We went to the local walk-in centre – where they told me I had to go to A&E, I almost passed out, breaking my phone screen when it slipped out of my hand, as they didn’t have the equipment to find out what was wrong.
On the way there, alone, I nearly fainted again in the Uber – the driver had to pull over and get me a packet of cereal bars and a bottle of water, which helped. While in the waiting room, I’d managed to contact my best friend and by the time I’d been taken into one of the wards for serious injuries, she’d arrived.
When I arrived at A&E – about an hour and a half after the bleeding first started – I saw two gynaecologists and a revolving door of nurses – all women. One of the medical staff told me that if the bleeding didn’t stop by the next day, I would have to go into surgery.‘You have a tear on both your vaginal walls,’ someone said to me after using a cystoscope to try to figure out what was wrong. They said it could’ve happened because the penetration was too rough or even because I wasn’t ready or turned on. After that, they all settled on using gauze to stop the bleeding.
By this point, I’d been bleeding for more than three hours and soaked through more than 10 sanitary pads even when two were used together. I find it oddly hilarious that I hadn’t got a drop of blood on my jeans.
One of the nurses helped me put on a pair of disposable maternity-style briefs and on the end of the bed, I spotted the red and black silk and lace thong I’d bought specially from Ann Summers. Fat lot of good it’s done me, I thought.
I felt everything from panic and shock to amusement at everything that was unfolding. I ended up telling a nurse that I didn’t want my parents knowing I’d had sex because I wasn’t supposed to be having it.
