So, it’s the big “M.” Menopause. Suspected for months, confirmed today. Did you know there’s a blood test to verify that? A few weeks ago I called my doctor wanting her opinion on an over-the-counter product to help with symptoms, and she had a different idea. Finish the birth control pill pak I was on at the time, and don’t refill it. Stay off the pills for four weeks, then have a blood draw, to check out what my ovaries are doing. Well, apparently my ovaries have checked out completely and left no forwarding address, because my doctor said there is no-o-o doubt, based on my blood levels, that I’m in menopause.
Hmm.
Do I throw a party or go into mourning? A party sounds good, but the invitations might be tricky. And what about those party favors? Empty tampon boxes? Personal size fans? Does Party City even have an aisle for that? (Actually, a personal, portable fan would be perfect. NOW! Whew! Okay, I’m better.)
As for mourning, I miss my hair. I never understood why women this age cut their hair so short. Now I do. It’s not constant misery, but the heat index jumps up often enough and so unpredictably that short hair affords a modicum of comfort and manageability. I had to renew my driver’s license in the DMV this year, and when I got to the counter and handed over my current one, the clerk looked at it and said, “your hair was really cute then.” She looked up and said, a little sheepishly, “it’s cute now, but it was really cute then.” It was ten years ago, and it was much longer, maybe even with a little perm left in it. I said, “yeah, but that was before menopause.” She laughed so hard, other clerks started looking at her. I thought she was going to fall off her chair. So I trotted out my standard line about buying life insurance on my husband, in case he didn’t survive my change of life at least I would be able to pay off the house. That kept her going another few minutes.
The other thing here is a mixed blessing and could fall under either the party or mourning category. The loss of fertility, the inability to procreate, is an odd thing. Now, don’t get me wrong, I absolutely do not want to have any more children. I don’t feel I was particularly successful the first time around anyway, and I never tried for a number two. And at my age, it would just be foolish. But nurturing life within one’s body is an awesome thing and a beautiful responsibility. It was my choice to attempt a pregnancy twenty years ago, and my choice since then to exercise birth control and prevent a pregnancy. Now that choice has been taken away from me, and I think I’m grieving a little. I’m not feeling that “well done, good and faithful servant” thing yet.
Maybe that comes after the party.
