The poem may not be so fit on rhyming scale but is filled with emotions. I have been a PCODer from the past three years. Life as a PCODer is a bit tough. I need to be extra careful regarding my dates, and even during those extended menstruation days. Other than this, mood swings and taboos are the biggest challenge for people with PCOD.
One fine day
with bright sunny
ray,
I woke up with
sore throat,
dense grown
hair.
Calendar in my room
was slow or
my dates were not
in mood,
something was fishy but not,
as it
seems to be.
I tried all the tricks
black coffee,
some yog,
my mom gave
me a cup
filled with hope.
No magic of
Kadha, even the
Dadi ka nuskha
failed.
I stood in row
but was late.
The queue belongs to
lady in the
next stage, still
doubting my life ahead
I was a prey.
Undergone some test
doses of medicine,
they suggested rest
I had work pending.
Neither any disease
nor an infection,
something that can’t be cured
and was result of my imperfection.
Ladies talk was no
more a secret.
PCOD was announced
bursting into hatred.
Even my ovum
and fertility were in doubt.
Myths and taboos
were part,
they weren’t bother
of tears that rolled down.
The weight I gained
wasn’t planned,
even the hairs
were unwanted in real terms.
Was it all that big?
I mean the disease
was just disparity in
my hormones.
You could treat
me normal,
focusing more on present
than my future.
As it is just hormonal
imbalance.