I went to the vagina-cologist today. It was that time of the year. This is the only appointment I was a little excited for. I was holding on to some monumental news.
After the preliminary doctor-patient welcome banter, she asks *the* question.
Dr. Rose: When was your last period?
ME: August!!!!
(pause)
I looked at her in anticipation. I thought it was a minimal high-five moment. I was slightly offended that she continued in her questions with only a hesitation blip to input the info in her computer. Seriously?! Not even a-little-jig-in-the-end-zone celebration? Despite her stoic appearance, I can’t but help think she was a little impressed. The achievement took a long, long time to arrive. The crone zone is its own coming-of-age story. The financial savings alone times the rest of my life deserves an ‘atta girl!’
Dr. Rose is keeping me in the perimenopausal group. It’s kind of like she’s cursing me with the promise of a return to tampon-ville. I haven’t thrown away my leftovers. I have the necessary provisions for a resurgence. The idea just makes me cranky.
I am handling my 50something health with mindfulness. My aunt Laura was right. The healthier I eat, the less hot flashes I experience. I also think yoga and sun salutations help my balance. And with much regret, I admit limiting my drinking makes me more even-keel. And of course, I’m wearing my positive energy bracelets to ward off evil spirits and general toxicity.
Interestingly, even though I’m staying serene in the daytime, I’m having incredible nightmares. Last night, I was up twice pacing. And the dreams aren’t the scary monster variety. They are so normal they wake me up. People are dying. People are screaming at me. My feelings of inadequacy are manifested in these too-real-to-ignore scenarios. They haunt me. I feel powerless in these night terrors.
This little gal had no idea what leaving the 1900s would be like.