Entry # 7 - Spring

April 4, 2015

Mostly Sunny
45 F
Winds 12 mph wsw
Feels like 37 F


The calendar says spring, but the weather says maybe next week.

Spring is, traditionally, a time of fertility, but not for me. I've struggled with infertility for years and this spring, I started going through "early menopause" (like fifteen years early). My doctors told me not to worry and then ordered blood tests and prescribed medicine that I refuse to ingest. I’m a natural woman – no hair dye, minimal organic makeup, no chemicals in my food when I can avoid them, certainly no chemicals made to mess with my already messed up hormones. So I surrender as gently as I’m capable, which, in this case, isn’t gently at all.

I’m angry. This isn’t how my life was supposed to be. I love children. Since I was a child myself I took care of others. Most of my life, I’ve wanted to have a family but I guess this will be the year I finally give up on that dream. I held on to hope for too long. Hope, the Greek myths tell us, came from Pandora's Box. If you'll recall, that box contained all the evils of the world. Hope was not an exception. Hope makes us wait, it stops us from doing because we hope something else might happen.

Since January the beginning of every month is the same: pain, hot flashes, nausea, vomiting and panic attacks. Followed by bloating, constipation, hot flashes, dizziness and more pain. They tell me this is normal. It doesn't feel normal.

Spring is a time of change and my body is changing with the earth. The shift in hormones has not produced the dreaded mood swings or meanness I experienced with my mother. Perhaps because I watch for any sign of those things, prepared to cut them off before they do harm.

My cuddle hormone is overflowing. I've wanted to spend more time with the man in my life. Today, he asked me to visit his home after work. He had his kids, all five of them, and they were all playing outside. He needed adult companionship.

When I arrived, Gianna, the eight year old, ran to my car, greeted me and gifted me with a flower. She was wearing socks and no shoes. I asked her what happened to her shoes and she replied she didn't need them. I opened my mouth to argue and remembered never wearing shoes or socks when I was a kid. I still don't. I looked at Joe, who shook his head and sighed. I let it go. Later, she taught me to play soccer. I had on pumps. Soccer and pumps do not mix. So I took them off and played in my trouser socks. I amused the heck out of Joe who later told me I had to take off my socks before I entered his home.

All in all, spring is spring. Time for emerging from our homes and playing outside. I might be different, but, for the most part, the people around me don't realize it. The children in my life certainly don't notice the changes. They are internal. They influence my world in invisible and emotional ways. I don't want to share my pain with them.