Everything Is Just Fine

Women in their fifties are not getting their authentic story told. We are notorious liars. We lie about our weight, our age, our sex lives, and we even tell the biggest lie of them all, everything is just fine, when in fact, most of the time everything is not fine.

One percent of being in my fifties is awesome. Saying no, for example, has become ridiculously easier. With age comes a bit more patience and wisdom; we slow down, we are not so apt to respond in an act of haste when something unnerves us. I dance in aisle five at Woodman’s; I have no problem who sees. While trying new things with curiosity and adventure, fears have been conquered and new skills have been learned. And contrary to what my much younger self used to fear, I still want to have sex in my old age. There is still the remaining ninety-nine percent, or as I like to call it, menopause; which is anything but just fine.

I use the term menopause in a general way. There are three parts or stages of menopause. I have no choice but to go through all three of them in what can only be described as an over exaggerated second puberty. Who really needs terms and definitions when you feel this good?

Here are the basics facts. On average a woman will start perimenopause, the first stage, around her mid to late forties. This is where our hormones, estrogen and progesterone, begin to change. Followed by stage two. When a woman has not had a period for an entire twelve months, she is in menopause. The third stage must start a hot flash moment later, which is post-menopause. A woman is officially done with having children. On average, post-menopause starts when women are around the age of fifty-one.

I am fifty-five and still stuck in stage one, perimenopause. I have come to the conclusion I am Biblical. Sarah, as we know, had her kid at ninety; Lord help me. My two children are the center of my universe, but there is no yearning for more at this point.

This was anything but a gradual process. It was a hard core, kick the door down one Sunday morning. There was a sensation of a current running through my veins. I could actually feel the hormones build and with every heartbeat, every pulse, my system flooded. Honestly, the feeling unnerved me. There would be no control over my emotions from that moment forward.

I knew there was no legitime reason for crying over a diaper commercial or an ad for puppy chow. Yet, there I was and still am, blubbering like a fool. I look at my Twitter feed at a video of a twelve-year-old boy in Germany helping an old lady with a flock of ducks cross the street and I am crying for a good hour. Just as the last tear falls from my eye, I see the neighbor kid riding his dirt bike through our ditch kicking up sod and I see red.

“The nerve of that kid!” I glare as I sip my coffee. The same cup of coffee my doctor told me not to drink because it will only make things worse.

I have felt like a Stephen King character for the last five years. You know the woman in the story, she has that creepy nice vibe. She is only nice on purpose because eventually she will snap and do something crazy like lock you in her dark and dank basement. Right as she shuts the door her sarcastic tone puts the blame all on you.

“I told you; do not look in the room at the top of the stairs. But no, you did not listen; did you?” Her lips curled. “You did this.”  The door shuts and the guy is locked in the basement. Everyone in the movie theater knew it was coming. Sometimes, I think that lady might be me.

I hate the days where I feel like staring out the window sipping tea and listening to Peter, Paul, and Mary. They are so drab. Moping from the window to the couch only to make my way back to the window. Constantly telling myself, snap out of it. I need to be kinder to myself on those days. They are, after all, reflective and by four o’clock I have resolved much. Which makes me think what a great time for a glass of wine. Or three. My emotions look like an EKG report.

There are physical aspects as well. Every doctor I have talked to says the same thing. “No, that is not a symptom. It must be in your head.” Well, guess what, it is not in my head. I pay attention and a few women have murmured about these strange “symptoms”. One of which has been plaguing me as of late. My skin crawls from itching. Yes, dry skin is a hazard of the change, but there are days where it feels like an entire army of bugs are creeping on my skin. Hives and swelling for no reason. Test after test. Ointment after pill. I know I am not making this shit up.

Speaking of physical, what happened to my body? Stretch marks line their way around in white streaks like road maps that go nowhere. Muscles that took little time to define now require my attention more than time allows during most days. There are quite a few extra hair strands left in my comb and brush. Hips have stretched out, so now narrow waisted jeans are now men’s jeans measured in inches around the beltline. Gasp. Please do not get me started on my ta-tas. I am now wearing a bra that looks like something from the forties. Ridiculously large with zero sex appeal. My grandma had a bra like that. Now I understand why my grandparents slept in separate twin beds.

Irregular periods is a medical term that a man had to have created. It is so much more than that; irregular is too simplistic and uncaring. Forty plus years my period ran like clockwork. I knew down to almost the hour of when I would start my period. Now, it is anybody’s guess. I could start my period one day and it will end the next. However, on the next day it starts again. There will be nothing for three whole months only to start right back up where I last left off.

Doctors don’t really listen. They have a checklist of complaints and if you answer yes to five of them, they have a prescription for that. Do not get me wrong, I am sure being on some kind of pill or another helps. I am just trying to go through this as organically as possible. Where is the compassionate doctor who will hold your hand, truly listen to you and at the very least pretend to actually care?

Women know the deal and they do not talk about it openly or enough with each other. I have heard the covered whispers at the church coffee hour from two women talking about another woman who is struggling with menopause. Small comments passed during book club about so and so who needed an emergency hysterectomy. The quick shushes when someone gets within earshot while talking about their friend who is super bitchy as of late. More concerning, are the women who do not have someone to talk with. They are going through menopause all alone. This is where the author sighs, how scary.

Why are we calling it menopause? It should be called womanpause. Women after all, have paused so much in their lives for the sake of others, why are the men a part of this. This will happen to only us women. Men have nothing to do with it. It happened to our mothers and grandmothers. Our daughters, sisters, and every women who we call friend or foe will experience this midlife crisis. I do not care about your weight or age and unless there is a bottle of wine involved, let’s not talk about your sex life. We should come together and openly discuss this time that brings so much change, and anxiety. When we make it through to the other side, something truly natural and beautiful is waiting. Why do this alone in secret? Instead of telling everyone, including ourselves, that everything is just fine. We need to be honest and proclaim, we are anything but just fine.