Unlikely Ally

I find it strange how as people we are able to relate to each other so well, even though we might be complete and total strangers. A bad hair day, a horrible break-up, or even a best loved recipe can draw us together and close the gap between stranger and potential B.F.F.
Today I am relating to Keith Urban. While I’m quite sure the song in my heart has nothing to do with the lyrics he wrote, the words and the meaning behind them are very much the same, if only for today.

I went in to see my doctor this morning for a quick check up and a refill on estrogen. Ever since my hysterectomy a year and a half ago, I’ve been learning how to function as a woman in her 30s on menopause. It’s been interesting to say the least. There are the obvious things that I don’t miss and won’t bother explaining. Besides, if you’re a woman you know what they are anyway. Then there’s the not so obvious things that have a way of blindsiding me when I least expect it. Our pastor’s daughter had a new baby a couple of weeks ago. While this whole process might have sent me into a mild depression a year ago, lately I’ve handled it all pretty smoothly. I’ve been to a couple of baby showers, walked through the baby aisle at Target, and even held a newborn without a single tear. All of these things I have counted as small victories to be celebrated. I have fully accepted the fact that my child rearing days are over and I can praise God for the miracle that He gave me in my daughter. Every day is a gift.

This morning however, I was blindsided. I came home and dumped my six month supply of estrogen on the bathroom counter. As I picked up the bag, I noticed the words beneath the pretty colors and designs. “You’re having a baby.” Right then I couldn’t decide if I wanted to laugh or cry. If I chose laughter, I have more than ample fodder to feed my appetite. For instance, I don’t know any women my age who can give advice about hot-flashes, belly fat, and incontinence to their mothers. I can talk at length with my step-mother, grandmother, and the crazy cat lady up the block about memory loss and ways to regain all the missing brain cells. A trip to the grocery store can make me chuckle simply by walking past the “feminine hygiene” aisle. If I happen to hear an older lady at the hair salon talking about her wrinkle cream, suddenly I’m all ears. I want to know what she’s using and how often. These are not typical discussions of young mothers barely over 30 and I think it’s amusing that my new sisters are also my grandparents.

Then there’s the flip side, the crueler aspect of my condition. On a regular basis I am forced to muddle through brain fog, the pea soup-like thing (sorry, I can’t think of a better word at the moment) that is at times a constant thorn in my side. It steals my memory, jumbles thoughts in my head so severely that it’s like I have a giant etch-a-sketch that’s been shaken to oblivion. I can’t concentrate, I can’t put a sentence together that makes sense, and it takes me twice as long to write anything. I get exhausted, cranky, and weepy. Along with the brain fog, my mind wanders to places it shouldn’t go and then I have to pray and ask for help so that I can steer it back to safe terrain again.

I should have been prepared for the punch to the gut I got this morning but for some reason I wasn’t. I should have known that a quick trip to my OBGYN could cause emotional turmoil. I don’t think I was expecting it because I really thought I was past this part. So while Keith and I have absolutely nothing in common and would not be able to relate to each other in the smallest of ways, we do understand sadness. While most of the time I am my happy, deranged self, every now and again I feel like Keith Urban. Tonight I just want to cry.