Page 83

CHAPTER 83

A WAR WITHIN

MARGAUX

T he pain is excruciating.

Each month, my period is becoming more and more debilitating.

I know I have endometriosis, but it’s either spreading, or there’s something more to it.

I can barely move, yet I’m forced to keep shifting, desperately seeking any position that might provide some relief.

Bending my knee into my abdomen gives temporary respite, the pressure dulling the knives stabbing at me from within. But then that starts to hurt, so I curl into the fetal position.

Ice packs alternate with a heating pad, their opposing temperatures offering brief reprieves, but nothing lasts.

Even the thought of food triggers my gag reflex, and every few minutes I dry heave. Sitting up makes me throw up. Even sips of water betray me.

I finally retreat to the back room, collapsing onto the mattress and, miraculously, falling asleep.

When I wake, Timmy is gone.

Hours later, he returns, reeking of cigarette smoke.

“You threw up because you were drinking yesterday!” he yells, his tone accusing, as though preemptively justifying his unexplained absence. “This is self-inflicted, and you’re blaming it on your period!”

“This has nothing to do with drinking, Timmy,” I reply, my voice weary but steady. “I didn’t even drink yesterday. I have a medical condition that causes excruciating pain every month. The issue isn’t me—it’s that I woke up, and you weren’t here. And you’ve clearly been down at the tents again, smoking with people.”

He shrugs dismissively. “Well, you were asleep, and I was bored.”

I blink, incredulous. “So I finally manage to nap through the pain, and you decide to go do something you know would upset me? While I’m already suffering?”

“Stop blaming your period for everything,” he spits. “It’s your fault.”

“Stop downplaying my very real pain, Timmy,” I say, trying to focus on the conversation despite the millions of invisible knives still tearing into my lower abdomen. “The problem is you left while I was vulnerable and in pain. And now you’re deflecting by blaming me.”

“I should be able to go out!” he snaps, his voice dripping with indignation. “You make me feel like a prisoner!”

I nod, exhausted by the circular logic. “If I could trust you—if I knew you weren’t going down to the beach to hang out with god-knows-who, that would be different. If you were just going somewhere for a walk and not to smoke cigarettes or drink… that would be fine. But I can’t trust you. And when I’m in pain, it would be really nice to have you here to support me, to comfort me. It wasn’t very nice waking up and you not being here.”

His glare intensifies. “You won’t even eat anything I make for you.”

“Just being here helps,” I reply, my voice softening. “Being kind. That’s what I need from you.”

But the conversation is over.

He’s already made it clear he doesn’t care.

The ultrasound results confirm what I already suspected.

“You have extensive adenomyosis and endometriosis,” the doctor says, her tone measured but firm. “The good news is that your ovaries look fine—there doesn’t appear to be scar tissue there. But your cervix and surrounding areas are significantly affected. The adenomyosis is clear, and—based on your symptoms—we’re certain about the endometriosis.”

“What does that mean for having kids, just so I know?” I ask, steeling myself for the answer.

“Well,” she says, pausing. “The combination of adenomyosis and your age means it could absolutely impact your fertility. But I recommend discussing that in depth with your gynecologist.”

I nod, my mind spinning.

Later, I meet with my gynecologist.

“Do you want to have children?” she asks.

“I… I don’t know,” I admit. “I was ambivalent when I was younger. And I did have a miscarriage a long time ago. But my previous partner made it clear he didn’t want kids—he said he was too selfish. That relationship made me feel like I missed my window. So I don’t know if I want to have them, but I’m curious about whether I can. ”

“What about your current partner?”

“He says he’s open to it,” I shrug. “But we’ve had unprotected sex for over a year, and nothing has happened. I did have one unusually heavy period that I wondered might have been a miscarriage, but I don’t know.”

The doctor nods sympathetically. “Having unprotected sex for over a year without conceiving is considered infertility. If you’re interested, I can refer you to a fertility specialist. They’ll perform a laparoscopy, which will give a much clearer picture of the extent of your endometriosis and scarring. It will also help determine your options moving forward.”

I nod again, trying to absorb the information.

If I can’t have kids, a hysterectomy or going on the pill might make sense to deal with these debilitating symptoms. But something inside me cries out at the thought.

I’d dismissed the idea of motherhood for so long, but the desire is there now, at least as an idea, sharp and unexpected.

Each month, when I get my period, a part of me is disappointed—I want someone I can love and guide and watch grow.

But then I’m also relieved.

These hormones are really fucking with my head.

Logically, I know Timmy probably wouldn’t be a good father. He doesn’t provide for his existing child, and struggles with responsibility, period. But there’s a small, irrational part of me—fueled by hormones and desperation—that whispers he might change. That maybe a child would give him the focus he needs, something bigger than him to dull his selfish impulses.