Last week I had my yearly well woman visit.  You bitches know what that is.  For those that don’t, it’s when you go to the gynecologist and get your tits massaged, your vagina penetrated, scoped, and maybe, for some, a nice finger up the ass.  My gyno doesn’t roll that way but if yours does, salud.  It’s not glamorous.  It doesn’t feel good (despite my husband’s continued insistence that I must love it.  Moron.) and it always leads to some anxiety for me, both pre and post visit.  Do I have the gnarliest vag this lady has ever seen?  I tell myself it couldn’t be, right?  What if my pap comes back positive for something?  Cancer, HPV, Vaginosis.  There’s all sorts of crazy stuff that could be happening in there that I have no fucking idea about….

Anyway, I’d been having these pesky middle-aged woman symptoms for a few years and I discussed them with me lady each of those years.  But 2016 produced a whole new litany of what the fucks and I really felt/feel like I may be losing my mind.  Fist of all I’m 45 years old.  I’m not 50 or 60.  I’m 45 and I fully expect at 45 for my periods to be steady as she goes, give or take a day or two. Maybe the train pulls in late here and there, but generally speaking I’d like to know when I need to run to Target.

Not only was my calendar off, my flow was misogynistic.  Never in my younger days did I need to bother with the elusive Tampax Ultra. But for the past few years this massive vag blocker has been the key to keeping my undies stain-free.  But lately my periods had gotten fewer and farther in between and my flow was either under or over-performing. It had become like oh ok, you aren’t arriving in 28 days?  I guess I’ll see you in a few months, “friend”.

And it wasn’t just my period.  My breasts had decided to slag off, too.  Slacker fucking mammary glands decided to deflate.  I never really understood all the hoopla about sagging, softer, looser, breasts in middle-age.  But I get it now, because it happened to me,  and it’s just gosh darn sad.  I never was big-chested but I always had those perky, bouncy, round, soft pillow-tops.  Trump would have given them a 7.  Believe me.  Now though, I suspect he’d give them a 4, which is horrible.  A disaster.  If I could afford it I’d go for the implants and a lift.  Fuck feminism.  This is only going to get worse as I get older. I want good tits!

Beyond the strange periods and the floppy boobs, on most days I was faced with this impending sense of doom.  My kids were going to be abducted.  My husband was going to get pushed off a subway platform on his way to work.  My boss was going to fire me for poor performance.  My house was going to go up in flames because I forgot to turn off the stove.

The fear and dread also manifested in other ways, typically in the form of anger and depression.  I hated my husband for chewing, for walking, for the stupid fucking way he brushed his teeth.  I hated his haircut, his calves, his presence in the kitchen.  My kids were ungrateful little fucks who were sucking the life force out of me.  Even the dog was out to get me.

I had crying jags at the most inopportune times.  I remember retreating to the office bathroom  on more than one occasion.  Oh, you have to reschedule our 2pm meeting because the CEO needs to meet with you?  Really?  I’m that unimportant?  Sniff, tear, sniff, bathroom.  Guttural groaning, deep breathing, runny mascara, last stall.  Oh Tim,  your son’s goldfish died this morning and you flushed it down the toilet?  Really?  I’m so sorry.  Excuse me I, um, I, sniff, tear, sniff…last stall.  Once while exiting the last stall, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror. Under those harsh fluorescent lights, my blotchy, sallow skin, my gray roots, the awkward fit of my trousers eagerly hugging my waist.  The puff of my abdomen above my cheap belt.  My comfortable black flat nondescript fucking shoes.  My chipped nail polish on my fat, water-retaining fingers.  I had to run back inside that last stall and start the grieving process all over again. Sniff, tear…

So back in the gyno’s office, amid the questions and explanations of my ever-increasing, mystifying mind-body issues, my doctor interrupted me.  “I understand”, she said,  “and there is a solution. You don’t have to live this way.  I’m going to write you a prescription for Duavee”.  “O.K”, I said, “what is it”?  “It’s a hormone that will definitely help you with hot flashes and irritability and all the things you are complaining about.  There are some risks, like increased risk of breast and uterine cancer but you know, I take this drug myself and I feel the slight increased risk is worth the quality of life I have now. Because I’m telling you, I was ready to kill myself and my family.  Trust me this is a wonder drug.”  That was it, I was sold.  She wrote the script and I left on my merry  way, knowing I had a solution.

After the high of thinking a miracle was only a prescription away, I decided to do a little research first.  After reading up on Duavee and hormone replacement therapy in general, I decided it was not going to be the silver bullet I was looking for.  Besides the ethical problem I had digesting horse urine retrieved from pregnant mares whose lives were sheer misery, I had some really significant worries around the increased cancer risk.  The numbers were real to me, and I felt that my lifestyle already increased my risk of cancer (too much booze, poor food choices, not enough exercise) that I didn’t need to compound the issue.

I decided to take a more choice-driven approach to my evolution into menopause.  I dab some wild yam cream into my wrists during my period.  I pop a Shatavari pill every now and then.  Most mornings I ingest a calcium rich green smoothie.  I  walk a few times a week.  Every so often I do some dumbbell exercises.  Hot baths, a strong martini, foot massage, an occasional extra hour or two in bed…These things all help to some extent.  Thinking about how my mind and body feel, and trying to mitigate the symptoms through healthful, relaxing, calming methods, makes me feel somewhat more in control and happier.  None of this is easy.  Getting older is difficult and nobody likes to feel “sick”.  I’ll keep searching and trying and I’ll get better at listening to my body, my mind and making choices that work for, and not against me.  And I’m going to try to deal with this natural progression, this loss of estrogen, without a drug that carries more risk than I’m willing to take.

I’m sure my approach isn’t right for everyone.  There are plenty of women out there who need prescription drugs to help with the symptoms and effects of menopause.  And maybe someday I will find myself in their position.  But for now I am willing to deal with the unpleasantness and assuage what I can in a holistic, hormone-free way.

After having finished this piece, I found out that my gynecologist  had advanced breast cancer and needed a double mastectomy.  She is currently undergoing chemotherapy.  I can’t help but wonder if Duavee played a role.

 

 

 

 

 

I’m sitting in the center orchestra, row T, neatly nestled in the jewel box that is The Koch Theater at Lincoln Center in New York City,  watching these young, slender bodies in motion.  What a lusty expression of control and longing.  Is this love?  Brahm’s Liebeslieder Waltzes fill the space by way of a piano duet, and four operatic protégés cast in the shadows of the theater.  In full force four elegant couples dance in circles and spells on a stage transformed into an elegant early 20th century ballroom.  Impossibly large, tiered, soft white candlelit chandeliers hang high in front of arched glass doors opened to reveal the artfully painted clear night sky. The audience is meant to feel we are gazing upon a luxuriously grand estate, on a particular celebratory evening, where an exclusive crowd has gathered.

Each female dancer is dressed as one would expect for such an event, draped in silk lightly touched with shades of pastel pink, rose, or cream.  Underneath the dresses each dancer is wrapped in layers of tufted petticoats.  Gowns flowing, twirling, ever so gracefully kissing the floor.  And the men, these handsome, robust yet feminine men moving their partner from this space to that, overhead, around and in such specific maneuvers, with so little effort.  What a beautiful sight!  I see you up there.  All of you, you are just gorgeous and perfect. You may not be real.  You may all be highly stylized living dolls.

So quickly my thoughts deteriorate from enjoying this magical spectacle to fulfilling some nagging sensation to mentally move on.  I need to provide some relief to my base, bored, other cortex.  My “I can’t just sit here and watch this” mind.  My “I can’t relax and let this wave of artistic beauty wash over me” mind.  I was doing fine sitting here in this magnificent space, with you magnificent people for like 15 minutes.  Oh here it comes, here it comes…the dwindling…

I can’t believe there’s an Indian guy up there.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen an Indian guy dance ballet before.  Is he the best one up there?  I think he is.  Wow.  I wonder where he learned to dance.  In the U.S.?  Wait, why do I think he was born in India?  He could be from Queens for all I know.  But wait.  Why does he have to be from Queens?  That’s stereotypical thinking.  Maybe he’s from Wichita.

There are mostly white people dancing.  This is like a white person’s art.  Except for this Indian guy.  It’s strange.  Ok making a mental note to Google him later.  Wow, am I racist?  I mean I know I’m a little racist.  Everybody is.  But am I unusually racist?  Why am I obsessing about this Indian dude?

20 minutes in.

Hmmm I wonder who up there is fucking whom?  The blonde chic and the Indian guy make a nice couple.  Do these people get to date?  Do they even have time to get to know each other? Maybe they just get it on in the dressing room after the performance.    I wonder if they go out eating and drinking at night.  Like they’re raging party people.  No, how could they party and then get up and dance a fucking ballet the next day?  They are probably all anorexic teetotalers.

25 minutes.

Alright is anybody on the stage over 25?  There definitely isn’t anyone up there in their 30s.  I wonder what a ballet performed by 40 year olds would look like.  Let me just picture everyone I know in a leotard.  Oh shit, oh no, I just caught a glimpse.  No no no.

They’ve all been dancing now for quite some time.  At least a half an hour.  How long can they possibly continue this way?  Aren’t they tired?  I’m exhausted just sitting here.

30 minutes.

I wonder if the line will be too long at intermission to get a glass of champagne.  There are some really freaky people in the audience.  Jesus, take a look around.  Who goes to the ballet?  It’s the strangest mix of people.  Oh maybe it’s just New York. What is that lady wearing?  Is that a burka? What the fuck with burkas?  It’s the fucking ballet you twat.  Oh my God that lady looks like a pirate.  What is she 80 wearing those red riding knee-high  boots and white raglan sleeve top?  With fucking leather pants?  I wonder what I’ll look like when I’m 80.  Like shit on shit I bet.  I need some new clothes. I look so normal.  Like suburban normal.  Boring normal.  Not even cool normal just fucking idiotic normal.  I never have the right jeans.  Or shoes.  These flat fucking Clarke’s.  Clarke’s.  Parks.  Farks.  Darks.  Sparks.  Duh duh duh duh my shoes suck.

32 minutes.

Fuck.

40 minutes.

Oh, it’s intermission.  OK that was really nice.  I should just try to go to the ballet more often.  I’m not involved in the arts enough.  Maybe the kids would like this.  Maybe I should put the kids in ballet classes.  Aubrey didn’t like it.  But she doesn’t like a lot of things.  Fiona would like it.  She’s amendable.  But lessons are so expensive and really what’s the point?  It’s not like they’re going to end up like this Indian guy.  They can just spin each other around the fucking living room I guess.

Ok, back from intermission.   Next up, a Philip Glass ballet. It’s time for a whole different experience now.  This should be interesting.  First we see this traditional ballet, now we’re going to see something modern.    I wonder if the same dancers dance in both ballets.  How would they have the energy?

OK this is different.  Minimalist yet colorful.  Repetitive.  Alright.  OK.

5 minutes in.

A lot of these guys have highly pronounced moose knuckles. Are they wearing underwear?  Can’t be.  Don’t their balls sweat under that spandex?  Is that spandex or nylon?  Why can’t I see sweat?