by Mike Riley
Monday, November 14, 2005: On a Saturday afternoon, Matt Yanarella and Larissa came to Rhode Island, from Connecticut, to attend the beer festival at the Convention Center. We got there a little bit late, so we made every effort to drink our money’s worth. I enjoyed myself, tasted a lot of great beers, and got more intoxicated than one should be at 2:30 in the afternoon. Afterwards, we walked home and got some rest before heading over to Cathartic Records to see Rise From Your Grave and They and the Children Play. Both bands were tight.
From there, we went to Lili’s for a couple of High Lifes and some grilled cheese. Colin showed up with a story of a shit-show. Apparently, he nearly got jacked by a tranny with a pitbull. Everyone was tired from drinking and walking, so we all went back to my place a little earlier than usual.
On the way home, I decided to be an asshole and set off my flash in both Matt and Larissa’s faces. I thought it was pretty funny to temporarily blind my guests from out of state. Little did I know that Larissa was concocting a scheme for revenge.
We made it home. I sat down to check my email. Just then, Larissa executed her plan. She came from behind, and without a sound. One moment I was typing away, and the next, I was writhing in horror. She had stuck the adhesive portion of a maxi pad onto my face. Sure, I played up my reaction for effect — but little did I know, that bitch had dealt me a death blow.
About thirty minutes later, I stood, and headed towards the little boys’ room, in order to relieve my humbled self. I noticed in the bathroom mirror that one of my eyes had a large bag underneath it. “Fuck it for now,” I thought, and proceeded to return to the crowd, and eventually, to sleep.
Next thing I know, it’s 5 in the a.m. I had indigestion (probably because of the grilled cheese), and woke up to pop a few Tums. My eyes felt itchy. I made my way back to the bathroom, turned on the light, and looked in the mirror. I will never forget what I saw. Before me stood a 75-year-old version of myself staring me back in the face. My eyes were swollen, and my cheeks were rosy. However, I was too tired and half-drunk to be bothered at that moment. I went back to sleep, hoping to awake to normal eyes.
To my despair, I awoke, and the problem was still there. I could barely recognize myself in the mirror. It was fucking disgusting. I tried to avoid the outside world, but did make it out a few times for food. I took it easy, did some school work, watched a movie, and went to bed, hoping, again, to awake to my good old normal face.
I awoke the following morning, and immediately noticed that my eyes did not feel so swollen. I was excited. I went to the bathroom mirror to confirm my hopes. Unfortunately, there was no such confirmation. My entire face was covered in a rash … a puss rash. A million little zits. Totally fucking gross.
I called the doctor, but he was booked for the day. I asked the receptionist to have him call me back, and he did. I told him the story, and he told me to proceed, immediately, to the emergency room. Reluctantly, I proceeded as directed, resenting the shit out of the inconvenience.
The emergency room sucked. I walked in and met the pissed off Vietnam-vet-ish man-nurse who was working the desk.
Man: Yes?
Me: Is this where I check in?
Man: Yes, what’s wrong with you?
Me: Uh, I’m having an allergic reaction …
Man: To what?
Me: Well, uh … a maxi pad.
Man: (confused) Well, OK … have a seat …
There were a number of people in the emergency room at the time, and I can only imagine the inferences that they drew from the situation. Perhaps they thought that I was a bearded woman, cross dressing, and on the rag. I didn’t care. My face felt like it had been baking in the sun. It was red, itchy, and again, fucking disgusting.
I was finally taken into a room where I waited for the doctor. I wore a paper dress, and listened to the conversations that came from the nearby rooms. The man in the adjacent room talked about his methadone treatments, his triumph over heroin, and his persistent dependence on cigarettes. The woman in the room next to me was complaining about dizziness, and was feeling cold. She had MS, and was concerned about her condition. Across the hall was an old woman screaming in pain, and asking for God’s help.
I sat, with a needle in my arm, and read my school work. It wasn’t so bad. All of the nurses, and the doctor, got a huge kick out of the origin of my reaction. The doctor told me to stay away from maxi pads in the future, and prescribed some steroids that promised to bring down the swelling. Two hours after my arrival, I was finally set free. My face was still fucked, but I felt that the worst was behind me.
So what have I learned from this experience? Well, for one, I now know that feminine hygiene products are to me what Kryptonite is to Superman. I just can’t hang with them. I never really liked them, but from now on, I will avoid that shit like the plague. Any other men out there had an allergic reaction sparked by exposure to a maxi-pad? How about a tampon? Didn’t think so …
We asked our Editron, Wesli AnneMarie Dymoke, to add some information about safety issues involving feminine hygiene products, specifically chemical concerns. Here's what she found:
Dr. Philip Tierno, Jr., chief of clinical microbiology and immunology at the New York University Medical Center, and Board member of the Museum of Menstruation and Women's Health, reports that the two biggest concerns involve dioxins and toxic shock syndrome (TSS).
Dioxins are present in the environment as the result of decades of industrial pollution, so everyone is exposed to them all the time at some level, though the levels are usually below that worthy of concern. Dioxins may be present in some hygiene products as a by-product of the process used to bleach wood pulp in the manufacture of rayon, a component of many such products. In the past, this was traditionally done with elemental chlorine gas, which commonly produces dioxins as a by-product. As a result of increasing public pressure (including a longstanding congressional bill submitted by Rep. Carolyn Maloney (D-NY/14—Manhattan/Queens), currently version cited as H.R. 3411), manufacturers have abandoned elemental chlorine gas in favour of non-elemental chlorine compounds (most commonly chlorine dioxide), which do not increase the dioxin content of rayon.
Because dioxin is present in the environment, it is nearly impossible to avoid, in hygiene products or anything else, but stringent FDA oversight ensures that levels are safe. Even so, the only way to guarantee the lowest dioxin level is to use only 100% cotton products.
TSS can result from overdrying of vaginal mucosa, which may occur from extended use of products with greater absorbency than required, or use of products that do not adequately reject the infective agents (called TSST1).
The Keeper, a popular alternative to traditional products (a menstrual cap) functions well in this respect, but ongoing consumer concerns and public inquiry has caused the company to dramatically improve the product, and the newer version is judged nearly as safe as most tampons. Again, however, 100% cotton products are still judged best, and have the best record of proven safety.
Natural sea sponges are a popular all-natural alternative hygiene product, but simple washing with soap and water is not sufficient to eliminate the risk of TSS; they should be boiled for 5-10 minutes, and in fact, this was the procedure used by women for all manner of menstrual products before the emergence of commercial products. (The rule of thumb is to wait until the sponge is entirely dry, and then inspect for a notable scent, which would be caused by the action of extant microbes. If detected, boil again.)
IN SHORT (heh), I have not found credible information suggesting a significant health risk from feminine hygiene products manufactured under competent modern standards. Still, I'm down with Andi Strickland (famed Chicago poet and former member of The Morrigan), who disclaims all such devices in favour of ordinary towels. (Her main argument has been that anything unnatural you put inside you is inherently suspect.)