A few months after the diagnosis, my gynaecologist squinted at my latest ultrasound scan. Once again, I marvelled at the blurry mess inside my abdomen. It looked pulpy and fibrous, like a lemon ready for pickling.



She pointed one well-manicured finger at the new growth and ran her sharp nail down the length of my uterus, tracing the abnormal tissue. A fat diamond sat on her ring finger, sparkling blue against the backlight. She was clearly not an unmarried woman. I found myself wondering if she had children.



That day, she told me that it was possible I would not be able to conceive a child.

I understand that my womanhood or my personhood is not defined by this biology. But there is a whole world of sexual health that I should have been made aware of, while my gynaecologist, like most Indian doctors, just wants to make sure I can give my hypothetical husband some hypothetical children.

I am rarely asked if I am at risk of sexually transmitted infections or cervical cancer, if I know how to examine my chest for lumps, if I am able to have healthy and pleasurable sex, if I am using protection, if I have access to effective and affordable protection, if I want to go on birth control.

My friends swap stories about debilitating cramps and wild mood swings and all the other physical and mental pain caused by periods. But few, if any, would consider going to a doctor. Because in order to do that, one must first overcome the deeply ingrained shame and societal taboo associated with periods. Most Indians suffering from endometriosis, Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, or other menstruation-related illnesses simply stomach their pain without diagnosis or treatment.

