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Hermonthly schedule looked like this:
Weekone:Nopain!NoPMS!Shecould pretend to be a normal, non-broken person.Thetime always passed too quickly.
Weektwo:EmotionalPMSthat made her question every relationship she’d ever had with anybody in her life, along with uncontrollable fits of rage at anything and everything, followed by uncontrollable crying.Wordsskipped her internal editor and exited her mouth with abandon and deadly precision.Seriously,CerseiLannisterwould take notes.
Weekthree:Paintime, when she felt like her uterus was being stabbed by tiny, evil elves living under her skin with long knives.
Weekfour:Herperiod.Shelaughed when other women complained about cramps and heavy flows.Mostof them didn’t knowcramps.Theydidn’t knowheavy flows.Shecould go through an entire box of pads in a day, sometimes wearing more than one.Andtampons…there were days when she was bleeding so heavily that she had to use two supers at the same time.Once, her iron levels dipped so low from blood loss that she ended up in hospital.Ontop of all that, the pain fromWeek3 leeched intoWeek4, so she had to plan her use of medication carefully.Sheonly liked to take co-codamol for a maximum of four days a month, and not necessarily on consecutive days.Thatway, she could avoid the worst of the side effects.Shehad learned that using too much co-codamol bunged her up, causing even more pain.Therefore, she had to gauge when she thought her agony was at its height and allow herself her strongest meds on only those days.Sometimesshe got it right; sometimes she got it wrong.Ibuprofendid nothing for her.Vodkatonics on the worst days helped take the edge off.
Herparents never understood whyFrancescahated sport.BeingOlympians, they wanted their four children to excel in physical pursuits as well.Heroldest brother was an ultra-marathoner and a doctor.Brothernumber two swam forBritainin his late teens and twenties while he went to med school.Hersister, a divorce lawyer, spent her weekends running night-time relays with a team of other insane, super-fit people, and she had also run fromLand’sEndtoJohno’Groats in ten days for charity.
Comparedto them,Francescawas the quintessential black sheep, the family failure.Sheused to joke that her parents should have stopped at three.Hermother pointed out that they tried to, but the sperm and egg that becameFrancescahad other ideas, despite the fact that her father had already undergone a vasectomy and her mother was over 40 when she fell pregnant.Earlyexpectations were thatFrancescawanted to be born so badly that she must be destined for great things.
Ah, well.
Francescaused to enjoy running…until she turned fifteen and her periods started.Whenshe told her mother about her pain, her mother said it was just a part of being a woman.TheirGPsaid the same, his eyes turning cold and uninterested whenever she arrived for an appointment. ‘You, again,’ he said more than once.
Shecontinued to harangue her parents, and finally, in her early twenties a year before she metKrish, they finally paid for her to see a private gynaecologist.Thatwas when she got her diagnosis and found out she wasn’t crazy: polycystic ovaries, fibroids,andendometriosis.Theholy trifecta of uterine disorders.
‘Andyou’ll never be able to have children,’ said the doctor brutally.
Afterher diagnosis, she started the long journey of trying to figure out how to manage her symptoms, and even more important, how tolivewith them—because they weren’t going to go away.Therewas no cure.
Sometimesit made her so angry.Liketoday.Whydid other women get to have normal bodies, while she got this broken one?
Shetook a deep breath and threw off the covers.Shetrudged into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.Ascratching noise under the cupboard drew her attention.
Thatfucking rat.
Ragebubbled inside her.Ifshe caught that rat, she was going to tear it limb from limb.Thatrat was everything wrong in this world.Thatgreedy little rodent had already cost her so much money.Sofar, the poison trays went untouched, the traps empty.Well, she would take care of it herself.
Withthe speed of aPowerRanger, she whipped open the cupboard, surprising the furry beast.Itwas eating a crust of old toast on top of the food waste bin.
Die,KingRat.
Thelittle white diamond on its forehead twitched in the moment it took for her to lunge at him.Thefood bin went flying, its contents spilling out onto the floor.Therat jumped back and disappeared down a secret passage.Thepest control man said he’d filled all the holes, the liar.
Francescaswore, her breaths coming in fast huffs, the detritus of yesterday’s curry and rice dinner staining her bare feet yellow.
Thenthe tears came.Shewiped them roughly with her sleeve.Whatthe fuck was she doing?Shecouldn’t be the personKrishneeded her to be today.Shewould fail him.Shewould fail herself.Shewasn’t a good enough videographer to shoot this wedding with him.Shewould ruin their tenuous friendship, and he would hate her.
Butshe had to go.Francescahad sworn long ago never to let her own limitations get in the way of her commitments.Besides, she needed the money.Squeezingthe edge of the countertop, she breathed in for ten and exhaled for ten.
Shewould get dressed.Puton some make-up.Brushher hair.Andfake a smile like her life depended on it.
Krishlookedat his watch again.Theclients would be coming in fifteen minutes, andFrancescahadn’t arrived yet.Hesent her another text.
Hey, getting worried.Letme know yourETA.K
Hedecided not to sign off with anX.
Wiltingdespite the fans, he rolled up the sleeves of his whiteOxfordshirt and smoothed his hands down his grey suit trousers.Casual, but professional.
Ifthey booked this wedding, it could be the making of his business.Indianfamilies talked.Thebride and groom would have friends and cousins getting married, and they would need someone to capture it for them.Hemade a mental note to pack his new business cards in this camera bag for when people asked for his details at the wedding.
Examiningthe room one last time, he rubbed his hands together.Itlooked good.He’dset up an armchair on either side of the sofa: one for him and one forFrancesca.Thecouple would sit in the middle.
Thelift pinged.Hehoped it wasFrancescarather than early clients.Thedoor pushed open andFrancescafell through, large sunglasses covering her eyes.Shewore a black blouse and black culottes, a stylish combination.Hesmiled, happy that she had made such an effort.
