Courtside, I stretch, limbering up and relishing the sun on my skin. I’m through to the regional final, Senior Women’s category, and I’m feeling good. I swish my racket, then straighten my skirt, basking in its whiteness, and a memory balloons, red and unbidden.
10 years old, the horror. Fear, dread. Tearful confession, followed by a matriarchal explanation. ‘Attach the loops to the belt. Keep it hidden. I won’t mention it to your father.’ Acceptance. Discomfort. Starting before any of my peers, I was alone in this supposed-shared secret.
Age 14, buying tampons with my paper round money. Praying for a female at the pharmacy counter. Scattering some from my bag onto the school hallway and feeling all eyes on me, heat stampeding to my too-visible face. Coughing to hide the rustle of packets in the toilet cubicle.
17, a grizzle-bearded GP, telling me it’s part of life, take some paracetamol. That the man who came in before me had just been diagnosed with lung cancer, and he wasn’t complaining of pain.
Early 20s, a long-haul flight, a faulty flush, a queue of men waiting. What felt like buckets of blood.
My first leak in our marital bed. His horror. Relegated to the spare room one week in four. A quarter of my nights. Measuring my life away to a 4/4 beat.
Then, the nausea, the sudden need for my stomach to purge without warning. Horrified passers-by as I vomit in the gutter. The sour tang in my mouth, the over-smell of everything. Telling my husband. His delight. ‘Don’t be sick near me though!’
But, the blood again, draining away a life I never met. I wait weeks before telling him, feeling the guilt, like a rock inside of me, replacing the life I failed to carry.
We never spoke of it again, and the rhythms of life continued, my cycle marching persistently on.
My 49th birthday heralding palpitations, a sudden fear of crowded spaces, heat, oh the heat! And sudden gushes of blood I don’t expect. Part of life. Carry on. Bite back the tears and pretend it’s not happening.
But then, one day, it’s not anymore.
I catch the eye of my opponent and feel a frisson of something between us: a part smile, a shared secret. We over 55s are more than just a tournament category. We may draw the smallest crowds, but we’ve got the hardest-earned victories.
Katie Holloway has a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia (UEA). She’s had careers in publishing, office administration and activity coordination in a nursing home. She is fuelled by strong tea and can’t help herself writing flash fiction over breakfast. Find Katie on Twitter at @KatieLHWrites and at loseyourselfbooks.wordpress.com.
Photo by Hermes Rivera on Unsplash
