“I’m really happy for you, you know that, right? I didn’t say that earlier, but I’m going to spoil the shit out of that baby.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Eli texted me after. I didn’t know Caleb hadn’t told you yet, and I was in the planning zone. That was such a shitty way to find out.”
“We handled it.” I sigh, twirling the bottle.
“You’re okay?”
“Yeah, fine, promise.”
The low voice of Clare’s husband, Josh, rumbles in the background.
“Oh, I gotta let you go, but seriously. Liam—make it work.”
“I’ll think on it.” I hesitate. “Love you.”
“Eee. Love you too. See you sooooooooon,” she sings before hanging up.
I hug my trusty heating pad to my crampy mid-section before slinking off the couch, reluctantly leaving my heated solace behind.
The pain from earlier never quite took the hint that I had enough to spiral over without its nagging presence—the freakin’ audacity.
Groaning, I enter my bedroom. It’s so damn messy. Books are scattered over every flat surface: my bureau, my nightstand, and my tiny desk that, in theory, is for working on the blog, but in practice, has become a flat surface to hold all the things. My clothes are flung haphazardly on top of the books, on the floor, anywhere that isn’t my closet or bureau. I pluck a pair of black leggings dangling for dear life off a side of the desk and a long white button-up tunic nearby.
The minor scars on my abdomen from what should have been a “You might have endo” exploratory surgery, but quickly turned into, “Oh shit, you have way more crap going on down there than expected” surgery are fading a bit, which is appreciated. They’re tiny. Minimal in size—but in reality, they’re huge. They’re validation.
One moment changes everything. Validates everything. Doctors who have told you your whole life you’re mentally unstable or have a low pain tolerance, that it’s just painful periods (that one’s hard to swallow when you’re very aware it happens almost every day) suddenly tell you you’re one in ten, ushering you into a forced kinship nobody wants to be a part of.
Endo warrior. That’s the nickname they give us. Sure, I would prefer a cure, but there’s no time for that when you have an erectile dysfunction crisis looming. Stodgy old cis men must be able to get it up at all costs!
It always devolves into an erectile dysfunction rant, doesn’t it? That’s part of the experience: that you have a soul-crushing ailment and the research on it is minimal and the journey to diagnosis is degrading and doctors are typically assholes to you. And you have to keep on keeping on until you find the Unicorn Doctor, Magic Vagina Fairy, whatever name you prefer, who believes you and wants to help you get better and fights for you.
And for many endo warriors, that means years and years of journeying first.
Tossing my jacket on, I text Eli.
ME:Is Liam home?
ELI: Yeah, he should be—what’s up, little shit?
ME: I need to talk to him about something, and I’m in the area.
ELI: Please don’t murder him.
ME: Going to try my best not to. Hope you’re having fun with Fionn!
Two ballet flats and a brief tipsy wobble later, I’m out the door. I can do this.
Eli and Liam’s apartment is a fifty-minute walk from mine, which is precisely what I need. Time. Because I’m about to humiliate myself, and I’d like to spend a little more time with my pride before handing it over in a crumpled heap to Liam.
I haven’t seen him in the three days since the bench incident. He didn’t come to dinner, which I mean, he said he was busy, so I’m probably reading way too much into it. No way a little snide comment on my part affected him, right? I don’t know. I tried to compose a text apologizing, but it didn’t come out right, so I stopped trying and ate things instead.
By the time I hit Pont de la Concorde, I’m seriously regretting my decision to walk. One, because I’m tired and in pain and exercise doesn’t give me the endorphins it used to, I swear.
And two—because, tut, tut. It looks like rain.
I hurry my steps, but I maybe take a solid five more before the clouds open up and downpour all over my hopes and dreams. I jog the rest of the way to Liam’s apartment, thoroughly soaked and cursing the gods of chaos for what feels like the thousandth time this week. Climbing up the five flights of stairs, I attempt to gather my thoughts, but I am so thoroughly flustered from the cold rain, and honestly still tipsy, that I don’t know what I’m going to say.
Taking a collecting breath before knocking, I resign myself to say whatever comes to me in the moment. That always works out well.
