Beware of Killer Tampons

“Did you get it in yet?” My best friend whisper-screamed through the gap in the school bathroom stall.

“No. I can’t seem to find the hole.” My twelve-year-old hands shook, and I dropped a second tampon in the toilet. “Shit.”

“Well, that should only happen if you put it in the wrong hole,” my feminine-hygiene-product dealer joked.

My voice tinged with hysteria. “I just can’t figure out how to get it in.”

Her voice was calm; clearly she’d put many a period plug up her hot pocket. “Look, I gave you three. Why don’t you try the last one at home.”

That thought terrified me. “Maybe … but my mom will kill me if she finds out I’m using tampons.”

In fact, from the first day I got my period, my mother insisted I use only sanitary napkins. “You’re not ready for the responsibility,” she asserted. “Tampons can seriously hurt you if not used correctly.”

I imagined a vagina without protective gear getting mangled in a roller-blading accident, but being a generally compliant child, I used the damn pads. Unfortunately, those cotton ponies felt like bulky diapers advertising: “SHE’S ON HER PERIOD. AND HER MOM WON’T LET HER USE TAMPONS.”

For months I walked around like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man (well, woman) with a load in my pants. Clenching my thighs together anytime I lowered myself into a chair, trying to keep the rag in place. And praying the pad didn’t fold over and trap my developing pubes in adhesive. Jerking and twerking while standing up to ensure it didn’t come loose. And constantly (but not so discreetly) pushing up my maxi muff while walking to prevent any leaks.

Tampons, on the other hand, promised a new free world where I could twirl in a flower-filled field while birds sang around me. Though I could hear my mother’s stern voice in my head, my desire to not wear a panty saddle was too strong. After my friend gave me my first hit, I used my hard-earned allowance to purchase my very own box of tampons. I snuck them into the house like alcohol or drugs or deadly weapons. My very own sanitary contraband.

Without any maternal guidance, I spread eagle in front of a mirror and finally got that sucker inside while reassuring my Catholic guilt I was still a virgin. As an added bonus, I gave myself a better lesson on female genital anatomy than my health classes, teachers, and books combined.

For the duration of my period, I didn’t walk—I glided across the floor, performing a female freedom dance. I sat down and stood up repeatedly, giddy with the confidence of a whack-a-mole who would never be hit. No longer needing to grab my own crotch to prevent spillage, my days of fear and loathing in Las Vaginas had ended.

Eventually my mom caught on to my deception and delivered her infamous Tampon Talk of Terror: “Wash your hands before you handle them. Every time! Replace them every four hours. At minimum! Change them every time you use the toilet. Especially if you have a bowel movement! Be careful of cross-contamination. No germs! If you leave them in too long, you will get Toxic Shock Syndrome, and you will DIE.”

I whimpered, “You make them sound like they are murder sticks.” 

“They can be!” She hissed.

While I risked death for freedom, the anxiety ate away at me. I kept careful inventory and counted out the appropriate number of vagina slims to use each day during my cycle. I set an alarm on my 80s digital watch to alert me when my worry-free four hours had ended. I wrote myself reminders in the bathroom to ensure I didn’t decompose overnight.

My mother didn’t help ease my stress. She’d pester me every month, asking if I was changing my tampons regularly. Leaving T.S.S. warnings in the bathroom. Tapping on my bedroom door at night to ensure I wasn’t sleeping with a cotton mouse.

Despite my careful attention to period hygiene, tampon specters haunted my subconscious. In my nightmares, I would sit down on the toilet to change my tampon, with my mother frothing at the mouth and pounding on the bathroom door, only to realize I had not one but dozens of cotton corks still inside me. Or I’d dream that I went to the OB/GYN and instead of a pap smear, the doctor would spend hours scraping out petrified tampons, turning my insides into a cavernous (but exceptionally clean) flesh bucket.

These nightmares tormented me well into my adult years. I would wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, furiously examining myself to ensure I hadn’t forgotten to remove a crotch swab. In the shower, I would perform my own pelvic exam to ensure my baby chute was empty. I matched every empty wrapper to a used product in the trash. I was fastidious about my hooha hygiene; I would not become an after-school special about Toxic Shock Syndrome.

When my own daughter started her menstrual cycle, I didn’t want to cause her a lifetime of tampon terror. And I certainly didn’t want to sound like my mother. At the same time I worried about her deplorable hygiene habits (because T.S.S. is real), so after explaining how both pads and tampons work, I suggested she use pads for the first year. I might have also made some obscene hand gestures to sway her away from tampons. She quickly agreed.

Other than a few emergency pad runs at midnight, things generally went well on the period front. At least she never complained about the sanitary napkins. A year later, however, she finally inquired about using the murder sticks. I gave both my consent and my carefully-worded warning: “Sure, we can go buy some. But you have to promise to change them every four hours and never leave one in overnight.”

She squinted her eyes and cocked her head. “Okay, but why?”

I really want to say that I sat down with her and explained everything calmly and rationally. That I didn’t pass along my own tampon anxiety. That I didn’t become my mother. But that would be a lie.

Pointing my finger at her like a dagger, I replied, “Because they can kill you if leave them in too long.”

Thus the Tampon Talk of Terror lives on. I hope neither one of us dies.

The original version of this essay was published in But Did You Die? Photo Credit: dazdraperma / 123RF Stock Photo