The first day of August is chilly and grey.
‘Where’s this heatwave the forecasters keep banging on about?’ Stacey demands at breakfast. ‘That’s what I want to know.’
‘Patience, babe,’ Mum says, setting identical plates of scrambled eggs on toast down on the table in front of Stacey and me.
‘But it’s August and I’m wearing leg warmers!’ Stacey extends one of her long slender legs. As promised, she’s wearing a pair of bright purple leg warmers over the top of her skinny jeans.
Mum just shakes her head and sits down with her own plate of food.
‘It’s not right,’ Stacey continues, shovelling scrambled eggs onto her fork. ‘The summer holidays are supposed to be all about lazing in the garden getting a tan! How am I supposed to get a tan in this?’ She motions at the window. Even the pair of sparrows 103perched on washing line look a bit chilly. ‘It’s not right,’ she repeats, shaking her head.
Mum and I exchange grins. Stacey has been complaining about the weather ever since she finished work for the summer holidays (she’s a university lecturer).
‘Are you not hungry, sweetheart?’ Mum asks, nodding at my plate. She’s taken the week off work, hence our leisurely breakfast.
I glance down. I haven’t even picked up my fork. ‘Sorry, no, not really. I woke up with a stomach ache.’
‘Time of the month?’ Stacey asks with a sympathetic tilt of the head.
‘Oh. I don’t know. Maybe.’ I’ve been getting periods for almost two years now but, annoyingly, they’re yet to settle into a regular pattern and I often go for months at a time without having one at all.
‘I think there are painkillers in the junk drawer,’ Mum says.
‘Thanks.’
I cross over to the junk drawer and prise it open. Amongst the batteries and Sellotape and tape measures and ballpoint pens, I find a packet of paracetamol. I pop two into my hand.
‘Best to take them with food,’ Mum says as I return to the table. ‘Maybe try a bit of toast.’
I nod and carefully scrape the eggs off the toast, nibbling the corner of one slice before swallowing the pills down with a swig of orange juice.
‘So, what’s on the agenda for today, Jojo?’ Mum asks as I wipe my mouth on a piece of kitchen roll.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Maybe nothing. Frankie’s at her gran’s all day so I doubt I’ll see her. How about you guys?’
‘The paint hunt continues,’ Stacey says.
‘Seriously?’ 104
‘Unfortunately, yes,’ Mum says, sighing.
Mum and Stacey have been searching for the perfect shade of paint for their bedroom for what feels like weeks now. Dozens of paint swatches with daft names like ‘Phantom Mist’ and ‘Whispering Swallow’ are stuck to their wall with Blu Tack.
‘Want to come?’ Stacey asks, wiggling her eyebrows.
‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ I love hanging out with Mum and Stacey, but when it comes to DIY, they’re complete nightmares, fretting over every single tiny detail, and I have no desire to be dragged into the ongoing paint debate.
‘We might go for a cheeky Wagamamas afterwards,’ Stacey adds in a singsong voice.
Ordinarily, the promise of a vegetarian katsu curry might just about win me over, but the dull ache in my stomach has killed off all my usual cravings.
‘I think I’m just going to stay here,’ I say. ‘Take it easy until my stomach feels a bit better.’
Mum and Stacey leave about an hour later, by which time I’ve migrated to the living room, clutching the hot water bottle Stacey insisted on preparing for me.
‘We won’t be long,’ Mum says, popping her head behind the door to say goodbye.
‘Yeah, right,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘You’ll be gone for hours and you know it.’
She laughs. ‘Ring if you need anything, yeah?’
‘Will do.’
‘Bye, Jojo!’ Stacey calls from the hallway. ‘Hope you feel better soon!’
‘Thanks!’ I call back. ‘And good luck!’ 105
‘Cheeky!’ she replies.
I wait for the front door to slam shut before returning to the episode of The Good Place I’d paused.
The credits are rolling and I’m waiting for the next episode to kick in when I get a message from Frankie.
Frankie’s gran (her mum’s mum) is notoriously demanding and Frankie is stuck with her all day. I smile as I tap out a sympathetic reply. After a tricky few months, following the whole Arts Academy thing in the spring, I finally feel like my friendship with Frankie might be back on track. Although the guilt hasn’t gone away exactly, it’s definitely not as intense as it was and, with only weeks to go until the term begins, I’m stupidly relieved that things seem more or less back to normal.
My phone buzzes with another message.
F: What you up to?
J: On the sofa. Worst period pains ever!!
As if on cue, pain shoots through my abdomen. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for it to pass.
J: How long does paracetamol take to kick in?
F: I dunno. Half an hour maybe?
J: Jesus, I hope so.
F: Is it really only 11 a.m.? I swear time slows the second I enter my gran’s house. 106
F: Ugh. I’ve got to go. She wants to go to Lidl.
#Funtimes
J: Enjoy!
F: Ha! Hope the pills kick in soon xxx
J: Thanks. Me too xxx
I continue to watch the TV but the shooting pains keep coming in waves, making it harder and harder to concentrate.
I press pause and roll off the sofa. Taking my hot water bottle with me, I hobble upstairs to the bathroom where I manage to force out a poo. Instead of bringing relief though, the pain only intensifies. I go over what I’ve eaten the past few days, but nothing stands out as potentially dodgy. No, it must be my period: it’s the only explanation. I wipe myself and reach to pull up my knickers. They’re halfway up my legs when I notice the crotch is stained with a weird gluey discharge.
Gross.
Grimacing, I scoop up the jelly-like substance with a wad of toilet paper and flush it down the loo, before removing my knickers altogether, tossing them in the laundry basket.
I shudder. I will never get used to having periods. Ever.
I go to my room and put on a fresh pair of knickers, pressing a sanitary towel into the crotch, then grab my duvet and drag it downstairs. Back in the living room, I pull it on top of me and continue to watch TV. I manage another one and half episodes of The Good Place before the pain in my stomach gets so bad I’m forced to return to the bathroom.
There’s more weird discharge in my pants. Some of it has soaked into the sanitary towel but some of it is too thick and remains sitting there on the pad. I wonder if Frankie has had it before. I reach for my phone. 107
More shooting pains. They hurt so much I have to grit my teeth together and grip onto the sink with both hands, to stop myself from crying out.
Finally, the pain subsides a little. Blinking, my eyes fall on the bathtub. Maybe a hot soak would help?
I turn on the taps, and while the bath is filling up, limp back downstairs for some more paracetamol. I take two more – isn’t that about the maximum dose in twenty-four hours? – and lie down on the sofa while I wait for them to take effect. If anything though, the pain just gets more intense. I know I don’t have much actual experience, but I cannot kick the feeling this is something more serious than normal period pain. That’s usually more of a dull ache. This feels like my entire torso is being squeezed and tightened; my insides yanked and twisted in every possible direction. The pains aren’t confined to my abdomen any more either. They’re in my back and thighs and bottom too.
Worried my bath might be about to overflow, I try to stand up but my body refuses to cooperate and I’m forced to make my way back up to the bathroom on my hands and knees.
I need Frankie’s gran’s stair lift, I think, as I heave my body up the stairs. Really, this is ridiculous. I’m sixteen for God’s sake, not sixty. I’d probably laugh if it didn’t hurt so much.
The bathroom is cloudy with steam. Pulling myself to my feet, I switch on the extractor fan and turn off the taps before removing my pyjamas and knickers. I stick my hand into the water and let out a yelp. It’s way too hot but far too full (almost to the brim) to risk 108adding any cold. I’ll have to wait for it to cool down a little before getting in.
Unable to face any more physical exertion, I curl up on the rainbow-striped bathmat, naked and exhausted.
What a pathetic sight I must be right now. Frankie will think it’s hilarious when I tell her about it later.
Actually, where is my phone?
I look up. It’s on the edge of the sink, where I left it. I stretch to reach for it and open up Instagram in an effort to distract myself from the pain with photos of sunsets and cupcakes and cute dogs. I have a fleeting idea of posting a selfie – #periodpain #itsucksbeingagirl #paracetamoldoesnotwork!!!
A fresh stab of pain, perhaps the worst one yet. I let out a gasp, fresh tears brimming in my eyes.
What the hell is happening to me?
I go to ring Frankie. Then I remember – she’s in Lidl getting bossed around by her grandmother.
With shaking fingers, I call Mum instead.
It rings out before going through the voicemail. I don’t leave a message. I don’t want to worry her. Instead, I send her a text.
There’s a sudden surge of moisture between my legs. Gingerly, I reach down. I pull my hand away to discover my fingers are coated with the same sticky discharge I found in my knickers earlier, only this time it’s lumpy and flecked with blood. I wash my hands, then retrieve my phone and decide to give Frankie a ring after all.109
I’m scrolling to her name when another pain shoots through me; so strong and sharp it takes my breath away and the phone slips from my hand, bouncing off the edge of the bath before plunging beneath the surface.
I go to stick my hand into the water in an effort to retrieve it but the pain between my legs stops me, forcing me to grab onto the edge of the bath to stop myself from crumpling to the floor. I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut.
I get this overwhelming urge to push.
But push what?
I look down.
There’s something there.
Between my legs.
What the fuck?
I blink.
Look again.
It looks like the top of a head.
No.
It can’t be.
It’s not possible.
Another urge to push.
I don’t fight it. I can’t fight it.
I squeeze my eyes shut once more and push again. And again. And again.
In the gaps I scream and howl and pant, the pain like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
Until finally, it is out of me.
A baby.
My baby.