Menstruation Crustation Station

In winter 1996, I was in the eighth grade and desperate to start my period. I clocked the discreet passage of pink Kotex pads in the locker rooms before PE. Initially, I thought they were Cherry Sparkle Laffy Taffys. But when my “mature” friends complained of cramps, upset stomachs, and mood swings, I understood the subtleties. Their grumbles became dreamy descriptions of what it was actually like to be a woman. Even though my legs were growing faster than my confidence, I wanted in. So much so, I took a red bar of soap, shaped like Santa, and rubbed the tip of his hat along the inside of my Disney-themed underwear. The redness looked more like a flamingo pink, almost cartoonish. I handed the underwear to my mother like an eighteen-year-old determined to sneak into the neighborhood dive bar. She calmly told me that’s not what period blood looks like, and it definitely doesn’t smell like peppermint.

A few weeks later, at softball practice, I felt terribly ill. I assumed it was because I was made more for the cheering section than out on the field. I tried out because my friends did, and then, to my dismay, I made the team. At practice, I asked to sit out - a usual request. That night, I found the Donald Duck underwear covered in a gingerbread-brown hue. I didn’t even consider washing them. I tossed them into the garbage. I didn’t want to see blood on a cartoon’s face ever again. It was official, I’d become a woman.

I was never very good at knowing when my period was coming. Even when I was on birth control for decades, and Aunt Flow was scheduled, I still had no idea why I was an emotional mess for three days before. Even when I ate the whole box of Bagel Bites with a bag of Butterfinger Bb’s on the side, I stayed oblivious. In retrospect, maybe the food choices obscured the “terribly ill” feelings.

Around two decades later, when we started trying for a baby, my relationship with my cycle changed. For the first six months or so, I never enjoyed that time of the month, but I held onto the hope that soon enough, I’d be pregnant. To help keep track, I downloaded the app Flo. I’d seen many TTC (trying to conceive) sisters use this tool, which I welcomed- an initiation into the club. Another year went by, and I added the apps Glow and Clue because somehow, more apps might increase my chances of conceiving. 

And with more apps came more pressure. Once I hit year two and especially in year three, my entire life revolved around my cycle. It consumed me. I focused on a fertility-rich diet, exercises, and couldn’t plan anything more than a few weeks in advance because “I might be pregnant then!” My period used to be a simple part of life. One that came with a lot of emotions, but still something an average woman experienced. And then it turned into the main character. I couldn't live my day-to-day life without knowing what was happening in my uterus.    

Once we started IVF, my cycles were controlled, and even sex was on schedule. Nothing was whimsical. And then, after multiple losses, we moved in the direction of surrogacy. I was relieved not to have my body be the center of attention, but then I became obsessed with the surrogate’s cycle. I did my best not to consume her, but I stayed awake at night imagining her uterus shedding its lining so we could begin the medication.  

And then, we decided to stop. No more trying to become a parent. No more raspberry tea, eating the pineapple core, or weekly acupuncture. No more period tracking. No more manifesting someone else’s body, preparing to accept a Grade A embryo (yes, embryos get graded.) To my surprise, a bizarre relief washed over me. My life opened up. At first, the free time was like a large map you couldn’t fold back into its shape. Overwhelming and out of order, but then the chaos of it was enticing. I didn’t even need a map anymore. I could burn the map for all I cared.  

I decided to celebrate my first period after we stopped trying. It arrived, right on time, and was still shocking. But this time, I realized I don't have to hate it. I acknowledged I don't have to love it either, but I could let the hatred go. My shark week was my body taking care of itself in the most natural way. I didn’t throw a party, or hang decorations, or even eat a vanilla cake with a chocolate swirl. I did remember how I once saw an image online of a menstruation crustation station—a small statue of a lobster holding a platter of period products in a bathroom. I loved the sentiment— a sea creature honoring your period in a way that made you feel like royalty. Like the whole point of your monthly cycle is to be pampered, or whatever the Red Tent wrote about. 

I gained a new version of myself. Life had magic again: waiting for wedding-cake ice cream to come back in June, monthly color-themed dinner dates with my girlfriends, and simply waking up knowing I am not waiting for my life to begin is extraordinary. Letting go of motherhood brought me back to my sparkly self. 

My period continued to “come out nowhere” for the next few years, even though she was always on a regular schedule. I got an IUD to help with perimenopause, and my regular cycles went out the window. But as of today, I haven’t had my “scheduled” period. And I am here for it. One day, I will have my last monthly oil change, and I’ll enter the “Crone” chapter- a seasoned sorceress. I might have already had my last bleed! Don’t worry, though, once I got my IUD, I filled a tiny Bonne Maman Jam jar up with period blood and poured it out on our lilac tree in the back yard. You know, like how a true Viking is one with blood on their swords? I’m a true woman because I used the Cherry Peppercorn jam jar from my advent calender, to honor my last Red Wedding. I think eighth-grade me would appreciate the whimsy of the tiny jars, and eighty-year-old me would love the resourcefulness.