waking up to vomit in the nurse’s office.

Thankfully, my older half-sister had just come back from college so she was able to pick me up from school. She asked me what happened. I just told her that it was my period, to which she replied, “That’s not normal. I think you need to get that checked out.” 

After my mom came back home and checked up on me, she revealed that she too had terrible period cramps when she was younger. She had ovarian cysts and suspected that I had them too. 

My mom’s mother was never home. She was a single mom who worked two jobs a day. And because periods were a taboo subject, her two brothers were oblivious about anything related to the female body, so she suffered alone. As an academically and athletically motivated student, she had to periodically take birth control pills and move exams and competitions for her kendo club. But in the 80s, birth control pills contained more estrogen and progesterone than they do now, and they just made my mom feel sicker. 

On the other hand, my mom was a stay-at-home mom who cared for me when my cramps were at their worst. My brother and dad took care of me occasionally because periods were less taboo than before, and birth control pills have gone through extensive formulation in the four decades since my mom started taking them. 

I owe it to my mother for creating a culture of acceptance of reproductive health in my family—an acceptance that arose from her experience when she was younger with no one to lean on. And I see the contrast between my and my mother’s experience with birth control pills as a concrete example of how women’s reproductive health has significantly improved. 

My mother and I are similar. Our source of pain is similar. Women suffer in different ways, whether it be periods, birthing, or continuous discrimination in the workplace. But my mother made it clear to me when I was young that a woman’s suffering, particularly periods, should not be hidden away. We are allowed to complain as much as we want, cry as much as we want, and rely on others, including people of the opposite gender. Even though we have the same pain, my mother made sure that I wouldn’t suffer the same way as her. 

There are always improvements to be made. Even among women, some may think it unacceptable to ask for tampons or pads from someone else or take them out so that they are visible, which is something my mother agrees with. As the next generation, I do not agree; I feel it is perfectly fine to be open about periods in public. The difference in my mother’s and my beliefs shows the progress in the feminist movement from a mother to a daughter, and how a daughter can expand on the feminism of her predecessors. 

If I ever have a daughter, I suspect that she will have the same pain as me. Like my mom, I have the responsibility of creating an empowering environment for my daughter and cultivating her feminism. The home is the first place a girl begins to learn that she is somehow inferior to male family members. At home, her opinions may be discounted, her struggles patronized, but as her mother, I can say to her, “I understand your pain and I support you.” I can teach my son to respect women and to understand women’s pain. And as my daughter grows up, she may develop ideas that will be different from mine, ideas that may be even more progressive and equitable. And from mother to daughter, generation after generation, women can start to believe that they are equal to men.

Marie Tan ‘21 (mtan3) hopes to continue normalizing periods and is always happy to share a tampon or pad. From the Pandemic 2020 issue.