A Nigerian-Nordic Girl’s Guide to Lady Problems

A Nigerian-Nordic Girl’s Guide to Lady Problems was too short! The audiobook version was only about 50 minutes long and by the end of it, I was craving so much more of Faith Adiele’s sarcastic tone. I deeply enjoyed this book because, as bad as it sounds when put bluntly, it’s always comforting to relate to someone else’s unpleasant experiences. The cultural relevance her Nigerian and Nordic heritages on Faith’s tale of lady problems makes her story uniquely her own. However, many women, myself included, will still relate Faith’s experiences to their own, because “lady problems” are a common struggle felt by all member of the female gender.

Faith’s descriptions of awkward gynecologist appointments and vaginal ultrasounds reminded me of my own experiences with that and I laughed internally at my own discomfort in those situations. But when Faith spoke of her terror as she was casually told she had tumors, it reminded me of my own cancer scare, which is no laughing matter. My dad’s side of the family has a “cancer gene” that makes you more likely to get cancer. My aunt has the gene and got breast cancer in her early 30’s. That how we found out about the gene in the first place. It’s very unusual for women to get breast cancer as young as she did, so they tested her for the gene, and of course, she had it. Then, my grandma and all my aunts and uncles got tested too. My grandma, one of my uncles, and another one of my aunts has the gene. My cousins whose parents had the gene also got tested. Again, some of them had it and some didn’t. I was younger when all of this was going on, so I wasn’t told much. For the most part, I just knew that there was a cancer gene that ran in the family, that my dad refused to be tested, and that I couldn’t be tested until I was 23.

Last year, when I was 22, I got a new Primary Care Physician. We went over my medical history and she asked if there was a history of cancer in my family, at which point I told her about the gene. She said she would refer me to a specialist. When I told her that I couldn’t be tested until I was 23, she told me I should still go right away so the specialist can explain my options and then I’d have time to think them over before getting tested.

So, the next week I had my appointment the specialist, a young, friendly nurse practitioner. She explained that the “cancer gene” is a BRCA gene mutation. If you’ve inherited this mutated gene, you have a high chance of getting breast and/or ovarian cancer. She explained it all in such depth that I could barely comprehend most of it. I’m sure Faith would have loved if her doctors explained her tumors that thoroughly. The specialist also explained my options if the test comes back positive: frequent monitoring to increase the chance of early detection if cancer does develop, or removal of my breasts and ovaries to guaranty no cancer in those body parts. This is the choice my aunts and cousins also had to make after receiving their positive test results. Whether or not to have an organ removed certainly isn’t an easy choice to make. You’d be a lot safer if you did, but there are also repercussions, like losing the ability to naturally become pregnant. Faith also had to make this decision when she was told she should have a hysterectomy.

The specialist then asked me if I wanted to have the test done. This choice was an easy one. Of course I wanted to have the test done. I couldn’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want to. I knew my dad had refused because he didn't think the gene mutation would affect him, even though he technically does have breasts, but why would any women not want to get tested?

“Some people don't like knowing they’re at a higher risk for something as serious as cancer. They’d rather stay oblivious than have the anxiety of knowing,” she explained.

“I’d feel calmer knowing so I could do something about it,” I said. I had been living with the anxiety of not knowing for over a decade, waiting for the day I could finally be tested.

“Okay, then, I’ll just draw some blood and you should have your results in about two weeks.”

“Wait, what? I can get tested right now? I thought I had to be 23.”

“No. Maybe in the past, but our technology is more advanced now. You could have been tested five years ago.”

I laughed, both bitter and joyful, and then gladly outstretched my arm to get my blood drawn. Those couple weeks were some of the longest in my life. I was certain the results would come back positive because that was the way it always went for me, health wise. So, I was really just waiting to start discussing my treatment options more seriously. But the results came negative. I was so shocked at first that it took a little while for the relief to kick in. And despite being overjoyed that I was negative for the gene mutation, I was sad that I wouldn’t be seeing the specialist anymore. She was the most informative and considerate medical professional I’d ever gone to. She was nothing like the rude and dimwitted medical professionals Faith had the misfortunate of dealing with.

I’ve gone to plenty of just-alright medical professionals in my life, but only once did I have the displeasure of being seen by a dismissive and unintelligent medical professional. The night before, I was fast asleep in my studio apartment, alone but not quite because I had my two cats snuggled up beside me, when I suddenly awoke to the worst pain I had ever felt. It was the kind of pain that makes you drop to your knees, which I’m sure I would have if I had been standing, but seeing as I was already lying down, I instantly contracted into the fetal position. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t because I was too busy viciously inhaling and exhaling huge gulps of air, just as pregnant women do during labor. I didn’t consciously coach myself to do breathe that way to manage the pain; it was simply my body’s reaction, despite my brain insisting the appropriate course of action was to scream bloody murder.

Every part of my body was moving on instinct: my lungs bringing in mass amounts of air, my posture contracted inward to protect myself, my right hand pressed deep into my abdomen over my right ovary. The only body part not following suit was my left arm, outstretched, desperately trying to reach my phone on the nightstand so I could call an ambulance. But then, the pain vanished. There was no lingering soreness or sensation of any kind. My breathing returned to normal and I sat up, letting my arms fall limp into my lap. The whole experience couldn’t have lasted more than a minute, but each second of that minute felt like a minute itself. Your mind moves so fast when you feel intense pain, trying to figure out what to do for its best chance at survival, that your perception of time gets warped and elongated. I’m sure time moved agonizingly slow for Faith when her tumors caused her much more than a minute’s worth of pain.

I did not call for an ambulance once the pain disappeared. I thought about what the hell just happened to me and recalled something similar happening to my college roommate. I replayed my memories of the few times Grace had been walking normally one second, then buckled over in pain then next. Her labored breathing like mine, her hand pressed into her abdomen like mine, and then her miraculous recovery a minute or two later, also like mine. Grace had ovarian cysts. Out of the two years we roomed together, she’d had a cyst pop three times. I wondered if this was the beginning of a lifetime of random, quick bouts of extreme pain for me.

I didn’t know anything about ovarian cysts besides the fact that it’s a cyst in your ovary that can burst without warning. The reason why the cysts pop, like a little explosion inside the body, was unbeknownst to me. Perhaps they grew too big. Perhaps there was too much pressure built up inside them. I also didn’t know how serious a condition it was to have ovarian cysts or what kind of damage is done to your ovaries when they pop. Instead of keeping my awake with worry, these thoughts lulled me back to sleep and were still in the forefront of my mind when I woke up the next morning. I texted Grace right away, probably for the first time in months.

“I think I had a ovarian cyst pop last night,” I said with no greeting.

“Did it feel like you were stabbed with a knife?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“Yeah, that’s a cyst popping.”

After getting Grace’s confirmation, I made an appointment at the local medical center for that afternoon. I told the doctor or nurse, I can’t remember which, about my experience and about my guess of it being an ovarian cyst that popped.

“Last night was the first time you’ve experienced anything like that?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay, well, if it happens again, let us know,” she said, getting up to leave.

“Wait,” I stopped her, “that’s it? You’re not going to do any tests or anything?”

“No, just let us know if it happens again.”

I left, dejected, with no diagnosis and know more knowledge of ovarian cysts than before I went in. I couldn’t believe I had to give a co-payment just for some snotty woman to insinuate that whatever was up with my health wasn’t important enough for her to waste her time on. That was two years ago and I haven’t felt that stabbing pain since, but almost wish I had so I could go back to that medical “professional” and insist that my health is important. I’d have her run a whole array of tests out of spite. But, I’m just happy that I haven’t had to feel that level of pain for more than a minute in the entirety of my 23 years. I certainly would not have the strength to put up with the continuous tumor pains Faith endured. While I can relate to Faith’s lady problems, I’m well aware her situation was much worse than my own. Faith is undoubtedly a brave woman.