Good morning.
Happy Independence Day to everyone. And by “everyone”, I mean everyone! I hope you’re enjoying the freedoms you’ve been given simply by being born in this country or by becoming a citizen – I hope you’re truly free this morning.
I’ll tell you when I became free – and I know you think I’m going to say something about Jesus here, and I do believe that He is great at that whole freedom thing – but I was thinking about menopause.
Remember our twenties, ladies? When we sacrificed ourselves for all those around us? It was the decade we started cranking out kids, those needing machines, and we were so agreeable with our husbands because we thought that’s what a good wife was supposed to be? And we held down our jobs and were so diligent in every area of our lives? We nursed, we cooked dinner, we punched a clock, and we poured ourselves out until we had pert-near emptied ourselves out.
Until our thirties.
I literally woke up on my thirtieth birthday, sat up in bed, looked over at Sean-Martin, smacked him awake, and announced: “I’m hungry. Go make me a sandwich.”
And he did.
He made me sandwiches for an entire decade and things mellowed out because I realized that I was important. I found my voice. I gained some purchase on this road and incrementally, in that decade, found more and more of my fem-freedom.
My forties were just like my thirties except I had more money.
And now? As I’m approaching my fifties?
Menopause.
I remember vividly when I entered perimenopause – the gateway to true freedom. Our son Geoff was 18 years old and graduating from high school. I hadn’t had a period for 47 days. You know what happened the last time I went 47 days without a period? I had a BABY!
Could I be pregnant? I thought. Surely not! I’m 42 years old! I can’t be pregnant. Could this be the change of life that no female relative in my life ever talked to me about? Surely not! I’m 42 years old! I’m too young for menopause, but I’m too old to be cranking out kids! What’s going on?
I peed on at least 25 pregnancy sticks trying to get a clear answer. At least 25 sticks told me I wasn’t. In any case, I stopped drinking wine since I figured that if there were a little bun in the oven, he or she (not they – I would never allow my mind to broach they) would have a hard enough time living in a 42-year-old uterus for nine months without me throwing back a few drinks, right?
Sean-Martin could have won an Academy Award for acting like he would be excited if, at 47 years old, he became a father again. I watched him stare off into space, doing the math: When this kid is 18, I’ll be 65. When this kid graduates, I’ll be retiring. But that’s when he or she will be going to college – I can’t retire until I’m… oh, God. When this kid is 25, I’ll be 72. When this kid is 65, I’ll be 112.
Alas, we weren’t pregnant, and all that angst was for not.
It was just menopause. And here’s where the freedom piece comes into this: you strip down at dinner or strip your sheets in the middle of the night enough times because of the god-forsaken hot flashes, and you start telling the truth about things. Lose enough sleep because you can’t turn your brain off at two o’clock in the morning, and any filter you thought you had disintegrates into nothing.
And that feels goooood.
It feels even better when your child, your students, your husband, and even your boss takes note of that menopausal gleam in your eye, and they make it a point not to cross you. Ever.
Don’t tell me that’s not a perk.
And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise – once you get those hot flashes and insomnia dialed in – menopause is glorious.
Daisy Rain Martin is editor in chief for RAIN Magazine. She is also the author of Juxtaposed: Finding Sanctuary on the Outside and If It’s Happened to You, which can both be found on her website. Look for Hopegivers: Hope is Here in 2015.
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