Women’s bodies and lifestyles revolve around menstruation starting at puberty. Menopause indicates the end of fertility, which is a death sentence of sorts.
Perimenopause means the time leading up to menopause. For me, perimenopause meant my body started going nuts.
Bette Davis said, “Old age ain’t no place for sissies.” In my case, one of the factors of the female aging process is erratic, irregular, and unacceptably embarrassing menstrual periods. You might think this explanation is satisfactory, but you would be wrong. Without further explanation, you cannot visualize correctly what I mean by “erratic, irregular, and unacceptably embarrassing.” Here is a view from the trenches. If you’re squeamish, you might want to skip this one.
The final, harrowing episode started in Scotland. At this point, Blue Eyes and I had been dating for two months. I asked him if he would like to join me on a trip to Inverness, Scotland. He is perfect for me because he never gets swept up by my compulsive nature. He said he needed to think about it for a week. Personally, I found that amount of time insulting and excessive. He was following some dumb rule. I don’t remember what. Fortunately, I practiced acting like a grown-up, so I didn’t stomp and snort to tell him what I thought. Instead, I impatiently waited. After the trip, he told me he was worried we would run out of things to talk about and sit in awkward silence. I guess he forgot I was going along.
Our Scotland adventure was all fun. There was never a dull moment or a pregnant pause. We took videos of all the hot spots to show our kids. The kids thought the videos were boring, but we have a record of our first trip and the fun we had together.
The day before we left Inverness, the flow began. At first, it was normal. As the day progressed, the problem worsened and became harder to hide. I always hope to keep a stiff upper lip, but I whine, cry, and beat my chest. I tried to keep the severity of the issue to myself, but constant stops at restrooms all over Inverness gave me away. I realized at some point that he might think I had diarrhea, which seemed more unpleasant and disgusting to me than telling him I was bleeding to death. Blue Eyes is a plumber, but I deluded myself into thinking he doesn’t know I have normal bodily functions. I said it was a delusion. If I stood up or walked, moderate flow turned into a flood. You get the idea.
My flight left at 6:30 am the following day. We flew separately, which I was happy about later. I flew from Inverness to Heathrow to Las Vegas to San Francisco. When I walked to the boarding area in Inverness, I visited the toilet ten times in one hour. This fact is not an embellishment for the sake of a good story. During normal flow, I usually visit the facilities 15 per day. The boarding area didn’t have a bathroom. I was trapped, and the plane was delayed. I sat very still, but even then, I could feel activity.
By the time I boarded the plane at Heathrow, I had used an entire box of maxi pads. Walking to my seat, I felt something running down both legs. I headed straight for the bathroom. When I found my seat, I had thrown away a pair of tights and underwear. I brought extra, in case you’re wondering. If you are wondering, you should know that’s a little weird. Who am I to talk about weird, though?
I felt lightheaded. I was out of maxi pads and thought I might throw up. I was also unsure whether I could get off the plane in Vegas and walk to my connecting flight under my own steam without a lot of drama and unpleasantness. So, I asked for help. At this point, I surrendered to the fact that I could not handle the situation myself. Without boring you with more details, and yes, there are more, I’ll tell you this. It sucked.
I pushed the call button. I hoped I would get a cranky, salty, old flight attendant, but instead, a gorgeous, sympathetic 20-something came to my aid. I took a deep breath and told her the situation. In a few minutes, I was escorted to business class and seated next to the bathroom. The plane was virtually empty at the end of the New Year’s holiday. I am eternally grateful to Sir Richard Branson and Virgin Airlines for choosing scarlet red as their brand color. I sat on a folded, scarlet blanket, which meant I didn’t have to plot and scheme how to destroy a ruined white blanket discreetly.
The flight attendant gave me an oxygen mask and told me to huff oxygen for 20 minutes, which made me feel completely stupid. All the flight attendants were aware of my problem. They stopped frequently to ask if I wanted anything, especially the males. I was given a large number of maxi pads. At first, I thought they were all very nice, but after a while, I pretended I was asleep so they would quit bugging me. Sometime during the flight, excessive flow returned to heavy flow, and I survived the rest of the trip with much less drama.
I knew from hearing other women’s humiliating experiences that perimenopause is serious business. Most women don’t know what’s happening. Menopause gets more attention. Perimenopause is the secret, ugly step-child. I think unpredictable, overactive periods trump hot flashes, but crazy periods get less publicity for obvious reasons.
No matter how hip and cool your boss may be, without personal experience, it will be hard for them to comprehend the gravity of the statement, “Hey Boss, yeah, by the way, I can’t come to work today. I’m on my period.” It doesn’t work. The only viable option is to say instead, “I have the stomach flu,” which also stops questions in their tracks. But you can’t have the stomach flu too often without raising suspicion. What “stomach flu” means here is, “My period started. It ruined my jeans and possibly my chair. I’m going home to change, and I may not come back.”
Braver souls wear their coats wrapped around their waists all day and make up creative excuses, the indignity of it all. Bette was right, “Old age ain’t no place for sissies.” It is, however, far better than the alternative.
After our trip, I went to the gynecologist who recommended an ablation, where they use hot water or something like it to singe all the blood vessels in your uterus. Technically, for most women, the bleeding during menstruation stops after an ablation. That has been true for me mostly. On occasion, my friend still visits. “My friend is visiting” is a euphemism girls use instead of “I’m on my period.”
When I started my period at eleven, I was not excited to join the childbearing-ready sisterhood. Mom picked me up at school. I moaned about how much it hurt. Mom said, “You’ll get used to it.” And, “Don’t you want to have babies?” I was a drama queen. “No, I don’t want babies. I want a hysterectomy,” I wailed. “You’ll change your mind,” she said. I don’t know how she kept from roaring with laughter.
I’m excited to join the club and connect with all women past, present, and future through a shared experience. We have our own secret language. Our own unpublicized rites of passage. The results of our pain contribute to society and produce priceless gifts. Mom was right. I did change my mind. I would do it all over again in a second. It’s worth it.
Oh, and by the way, I’d given birth to two humans by the time I reached perimenopause. If you want to talk indignity, there’s more to be told.