Menopause, My Daughter, and Me

At family gatherings many years ago, "the change" was spoken of in hushed whispers among my aging aunts. While literally dozens of first, second, and third cousins whooped, hollered, ran, skipped, and rolled upon the sweet grass at my aunt's farm, many of the women fanned their red, perspiring faces with handkerchiefs, fans, or papers, whatever would generate a bit of refreshing breeze. Discreetly, they commiserated with each other.

Totally unsympathetic, we teenaged girls cast veiled, smug smirks at our older female relatives. Not one of us believed that we would ever grow old or "mature." We were positive that we would always be young, firm-fleshed, and vibrant. At that time, anyone over the age of 30 had already passed into the nether regions of the aged.

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Time passes. Suddenly I was in my twenties, married, and the mother of a daughter and a son. I'm not sure how it happened so quickly; but overnight, I was in my late thirties, the mother of two teenagers. Ten more years galloped by and something horrendous began going awry in my body.

The first night I awoke drenched in sweat, I was horrified that I had done a very childish thing. Horrors! Upon consideration, I realized that it was predominately my head, neck, and upper body that were soaked. I changed my gown, turned over the pillow, punched it, and tried to go back to sleep, certain that some terrible disease was about to pounce upon me.

Over the course of the next two years, I had to admit that "the change" had taken over my life, and I didn't like it! On Sunday mornings, I refused to fan myself with the church bulletin until I saw other choir members doing so. Unlike the southern ladies who "glow," I didn't get dewy or glow or perspire. I sweated! Rivulets ran down my cheeks, my neck, my back, and every other place where there was fabric that could stick to my skin.

My daughter, who was close to 30 at that time, teased me about my suddenly red face, the beads of sweat above my upper lip, the way I often pulled my blouse away from my body. "Just wait!" I told her, knowing that the menopause monster would attack her all too soon. I smiled at her. Except for a short period during her teens, she and I had always been good friends.

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At the age of 55, I underwent a total hysterectomy. The ovarian tumor was benign, thankfully, and the doctor wanted me to start hormone replacement in the form of an estrogen patch. The majority of menopausal symptoms had disappeared, but he wanted me to benefit from all the other supposedly good things that hormone replacement offers. It was wonderful!

I faithfully applied a new little patch every week, except for a period of about a month, when I kept forgetting to get the prescription refilled. When I whined to the pharmacist about all those old symptoms that had come back, such as irritability, night sweats, hot flashes, chills, etc., he wanted to know how many people had sent me in to get the prescription filled!

All was well, until early last autumn. At my bi-annual check-up, the doctor told me that I should discontinue using the patch that I had been wearing them for 10 years, which was too long. "Let's see how you do," he said. Well, I didn't do well. Without the estrogen patch, I was dropkicked back into the briar patch of full-blown menopause!

Then suddenly it dawned upon me that my lovely daughter, who was now 45, had begun to fan, pull her blouse away from her body, use a sleeve, a napkin, a towel, a tablecloth, whatever fabric was available, to wipe her beautiful red face. We were sitting across from each other at a restaurant one day, both of us surreptitiously using a napkin to wipe sweat from our upper lips. Our eyes locked, and we burst into laughter at the same time.

There we sat, the three of us: my daughter, menopause, and me. Whoever would have thought that a mother and daughter, 20 years difference in age, could share such a monumental experience? She was not yet to the stage that hormone replacement is recommended, but I had an edge. That very week I called my doctor and told him that I wanted my patch back.

He renewed the prescription and assured me that I am not at additional risk for breast cancer, for which I blessed him repeatedly. I fully intend to continue wearing one of those little miracle-worker patches for as long as I am able to slap it somewhere upon my body. When the day comes that I am given my final bath, I can guarantee that the undertaker will find a little clear, oval patch upon my abdomen or a hip, placed there tenderly by an arthritic hand, mine or my husband's!

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