Period Leave

Lately there has been much buzz around the decision taken by some companies to offer their female employees leave on the first day of their period.  Some women have welcomed the move, while others – claiming to be ‘feminist’ – have spoken out against it. They argue that it would create a further divide between men and women (men resenting the women’s ‘privilege’), that their condition isn’t debilitating, and they should not be given leave but allowed to work from home instead.

I would say menstruating women belong to different categories: the fortunate ones who glide through their periods without an iota of pain and fail to understand what the fuss is about; those who suffer mild pain for a day or two and then settle down comfortably; those who suffer severe pain, but find relief through exercise or medication; and those who suffer unbelievable torture and for whom, for various reasons, no amount of exercise or medication provides any relief whatsoever. I belong to this last category as do various thirty plus and forty plus single women, many of whom, apart from carrying their genetic dysmenorrhic inheritance from their mothers/female ancestors, carry polyps, chocolate cysts or endometriosis, sometimes oblivious of their real situation.

It is this last category people often ignore, even women, believing their complaints to be a gross exaggeration. Unfortunately, this comes from the assumption that their experience is every woman’s experience and so it invariably becomes the yard stick for their judgement. The truth is – it isn’t. No two women feel the same pain; no two women feel pain the same way. Despite surface similarities, every female body is different and so is their power/threshold of endurance.  

I began my periods when I was eleven. I have suffered acute dymenorrhoea for about thirty years now. Right from school days to university, to working life and office, I have known what it is like trying to skirt explanations or avoid delving into intimate medical history while talking to perfect strangers, men or (insensitive) women at such times, when one isn’t fit enough to work. It is worse when one has an exam, a presentation/seminar/function or a trip to take.

Visiting gynae after gynae, being subjected to ultrasound after ultrasound, and being told to ‘get married’ for over two decades, today my condition is far worse. There isn’t any painkiller on earth, any Alternative Medicine I haven’t tried. In the worst case scenario I have been detained in hospital briefly for injectible pain relieving drugs. Sometimes even they have failed.

And this when I come from a family of doctors. I’ve been told my condition is partly genetic. My mother suffered before me, and her mother before her. But they married and produced children and that helped massively. I’m forty and still single – and every day my endometrial lining grows a little thicker.

Earlier the torture lasted four days. With age it has increased to six (which my last gynae refused to believe). It isn’t only the muscles of the lower abdomen that go into a severe spasm, but all muscles from the breast to the abdomen to pubic muscles, thighs and even the knees, besides the muscles of the upper and lower back. Muscles I never knew even existed in my body. Muscles in a mad fight to tear my body apart. These spasms can last for up to eight to fourteen hours at a stretch despite medication. I live on three tablets every five hours, including Diclofenac, all through. Nothing else works. Sometimes, not even that. And I’m not unaware of the consequences it may lead to. It feels like surviving labour pain every month without ever delivering a baby.

Accompanying the pain is severe nausea, retching, vomiting, a constantly irritable bowel and several bouts of diarrhea. Sometimes I spend the entire night pacing the room because the spasms make it impossible to sit or stand or lie down even though I can barely keep my eyes open from lack of sleep. In brief moments of respite sheer exhaustion takes over. All day long I am a groggy zombie.

When someone asks me which day is usually the worst, I honestly don’t know because I cannot tell one from the other as I wait for the ordeal to end. Trying to work at such a time is a laughable idea. For six days in a month I want to be dead. Sheer desperation makes suicide look like a tempting option. I haven’t given in yet, but I fear someday I just might.

I did not choose this misery; it was imposed upon me. The rest of the month I work doubly hard. It does not affect my sincerity or performance. I know I am not the only one afflicted. There are thousands of others who suffer in silence the same way because people around them are not sensitive enough to understand. Those who disagree show a clear lack of empathy and maturity.

Now it has come to a point where my life revolves around my periods. I live in constant dread of them. All plans are made or unmade around them. Being in an office that requires full-time presence seems more and more impossible. Sure I can get all the work done and delivered in time, but I need to go about it my own way. I don’t expect people to understand; most never will.

To me a day’s period leave seems a matter of too little too late. Yet I know it may provide some relief at least to a few. Those lucky enough not to suffer have no business speaking on behalf of others who do.

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