Jennifer Horgan: Hotels stock free shampoo, soap, and sewing kits, why not sanitary products?

My experience of the month (or cycle) before last is a perfect illustration.

It’s Monday night, and I’m heading up to Dublin from Cork to make my first full-on television appearance. I’ve had brief flashes on screen before, but this is the first time I am going to get to sit on the colourful, cushioned Ireland AM couch with the lovely Tommy and Muireann.

I’m not exactly hitting the big time, I remind myself, as I settle into the carriage. I will be the first guest on, after all, a filler of sorts, as close to the graveyard shift as possible and a good half hour before the viewing public rise from their scratchers — a comforting thought, one to calm the nerves.

I’ve packed light, just my outfit for tomorrow. I’ve chosen bright pink linen trousers and a black shirt, casual but confident.

I arrive at the hotel on the outskirts of Dublin after dark, beyond tired, but the bedroom has no air and I can’t sleep. Then, my Aunt Flo/crimson wave/girlies or whatever other language we might choose to cover up our reality for the benefit of others, arrives. I have no supplies.

I’m not shy about periods. So, without hesitation, I call reception and ask for sanitary pads, the same way someone might ask for another necessity like a travel cot or drinking water.

The guy on the phone seems confused and possibly a little embarrassed for me. He tells me they’ve nothing ‘like that’ but there’s a petrol station a bit down the road. I peer out the window, grateful for the gulp of summer air. I don’t know the area. It’s quiet and poorly lit and I’m nervous about walking at night alone, for obvious reasons. 

I fold one of their hand towels in two and wedge it between my legs. I sleep poorly, overheated, and worried about staining their sheets. I wake at 6am, stuff my knickers with toilet paper, get dressed and waddle towards the petrol station. I time it perfectly so that I can pick up some tampons and be at the front of the hotel in time for the Ireland AM taxi to arrive.

I wash out the facecloth before I leave, which is easy enough. The battle one-part won.

But as I walk out from the hotel I start to panic. My period is heavy already. I can feel the tell-tale gush, that generous release over which I have no control. If the toilet paper doesn’t work, I will have a stain on my trousers, a giant stain on my trousers, on my first full appearance on Ireland AM. I have no time to fix myself and nothing else to wear.

I grab a pack of tampons along with pads. They cost about €8 but I’d happily hand over €50 to end the drama. I wait outside the one toilet down a grubby hallway adjoining the shop. My legs tightly wrapped around themselves, I can hear movement inside the cubicle and the sound of a phone playing something.

I knock and get no response. Eventually, the clock ticking, the blood coming, I have no choice but to go into the corner of the hallway and insert the tampon there and then. I wipe the blood off my index finger before rushing to get the cab, only just making it. As I leave, a guy makes his way out of the toilet, closing down his phone as he goes.

I wash my hands when I arrive at the studio, breathe deeply.

The chat goes by in a bit of a blur. I’m struck by how nice the presenters are but I’m equally struck by how much effort Muireann must put into her appearance every day. I’m doing it once and I am utterly exhausted. Yes, I know, you get used to it but I’m not sure I’d ever want to. 

The two men on the coach are in blue shirts and trousers. I’m relieved to have gone for the trouser option too. Muireann’s legs go on for miles. Mine have more of a cul de sac appearance. I’m not someone who gives too much thought to their appearance, not anymore that is, but I’m happy to feel comfortable in my (thankfully unstained) trousers.

Hours later, wrecked from the whole palaver, having not slept, I’m back on the train to Cork. Two people have texted about my cameo, my sister and a guy who enjoys an early rise and a cycle.

My period is in full flow and I’m up and down to the toilet like a yoyo. One little detail catches my eye on one of my round trips: a businessman about my age; he’s attractive but that’s not why I’m looking. He has just ordered a measly cup of tea and is asking for the receipt. No doubt he plans to present said receipt to his employer for expenses incurred on his business trip.

Act of rebellion

I wonder who might accept my €8 for my sanitary pads and tampons. Should I invoice Ireland AM? The Irish Examiner? If I wasn’t on a work trip, I would have had supplies, right? Just as he wouldn’t have had to pay for his cup of tea?

Or, should I write a strongly worded letter to the hotel, to all Irish hotels, explaining that if they consistently stock shampoo, soap, and sewing kits, they might want to consider sanitary pads too?

I have little energy for the fight, so I settle on my usual act of rebellion. I announce my period to the carriage. Not vocally, no, even I wouldn’t go that far. I announce my period by not hiding it, not making it invisible.

I have friends who have little satin bags and pouches they carry with them to the bathroom, pretty little things with bows and pearls, and the like. I refuse to hide what is a basic biological fact in my life, something I’ve lived with for 30 years. I am female and I get periods. They are painful, expensive, and inconvenient.

A pad or tampon flash nearly always provides some form of entertainment too, seeing how people react. Men usually don’t notice because a lot of them only deal with periods on a theoretical level. Other women are the most perturbed by it.

Eventually, on my third trip up, the women stop looking, the initial shock of my pad-flashing wearing off.

I get home. I’m happy to be there.