Oh, love, I’ve spared you so much. You have no idea the ramblings I’ve been tempted to type in the last few months about perimenopause and all its glory. But because of of love? LOVE, I’ve spared you.
At least, I think it was love. Either way, it passed like that “headache” I got on prom night.
Perimenopause is like puberty in reverse. Remember the days of sweaters around your waist? They’re back. Never knowing when she’s going to show up? Also back. Not knowing how angry or vindictive she’s going to be when she gets here? You got it. Oh, the joy.
On top of several months of that delight, I had a different surprise last week.
Listening to my body as I do, when something wasn’t right a few months ago, I locked in. I focused and monitored and documented. Like a fat girl and a skinny girl on a see-saw I had it front of mind then ever so briefly and with great effort to back of mind and then it stuck, front of mind. Months later, when documentation was as informative as it needed to be and I had avoided going to the doctor for long enough thankyouverymuch I called and went in. This brings us to last week, and the rookie nurse who left a mark on my arm drawing blood that makes me look like a junkie.
That wasn’t enough, though, and my good Dr. Ruth (shut up! Her name really is Ruth.) confirmed what I already knew – that one of these things is not like the other. That there was something on/near/in the same zip code as my uterus that clearly wasn’t invited or intended. “No, it’s not a pony”, she said. Damn it.
The worst part of any medical malady could be the waiting and the voices in your head that fill that space between identification of the issue and the appointments or appointments and results, or results and action plans, or action plans and a Doctor as the BFF lifeguard of the pool of youth yelling “adult swim over, all swim!” I tell myself that I’ve been through this before – more or less every 6 months for nearly 15 years (has it been so long already!?!). That’s only kind of true, and further proof that the voices in my head are constantly battling and bickering. With my boobs it was early in life, when I was still ignorant and invincible. I’ve grown into it, now it’s just as much a part of me as the gray hair. But this is different. I’m not invincible anymore.
This morning The Mc was every bit the generous and kind spirit I fell in love with. He drove us to the hospital, trying his damnedest to keep my spirits up as I pounded the 32 oz of water in an hour (!!!) prescribed, even if I kinda think he was trying to make me pee and the hoisted spirits were a byproduct. His smile and hand squeezes were the only comfort I could ask for.
After the seemingly eternal check in with said 32 oz of water sloshing around in places I don’t like to think about, the radio tech took a quick peek at my belly via ultrasound from the outside, then insisted on looking from the inside. That shit right there should be illegal, my friend. I’m pretty sure she was up there so far she went back in time.
And now, we wait. The Mc worked from home this afternoon and after a nice lunch together and some cuddles, I took off to process and do intern homework and write a bit.
I’ve called my tribe together to meet me tonight at my favorite pub – to talk about anything but this, to laugh and love and bridge part of the gap while the 2-3 days between now and the results trickle past.
While [rationally] I’m sure it’s nothing, right now [emotionally] I feel old, and fragile, and broken. I’m a little angry that I did everything right and there’s still something wrong, and I’m a little bitter about the piddly crap people – me included – whine about when there are bigger, uglier, scarier issues out there (feels a lot like when my folks passed, oddly enough). In the end though, the beauty of it all – if there is anything beautiful about it at all – is that love takes the edge off. I’m thankful for those in my life who have love to spare and who share with me, and I’m thankful I’m able to ask for and receive it.