How a period disaster led to a twenty-year friendship
When I was 12 years old I moved from Portland, Maine to Sacramento, California — a trip of over 3,000 miles and lightyears away from everything I had ever known. Culture shock hit me hard and fast as I tried to adjust to my new life: people living in huge homes with tiny yards, fashion trends I didn’t understand, slang and references I didn’t understand. To ease the transition and help me meet other girls my age, my parents signed me up to go to a church camp. I resented this — like everything else they did those first few years after the move — but I went anyway. The day before I was going to leave I started my period. Because I had only experienced a handful of periods previously, I hadn’t mastered the necessary planning that goes with this and only packed a few handfuls of panty liners for the entire week. That choice proved to be disastrous.
In and out of the bathroom every 20–30 minutes to check or change, I desperately tried not to bleed through my clothes. By the second day I was in a near-constant state of panic, running back and forth to the cabin where all of my things were to load up on more panty liners that, I hoped, would last me the next few hours. Then things took a turn for the worst, I climbed the ladder to the loft to rummage through my bag for more panty liners and found I only had two left for the remaining three days of camp.
Exhausted, disheartened, and overwhelmed, all I wanted to do was collapse into a puddle of blood and tears. It was at this point that I heard the voice of my guardian angel:
I noticed the blood on your pants and thought you might need a pad. I have a couple if you want.
Surprised to hear someone else's voice, and embarrassed to learn that I had bled through my pants, I looked down from my perch at the friendly face smiling up at me. Recognizing the face of the girl from the previous day at camp, I swallowed my embarrassment and mustered a, “yes please.” Reaching into her bag, she pulled out several pads and handed them to me matter of factly.
“If you need any more, just let me know,” she offered. I followed up with a mumbled thanks and hurried back to the group nearby practicing for a nightly skit.
Her kindness and generosity was the first I felt from someone after moving from Maine and it opened me to considering that this move might not be the worst thing in the world after all. Janea, that was her name, turned out to be my best friend sticking by me through my teenage angst, college woes, a marriage, miscarriages, and a divorce. All this time later, we still sing Spice Girls songs at the top of our lungs, dance like the goofballs we are, and laugh so hard we cry. She can spot my bullshit from a mile away and I can pep talk her through the darkest of times. She’s taught me to laugh at myself and not hide who I really am. She saved my behind 20 years ago and still has my back to this day.
