It's normal. Everything is normal. You're normal.

How did I allow myself to be treated that way? Why didn't I ask more questions? Why did I just accept what they said? How could it have possibly been normal to faint dozens of times? When the symmetrical rash started, and I thought I was dying because that's what you think, doctors thought I needed to relax. It was nothing. They were annoyed with me, my "complaining," and my interest in finding the root cause of my symptoms. 

Meanwhile, I donated what felt like pints of blood to any surface I occupied while on my period. Including my boyfriend's parents' couch, my client's boardroom chair (sorry, Deloitte!), and even surfaces I merely walked on, like sidewalks. In public. Blood running down my legs. There was that one time on a sledding hill in the center of town. I sobbed as I walked to the bathroom for the third time in an hour to change my super++++ tampon and MacGyvered pad setup. On the way back to the car, another flood. 

It's just your period.

My then-husband had no words of comfort to offer. Why would he? We don't even teach girls about normal and abnormal periods. We do teach them to tuck tampons in their sleeves and make up code words for when they're menstruating. Maybe he thought I was being dramatic or emotional. Oh, the horror! More likely, he simply wasn't interested because, as with many marriages, I was in his orbit to smell good, look pretty, and entertain him. Not to rely on him to help me advocate for my health. 

At age 40, after 10 years of trying to conceive, I was on my back getting my first pelvic ultrasound, despite a decade of symptoms that would have warranted one in any humane society. This broad was pregnant. And the image on the screen showed I was having triplets. Like any well-trained patriarchal footsoldier, I buried my fear and smiled pretty while waiting for her to tell me the news. 

She didn't. So finally I asked, "What are those other 'things'?" 

"Oh, these? They're just fibroids. They'll go away on their own, eventually."  

The relief in my body radiated for miles. And that was the first and last time I heard the word fibroid until I began working in women's health, despite bleeding between 10 and 150 days...per "cycle."  

That symmetrical rash I mentioned? No big deal. Even though it was as itchy as poison oak, it burned so badly I couldn't sleep, was unsightly, and covered my body. My expensive Ivy League doctor had a decade to connect the dots on my symptoms. You know what it took? I, after coming home from the hospital at 42 with my second and last-born child, covered in the rash and welts as long as my arm, searched my symptoms on Dr. Google circa 2007. First result: dermatitis herpetiformis. The skin manifestation of celiac disease. 

Just celiac disease. No biggie. I mean, what's the harm in gorging on wheat bread because I'm so constipated from fibroids? I fibermaxxed before maxxing was trendy. Ironically, all that fiber was destroying my intestines...and my marriage. 

I was not reliably fun to be around. I'm either lying in a pool of blood or covered in a blistering rash. And what truly sucked about it all was the feeling that I didn't matter. I wasn't important enough to get a diagnosis. I was gross. My health issues were my problem, and if I could just be quiet about it. Because blech. It's bringing down the vibes. 

My quality of life didn't matter at all. And this was proven with the discovery of a whole F ton of infidelity in my marriage. (For another post or fifty...because it's all connected.)

Both celiac disease and fibroids are chronic conditions. Both suck. Both impact fertility. My doctors knew I was trying to conceive. No one offered any investigation beyond one skin biopsy and one round of allergy testing. My menstrual symptoms–bloating, pain, constipation, and the most ridiculous heavy bleeding–got no attention, because normal.

"Good news! You're normal!"

Data show that just one fibroid can increase the risk of preterm delivery. (Fibroids, rubbery balls of muscle tissue, can range from seed-size to the size of a melon+, and you can have one or dozens, all crammed in an organ that is 3 inches tall, 2 inches wide, and 1 inch thick. Sweet.) Probably would have been a good idea to counsel me on fibroid risks, given my pregnancy was already designated high-risk. 

More good news: continuing to eat gluten, or in my case, devouring gluten, increases the risk of cancer. Fun fact that is now coming to light: researchers suggest celiac disease be considered when patients present with abnormal uterine bleeding. And this is why we desperately need research funding for female health. We know jack about the female body; many still consider the uterus to be "useless and disposable" when not pregnant, and funding for female health research has been kneecapped. (Is neckcapped a thing?) 

Living with undiagnosed celiac disease and fibroids ruined 30 years of my life. And I had it easy compared to many. Not being believed has consequences. Many of us suffer these consequences for decades, in every aspect of our lives. Yet, this patriarchal, misogynistic society refuses to prioritize and fund female health. 

So we'll make them. 

Stick around for some broad thinking, broad perspectives, and broad acts of rebellion. Women need to gather in community to be informed and supported, and to know which moves we can make to expand and protect our rights. Because we are not small men. We are human.