Waves

By. Andie Hayes

Before endometriosis, I never knew what people meant when they said their stomach was “swimming.” The tides of my digestive system had never ebbed and flowed the way they do now. There had only been a slight rolling of the waters, the only real storms forming from bouts of food poisoning after a bad salad or undercooked barbeque chicken at family cookouts.  But now, at 3:57 on a Wednesday morning, I’m starting to understand.

I lie here and wonder what could have happened to me to cause such an undercurrent to pull me down. I ask myself who could be at the helm of my descent to the bottom of the ocean. But then I remember who is always there causing chaos in the seas.

The Almighty Poseidon has released his fury on my body and my vessel full of surly sailors has no ammunition to fight back. My sailors are weakened and displaced from home, without supplies and though experts at their trade, becoming a little seasick themselves because of the constant back and forth of the ship.

This is the third day of whipping winds and crashing tides, actually.  I ran out of energy to fight back approximately twelve hours ago when I found myself dry heaving into a trash can stuffed with bile filled tissues. It wasn’t this bad at first. Nothing a little pepto and ginger ale couldn’t fix.  But as the days passed the nausea grew stronger and stronger.

“Here, honey,” a soft voice says. “Try this.” It’s my mother handing me another can of sparkling water. “The burps will help,” she coos. But they don’t. Instead, they only help in producing more fluid for me to vomit into the wastebasket sitting next to my bed.

As I lie here, a castaway on a desert island reserved just for me, I can’t help but wonder if things would be different if I’d recognized the signs earlier. Would I be stuck here if I’d stopped and addressed the cracking thunder and the changing tides? Would the Mighty God of the Sea have passed me over if I had have paid him an act of obeisance? What do Greek gods ask for in the 21st century anyway?

My body tenses. It wants to draw in and it tries as hard as it can to do so. My muscles tighten as they attempt to wring themselves out like wet towels. And even as tears fill my eyes, my stomach squeezes itself harder—tighter and tighter as the waves hurl themselves against the shores.  Back and forth they swell. Thrashing, as I lay defenselessly.

The Sirens of my bowels are calling. “Come,” they sing seductively. “Sleep on our shores forever.” But I don’t want to. I don’t want to be left stranded on Poseidon’s island for the rest of my life. I beg my body to paddle away; to be strong; to think of Odysseus, but their song is too enchanting. The constant push and pull is too much for my stomach to bear. There’s nowhere to turn away from the orphic melodies of Poseidon’s daughters and so here I am. Waiting. Lingering on the shores. Anticipating the next wave.

I can’t help but meditate on what I’ve done to deserve this particular breed of persecution. Have I offended the gods? But then I remember: this just another one of Endo’s sadistic games. Endometriosis thrives on my agony and this is simply a new way to enjoy himself. I try to lie completely still, but it doesn’t change anything. The tempest only grows stronger with every breath I take. Inhale. The tide rises. Exhale. It draws back.

My breaths are like the moon. They control the tides within. The tides wax and wane with their movements. Without them, the waves would calm and all would be well. But that also means instant death. I can’t stop breathing, but I can hold my breath for as long as possible. In my head I count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. I don’t get very far—another failed attempt to fight the beast. Poseidon laughs with Endo. They knew it wouldn’t work.

When the waters first started to stir, I naively thought it was the low growls of hunger come to remind me of feeding time. I was wrong. Now, just the thought of food makes the feeling worse. But nourishment is necessary. How can I paddle through this storm without fuel?

And so I slide out of bed onto the floor and inch to the kitchen in search of something to quell the hungry beast inside. A simple broth will provide no sustenance, but I fear it is all I can handle. Can I even get stand up long enough to put it in the microwave? They say the human body can last at least twenty-one days without food, but how long can it last when it is also suffering?

There was a time when I was strong enough to fight Poseidon’s advances alone, when I could brave the changing tides without the help of over processed carbohydrates and proteins, but I’m tired. The never-ending battle inside my body leaves me drained, too weak to stand against the wind. But these waves also leave me too weak to feed my body the strength it needs.

I am the worn down mountainside, beaten down down by centuries of erosion. The tide pummels my shores, pushing the shoreline back further and further everyday. Forcing me to take harder hits with each rising crest. How can I, strong, yet unmovable, defend myself against something ever changing, ever flowing; something constantly gaining momentum? How can I do anything other than continue to let myself be hollowed out from the ground up?

As I wait for the waters to steady, I let my mind drift. What kind of sick amusement does the God of the Seas get from this? Hasn’t he had his fill? But then I remember Odysseus. Lost at sea for ten years, a punishment from the gods. What have I done to deserve their fury? Have I cheated death? Have I neglected an offering? Or are these the sick demented gods all the stories are about? Endo must be in cahoots.

If nothing else, tonight’s episode has taught me that endometriosis is vengeful. Cruel. Sadistic. I can see it whispering in Neptune’s ear: “it’s time to turn the tides” and he listens. The cyclone in my belly only grows stronger with every breath. If only I could suffocate the feeling. But, what is water without air? I try to slow my breathing.

Inhale 1…2…3. Exhale 4…5…6

Nothing. If anything I’ve given the storm time to build up. Time it needs to thrash against my beaches harder than before. Maybe if I lie still the feeling will pass. I told myself the same lie six hours ago. My arms are asleep and I’ve lost feeling in my toes. Standing firm against this tempest is useless.

What did women do in the time of Odysseus? Did they hurl themselves onto the sharp rocks at he bottom of Poseidon’s sea? Did they beg for mercy, offering sacrifices to pagan gods, deaf to their cries? They had to have done something. Endometriosis is not a new phenomenon.

How, throughout the centuries, have we managed to survive? How have my ancestors continued to push through a pain as otherworldly as this? How have we been able to endure?

Endometriosis is much like Poseidon himself. Few believe the stories to be true until they have felt the full, unrestrained power that it possesses themselves. I don’t know if I believe in the God of the Sea, but I do know that endometriosis has proved itself to be true time and time again. Endo believes in giving proof, solid evidence that he is alive and well. He leaves no room for doubt, but still I fight to show people that I’m not making this all up; that it’s not all in my head.

Honestly, it took a while to make myself believe in the behemoth living inside of me. Years, actually. My doctors told me that the pain, the nausea, the Titan within couldn’t be nearly as bad as I was saying. That I was exaggerating for sympathy. That periods were supposed to hurt. So, I believed them while Neptune’s storm continued to swell on the banks of my ovaries.

I gave in to the myth. The one perpetuated by scores of men refusing to believe in the strength of a woman’s uterus. One preserved by the belief that women are solely playthings. Fragile. Delicate. Weaker vessels, unable to conquer Poseidon’s seas without the navigational expertise of a man.

I’m not supposed to know my own body and what I have learned is not to be discussed. The secrets of my ovaries are to remain lost at sea, buried deeper than the city of Atlantis itself.

But waves aren’t silent.

Waves are wild and aggressive and passionate. Waves are resilient. Savage. Loud and unremittingly unpredictable. Now I understand why the sea is a lady. Now I understand why man believes she, we, must be tamed. 

Men fear what they cannot control. Men were not created to accept defeat. But women, women are expected to submit. We are compelled to comply, even when the master is our own body. Endometriosis, like Poseidon, asserts its power, demanding total surrender. How can we resist that which lives inside us? How can we quell the oceans residing in our bellies, granting us the power to create life?

We can’t and they know it. Men, Poseidon, endometriosis. They thrive on the knowledge that we cannot separate ourselves from own temperamental waters.

The whirlpool in my gut tells me that they’re laughing. Poseidon and endometriosis are both thoroughly amused. And this time, the waves they have caused have been thrashing for three days straight. Does anyone have a life jacket? I’m teetering on the fringes of my own cliffs. And if I’m not careful my next breath will send me over. I am not dressed for deep sea diving.

But then again, maybe the creatures of the deep can tell me what to do. Aren’t they being punished too? How else would one find themselves so deeply buried in darkness? Maybe, if I turn out the lights, I will understand. Maybe, if I too get lost in a cold, dark place, I can escape the oncoming typhoon.

I’ll try it. I roll over and twist the light switch. I close my eyes and lie completely still. But the fish aren’t talking. And their silence is daunting.

I try to picture myself floating, sinking towards the ocean floor. The hull of a mighty ship, broken into thousands of tiny pieces, pulled further and further down by the undercurrent.  My splinters impaling fish of all sizes. If I have to suffer this defeat, shouldn’t they? 

It’s darker than I could have ever imagined down here. I’ve fallen so deep into despair that any semblance of hope is hundreds of miles away. If I’m quiet, I can hear the rumbles of the deep roar through my stomach.

Be still. Don’t blink. Don’t even breathe.

Andie Hayes is a writer, editor, and artist. Her work can be found in AmberForest Magazine (formerly Sprinklers Magazine). She works as fiction editor for BLF Press and at her local museum. Her works in progress include two children’s books and a collection of creative non-fiction, Gorgons Have Dreams Too and Other Essays (forthcoming, BLF Press).

“Waves,” is a chapter in Andie Hayes’ forthcoming collection of essays, Gorgons Have Dreams Too. Publication is expected fall 2021. This is a simultaneous submission.