My nightmare in Mahon airport

Trigger warning: Includes depictions of sprint waddling

It’s official. The wonderer has returned to her Substack and holiday mode has now been deactivated.

My Menorcan memories may be fading faster than my tan, but, rather than brag about those 10 days, I thought I’d share with you the nightmare that was my journey home.

I like to keep things real around here and as some of you may know from my post about being penetrated, last year I was having issues with severe heavy periods.

Having PCOS this was a new arena for me, but thankfully my scan showed up no other issues and all had been well since January… until, the morning of my flight home.

With an alarm set for a 5.30am wake up call, being woken by what can only be described as a replica Niagara Falls at 2am, wasn’t exactly ideal.

Never have I risen faster and thank god, because my speed meant that at least I could leave behind clean sheets, even if I had to leave my dignity on the island.

As I sat in that hot, slightly funky smelling Spanish bathroom, looking at the trail of blood I’d left on the tiles, I heard a faint buzzing noise and wondered if mosquitos felt the same way about menstruation as they do my bare ankles.

An hour passed before I gingerly attempted to clean myself up and get at least two hours sleep, with the aid of a tampon and my blue pool towel spread out on the bed.

Two hours later and twenty minutes before my alarm, I had a repeat of my 2am nightmare and as I sat on the loo counting down the minutes until we had to leave, I found myself praying.

You know it’s a bad sign when a non-religious person turns to JC. That’s Jesus Christ for you non-believers.

Before I could even get to my wish, I had to apologise for only reaching out when I needed help. “I know I only talk to you when I want stuff. I promise to be less selfish, but please god, make my period stop,” I begged.

Turns out, he can turn water into wine, but couldn’t stop my womb shedding.

There was no other option then, but to stuff myself like a Build a Bear, with a tampon, tissues and sanitary towel, as we made the 10 minute drive to return our car hire.

As soon as we got there and I lifted my Batido de Cacao laden suitcase into the airport shuttle mini bus, I felt my barricades begin to break down.

Teetering on the edge of my seat with a Spaniard who had little care for safety or smoking laws, I sprint waddled to the nearest toilet as soon as we arrived at the airport.

A quick change of my stuffing later, I rejoined my friends to check in and go through security.

As I queued with my grey tray in my hands, I willed that neither me or my bag would set off any alarms. The last thing I needed was to have to explain why there was an entire roll of Charmin in my pants, whilst being patted down.

Thankfully I made it through and while normally I would wander through duty free, the only thing I was going to be exploring, was the Mahon airport toilet cubicles.

And let’s just say, it’s an expedition I don’t recommend following.

Turns out there’s not many toilets in Mahon airport, especially in relation to how many poorly people seem to be in that one area.

I don’t want to get into what my senses experienced in those two hours waiting to board, but what I will say is, that it did put things into perspective.

Yes, things weren’t great, but at least I didn’t have explosive diarrhoea.

You’ve got to look on the bright side. Even when the automatic flush doesn’t go off and the only way to activate it, is by opening your cubicle door.

And even when this means you’re met with a queue of women, who you have to look dead in the eye and say, “Sorry, I’m having a heavy period and I’m trying to get the toilet to flush”.

How did I get through the flight you ask? Sitting on my Dock & Bay towel and being completely mute.

By the time I got home, my tissue barricade had started to disintegrate in my pants. A combination of chafing and sweating because did I mention I was wearing two pairs of pants, one pair of shorts and one pair of trousers?

So, yes. I had a lovely holiday. The best… if you don’t count the journey home.

Note to self: Never go on holiday without your Wuka period pants and book that coil appointment asap.

If you have an embarrassing airport story that might make me feel slightly better about myself, now really is the time to share it…