Looking back, I could have saved myself a few years of suffering, which is exactly what denial got me. But that would have been what a sane woman would do and being hormonally deprived, I was off my rocker. So I doubled up on the denial and stuck to my original plan. Pretend like nothing had happened.
Mornings, I’d pinch my ever-thickening waist into tire rolls and follow this up with anxious peering in the mirror to monitor the progressive wrinkling of my skin. Assuming a brave front to friends, I’d defend the virtues of daily naps, and while hiking up my saggy black sweats (daily uniform), boldly claim that despite all evidence to the contrary, I, unlike the billions of other women before me, would be spared this ridiculous life passage. After all, Madonna does not do menopause.
The disconnect between my delusional self and physical reality made for some embarrassing behavior as I used the only hormone I had left in me—adrenaline—to throw myself, macho-like, into hair-raising activities that hopefully would prove to the world that I had not changed a bit.
“Did you check out that move?” I’d announce while climbing out from under the all-terrain vehicle that I had managed to roll on top of myself due to my less than rapid reactions on a hairpin turn in the sand dunes.
“The entire side of your arm is bleeding. And it looks like you peed your pants,” observed some horrified friends.
“Really? Can’t feel a thing. Hey, help me roll my bike back up. I can’t wait to dislocate my head!” Hah, hah.
It’s a sad thing, becoming a fool in front of the world. Something family members and friends, who, sick of my macho repression of menopause and anything else related to aging, tried to fight by swatting my “youthful ego” with frequent and sly observations about my general decline—things that even I hadn’t noticed.
“Uh, Pam, did you have garlic last night or something?” This, coming from my Asian friend, Mung, who looks 15 at the age of 45.
“Why?” I ask, as I guiltily cupped my mouth with my hand to smell my breath. ”Is it really bad? I just brushed my teeth.”
“It’s worse than the smell of garbage on a hot summer day,” Mung said with in mock repugnance. “Try chicken feet. It’s good for the digestion.”
After the bad breath comes the gas and constipation. When I was in my twenties, I could eat anything. A pound of filet mignon at a sitting, washed down by a Guinness and cheese Danish for dessert, for example, would trigger a symphony of gnarling, gurgling and gnashing as the tasty meal would fail to defy virtually immediate dissolution in the mighty corrosive acid pool called my digestive juices. Now eating something as pabulum-like as fat-free yogurt unleashes dead silence, until of course, fermentation and putrefaction set in.
This is probably not a side of me you really want to know, but now that I’ve started, I can’t stop this physical confessional. It’s as though, in aging, I’ve done something terribly wrong and am in need of repentance. Please forgive me.
After the Macho Phase came the Research Phase. As self-appointed physician to me, fond of malpractice at my own expense and lacking all data, I decided that it was time to get to the bottom of this medical mystery once and for all. Even though I hadn’t had a period for years, menopause was, quite simply, a red herring. And running from doctor, to numerologist, to naturopath, to chiropractor, and at least three psychics and one Russian astrologer, I was intent upon figuring out what, if anything, to do about these enigmatic “symptoms”
I mean, think of all the other things it could be. There was, for instance, a remote possibility that I was experiencing the longest no-show pregnancy in human history. I clung to that hypothesis for at least two years. No baby forthcoming, I moved to my back-up excuse: stress combined with low body fat had caused a temporary and premature cessation of my periods—known in the trade as “amenorrhea.” The stress part was real—my job was killing me. The low body fat part, highly suspect, being as I was 20 to 30 pounds overweight. But what the heck, it sounded good. A few relaxing spa weekends sitting in mud with hot stones on my crown chakra and an “om” in my heart would solve everything.
The periods never did resurface, scared away no doubt by full-blown personality derangement. Wild mood swings took me from Vesuvius-like explosions of anger (studded with some truly imaginative expletives) to hysterical, you-killed-my-puppy crying. Ah, yes, those were the days. All those “Hallmark moments,” alternately pissing off and terrifying anyone within a one-mile radius.
And still, I was, “whaddya mean, I’ve got a problem? You’ve got the problem,” with you of course referring to The Hapless Boyfriend Du Jour. It’s always his fault. Every woman knows that.
I was sitting in the cramped kitchen of with my best friend, Mung. For years now, we not only started Saturday mornings but often wasted whole weekends sipping on coffee brewed from espresso beans. Mung was staring at me skeptically as I whined on about the problem with men. She crossed her eyes, giving me the, you’re-making-me-crazy look.
“You’ve got 15 seconds to tell my why he’s always to blame?” she challenged me.“When are you going to take responsibility?” Mung flicked some wayward strands of her long black hair off her shoulder and looked at me expectantly.
“Geesh, I cannot believe you are taking his side. I thought you were my best friend?” I pouted, turning away from her scrutinizing black eyes. “Day after day after day, I walk into the bathroom and there they are!”
“What? The hookers?” Mung deadpanned.
“No, worse. The piles of filthy clothes! They’re killing me.” I dropped my head in my hand with let loose a dramatic sigh. “Is there any more coffee?” I muttered into my lap.
“You’ve had five cups, Pam.” Mung pointed out impatiently.
“Whatever,” I paused briefly and then started up again, onto a new rant. “Get this, I go into the kitchen and he’s left the Half-and-Half on the counter!” I hollered. “Maybe you don’t cry over spilt milk but for rancid cream, you break knee caps,” I banged my fist on the table, startling Mung. “Then there’s the whole issue of the dishwasher. He acts like opening it will unleash the nuclear arsenal. And…”
“Pam! Stop!” Mung signaled a time-out. It works for toddlers.
“I’m sorry,” I pleaded with clasped hands. “I want to hurt him so badly.”
“I still don’t understand what he’s done,” Mung said quietly, trying to calm me.
“Mung,” I screamed, “He’s drinking” It just snuck out of me—my last stab at saying something that might actually get her sympathy.
Mung exploded with laughter, spilling her coffee on the table. “What do you expect? He’s got to live with you.”
“This is serious!” I said looking at her seriously. “Now, I’ll have how to go to Al-Anon meetings and pretend to give a shit.” I moaned at the thought of having to be the supportive partner.
“Pam,” said Mung firmly, “He’s normal. You, I’m afraid, are not.” She reached across the table and put her hand on mine. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you never did finish therapy did you?”
“Which time?” I asked curiously. “I’ve started about seven times.”
Mung shook her head. “I don’t know what to tell you. You’re impossibly stubborn. You can’t blame your boyfriends all the time. You’re the one thing in common.”
Of course, Mung had a point. But if it isn’t the boyfriend, what could it be? Hey, wait a minute–it’s the job! What Mung didn’t understand, was that I worked in the advertising business—a hotbed of gossip, politicking, and stress. And though everyone kept telling me to quit, the money’s not worth the stress, blah, blah, I had fashioned myself into a rip-roaring, damn-the-torpedoes capitalist. Yup, those were heady years. I’d run around the office writing in big red letters the corporate mission as I saw it on all available white boards: “If you can’t think big, think bigger.” This was followed with about 20 exclamation marks.
Sadly, even this little profit-and-loss power machine hit a wall. I knew it was over when sitting in meetings, I’d find myself gripping the edge of the board room table trying to breathe, so paralyzed was I by anxiety. Colleagues would look at me with bemused curiosity as though I were the little goldfish that had jumped out of its bowl, flip-flopping to a hypoxic death.
In the only moment of clarity I had had in years, I wrote my resignation letter and then I did the professional thing. I snuck out the back door and never came back. And just in case, I changed my mind, I moved two states to away with my new boyfriend who still thought I was nice and normal. Boy was he in for a shock.
It took having absolutely nothing to think about to normalize my breathing and calm the anxiety. And, guess what? I still hadn’t had a period. Which of course gave me something to think about.
Eventually it dawned on my I had never really studied an “official” list of menopause symptoms and that was probably a good place to start. I turned to my German friend, Elsie, a medical publisher who, in her Marlene Dietrich voice, reprimanded me for being so intellectually lazy. I waited with phone perched on shoulder as she tapped away on her keyboard.
“Okay,” said Elsie, gently preparing me. “You better sit down. Here’s a fairly complete list.” There was a long pause after which she started reading aloud for what seemed an eternity, rattling off a list of symptoms: hot flashes and night sweats, feeling clammy, moodiness, palpitations, uncontrolled crying, trouble sleeping, no sex drive, vaginal dryness, feeling tired, confused and unfocused, anxiety, forgetfulness, incontinence, dry skin, hair loss or facial hair growth, bloating, cold extremities, bad breath.
“That is just horrible!” I said, cutting her off with a snort of disgust.
“There’s more,” she said with authority.
“No, Elsie, that’s okay. I’m quite sure now I’m barking up the wrong tree,” I said firmly.
“You’re kidding, right?” Elsie sputtered, aghast at my denial. “I’d say it’s irrefutable. You’re menopausal! Do you have a good doctor? I can recommend several.” Being a denizen of the medical publishing world, Elsie knew every doctor on the planet as well as half-a-dozen in the next galaxy.
“Uh, no, that’s okay,” I said, desperately wanting to get off the phone. “Can we pretend we never had this conversation? I have to check my wrinkles.”
“No,” Elsie shouted, exasperated. “Listen very carefully to me—get help!”
“That’s a little harsh isn’t it?” I started to whimper.
Elsie was always sympathetic until the whimpering started. She hung up on me. I stared at the dead phone for a second and then wandered upstairs for a little nap, grabbing a spoon and the leftover caramel ice cream from the freezer on the way. Who the heck could cope with all this, I muttered to myself, as I plopped onto my unmade bed, stainless steel spoon in mouth. Still, deep in my hormone-free brain, I was getting the distinct feeling that I had pretty much played out the dumb-denial card.
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