My mom didn’t let me take Tylenol for period cramps
But I will for my daughter.
It’s the year 2000 and I’m sitting in my Grade 8 French class. My flared Mavi jeans are tight around my waist. I’m bloated. The crown of my head is throbbing in pain, radiating in a ring of fire that never ends. My lower abdomen feels like there are little gremlins inside with tiny pickaxes, scraping away at my uterus, mining for popcorn kernels.
“Est ce que je peux aller aux toilettes s’il vous plait? (May I please go to the washroom?)”
Madame Mardoche nods.
I get up and walk to the washroom. I go into the stall and I sit on the toilet with my pants on, head down, breathing deeply. I rub my temples for a brief moment and I look at my watch. There are 15 minutes left in class. Then its home time. I can do this. I stand up, walk back to class and sit at my desk, silently counting down each dreadful minute. The tone of the bell marks my struggling walk home.
I get into my house, take off my jeans, slip on my sweats and lie down in bed in the fetal position. About an hour later, I get up, walk to the kitchen to warm up the Magic Bag and a cup of hot tea. I retreat back to my room.
My mom comes home. She comes to my door and asks me what’s wrong. I tell her I have my period. She gives me…
