Listen to women in pain

In college, I encountered a friend who persisted in attending classes and theatre rehearsals despite excruciating pain on the onset of her period. Numerous times, I witnessed pools of blood at her feet during practice. During my teenage years, I grappled with irregular and painful periods, to which a doctor simply attributed my condition to a lack of familiarity with the cycle of blood and discomfort.

When hormonal changes triggered an autoimmune disorder that left me bedridden for days, doctors offered no answers for a considerable period.

Recently, India's inaugural genome-wide study of endometriosis illuminated the role genetics play in the onset of the condition. This milestone represents a crucial stride toward addressing the underrepresentation of South Asian individuals in genetic research on endometriosis. It paves the way for enhanced research, discourse, and a more profound comprehension of a condition that has been egregiously underexplored and misinterpreted.

While heightened public discourse and scientific exploration are encouraging, the overarching query persists: Why are reproductive ailments so poorly understood? Why are women across time and regions met with disbelief and minimization when they seek assistance? The response is both straightforward and lamentable: Society and medicine remain reluctant to treat women and their pain seriously.

For millennia, an extensive array of physical and mental disorders in women were attributed to hysteria, with scant remedies beyond incantations, abstinence, and condemnation. Today, women can undergo years of consultations before receiving a PMOS diagnosis. In the case of endometriosis, a definitive diagnosis can take up to a decade.

During this interim, the damage escalates further. Across the globe, and particularly in India, women are praised for their pain endurance—menstruation, childbirth, and menopause—and disparaged when they complain. In a 2004 essay on her endometriosis experience, author Hilary Mantel lamented, "People talked—and still do—of a 'low-pain threshold.' I didn't want anyone to think I had that."

Fortunately, Mantel did not possess that characteristic. Instead, she eventually learned that her ailment was endometriosis, only to face the consequences of a premature diagnosis—part of her bladder, bowel, womb, and ovaries were removed. In India, where menstruation remains a taboo in many regions, and discussing reproductive health, especially any irregularities, is shrouded in shame, fear, and ignorance, the conversation remains far from where it should be.

Chronic pain and illness impose an isolating burden on women's physical and mental well-being and future. When compounded by stigma, cruelty, and gender bias, the toll on women's health and prospects becomes substantially heavier. After 12 years of hospital visits and unexplained ailments, my friend finally received an endometriosis diagnosis.

The delayed diagnosis culminated in multiple surgeries, and a satisfactory resolution remains elusive. At 17, I too received a PMOS diagnosis following years of unexplained illness. By then, the damage was severe enough that, despite receiving optimal care, a subsequent surgery seems inevitable. A society that fails to provide care and dignity to its women and their pain can only perpetuate similar patterns in medicine.

This is why medicine alone cannot address the issue—it necessitates a society that does not rank women's pain and genuinely cares enough to listen. The question remains: Do we possess the dedication to effect change? Malik is a subeditor with The Indian Express. Editor (Planning & Projects) Shalini Langer oversees the fortnightly 'She Said' column.