FOR WOMEN ONLY. Men, you have
been warned. TWICE already. Look away.
For the sake of your stomachs and for respecting women in general, LOOK
AWAY NOW because today I'm going to address:
MENOPAUSE. For the love of God,
men, STOP READING!
Okay, you've been pre-warned, warned, and warned again.
I am middle-aged. I
have been denying it for years because I plan to live to 121. I've no idea why I chose that number, but I
figure it's long enough to make my grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and
great-great-grandchildren all have to suffer by visiting crazy old,
pee-pee-smelling great-great-grandma at the nursing home a couple of times a
year. So I wasn't expecting middle-age
for another decade.
But here it is.
Looking me square in the eye, or, perhaps somewhere a little lower. And speaking of lowering, I have to lower
myself Friday to telling my young male teammate and the middle-aged tech guy
that my body has finally turned on itself.
It is an embarrassing moment, but since I think I am dying, or worse
that I might pass out in front of the students in a pool of my own blood, I
figure I should tell somebody close by, just in case.
You see, after two months without much to
write home about, my period decides to return.
Well, it doesn't just return. I
actually suspect that my uterus has decided to expel itself like a continuous
afterbirth until I completely hemorrhage to death. All of this because I wore a brand new dress
to work.
That's right - the dress caused this: A
spanking new, stunningly form-fitting, body-complimenting, cheetah-print,
belted, pocketed, knee-length, smokin' hot dress. Had I just worn black pants or jeans to work
like everyone else, my body never would've seen this as a golden opportunity to
completely and unequivocally destroy my life.
But no, the cheetah-print dress has to give itself away like a wounded animal on the Serengeti, screaming to my menstrual cycle, "Come and get
me! I AM the weakest link!"
After blowing through multiple combinations
of plugs, pads, and protective gear that rival Medieval chastity equipment, it
becomes obvious that I am probably having a serious medical issue. I mean, I enjoy an occasional potty break at
work, but this is turning into an 80-20 ratio, and the bathroom is winning. I tough out the final two and a half hours at
school, completely decimating what is normally my full-year sanitary supply in
less than 180 minutes, and willing myself not to puke nor keel over from the
cramps that rip my stomach and back to shreds.
Finally, at 2:30, I drive home like a speed demon, gripping the wheel in
white-knuckled agony, knowing full-well the twenty-minute ride might result in
a blood-bath. (Thank God for
Scotch-Guarded upholstery.)
Now, I'm an intelligent woman, and I fully
understand and accept the changing mechanisms of menopause, but I have birthed
three children and delivered three placentas, and I have never scene anything
like this in my life. I am passing clots
that rival Pluto, and I sure as heck don't want NASA trying to label anything (I'd
drawn enough stupid attention at school telling the male social studies
teacher, the tech guy, the office ladies, and the nurse…), so I call the
doctor. A few hours later I get the
diagnosis that makes us all feel so special:
"Take some ibuprofen, and call us back Monday if …" If
what? If I'm still alive? If I haven't bled out? If the town doesn't declare my home a bio-hazard
site? "…things haven't
improved. Oh, and be sure to let us know
if it happens again next month."
As I hang up the phone, I begin to wonder
how bleeding at the rate I am bleeding for another sixty hours might even be
physically possible. I calculate that I
am losing blood at the rate of two solid ounces every half hour, figuring I
will have lost a pint of blood by the time Say
Yes to the Dress is over. Surely I
will be dead before morning. Thank
God. At least it'll happen while I'm
asleep. Bless you, body, for small
favors.
I realize I do not have nearly enough
sanitary nor medical supplies to deal with the possible ramifications of this
charming life-event, and I prep myself for the fifteen minute mad dash to and
from the nearest pharmacy. As I put the
giant box of pads and the two giant boxes of tampons on the
counter, I smile at the young teenaged check-out girl and sweetly sing,
"Menopause SUCKS." Twenty
dollars lighter and one frozen strawberry daiquiri and two more ibuprofens
later, I put on a clean tank top, some terry-cloth shorts, and prop myself up
to a sitting position in bed. After all,
my hair should look good when they find my corpse in the morning.
I wake three times during the night (once
at 12:34, which I think is hilarious for some odd reason that I should awaken
at 1-2-3-4), and am quite surprised to discover at 6 a.m. that I have survived
the night. Though things haven't
improved too much, I do remember the doctor said to wait until Monday. I have an engagement party to attend on
Sunday, so I'm keeping my fingers and legs crossed, hoping and praying that my guts decide to cauterize themselves as rapidly and efficiently as they
decided to bleed out.
As I type this, the inside of my house
smells strangely like a meat packing factory and the bathroom resembles
Polanski's living room. I marvel that
people can get shot and pass-out from blood-loss within minutes but that I am
still standing (well, technically all I can do is sit and pray I don't destroy
clothing and furniture) nearly twenty-four hours later.
But the best part about all of this is that
I saved the dress. Yes, I did, I saved
the dress from potential destruction. The
cheetah will live to see another day. If
I'm still here Monday, that means I did, too.
(Thanks,
gentlemen. I know some of you are still
reading this. Men just don't listen, do
they? But that's what we love about
you.)
