I am shit-scared, petrified, terrified by my knickers. For the last nine days, every time I’ve gone to the toilet I’ve pulled my pants down slowly, slowly like in a horror movie [queue ominous, suspenseful music], dreading the moment when I will see my crotch. I try to look away, but just like a horror movie I can’t. I hold my breath, preparing for the worst, preparing to let out a scream. But so far, there’s been nothing to see. So far, there have been no screams.
The cruel joke is that the progesterone pessaries I am currently inserting inside myself twice a day (which, incidentally, make my body think it’s pregnant regardless of whether or not I actually am) slowly leak out of you approximately three or four hours after you shaft them. This slow warm leaking feels exactly like your period has just arrived. I find myself rushing off to the work toilet at inappropriate times and then standing there in the cubicle, frozen in fear, too scared to pull down my pants.
The fertility chat groups call your period “AF”. This stands for Aunty Flo. There are times in lots of people’s lives when they desperately pray for a visit from this particular member of the family. Even I, with my queer, sperm-free sex life, have at times desperately wished she’d arrive. When you have Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS) any period is a good sign that your hormones are behaving this month. But right now I hope Aunty Flo’s carriage is struck by lightening, the wheels fall off, and she loses my address on the road. Because if she arrives it will mean that the nine-cell embryo the doctors squirted into my womb last week will have died, and I will no longer be a mother.