I realized that I hadn’t had a period in months. Seven to be exact. I thought about the times I wake up drenched in sweat and throw all the covers off (and positively snarl at poor Mark when he tries to sweetly cover me up). I thought about the insomnia and the forgetfulness.
I tried to figure out how old my mother was when she went through menopause, and it turns out that I’m more or less right on track. I do know, based on the absence of drama and complaint, she must have moved through this transition fairly easily.
I mean, this hasn’t been particularly difficult. The night sweats are a bit much, and it would be nice to remember my neighbour’s son’s name and the term for health care specific data exchange standards, but really. Given the hell I lived through in menstruation and pregnancy, this is easy.
I asked my doctor about this lack of period. My doctor, who is good and careful and thoughtful, kinda shrugged. I asked about blood tests and if there anything I should do and . . . . it turns out, no.
Am I in perimenopause? Maybe. Probably. It turns out that medicine, which was very interested when I could not conceive, when I lost baby after baby, doesn’t at all care about this part of my life. They are happy to warm me I could still get pregnant (and would probably forget the baby somewhere) and then leave me to it. The doctor told me if I hadn’t had a period in another 5 months to come back and . . .
I don’t know what she will do.
Maybe I can throw a party?