Another Rite of Passage

My parents have sold their house and moved out.  Not the home we all lived in as children – there were far too many of those.  As army brats we moved around a lot.  My parents bought, renovated and sold some stunning homes but we were only in them for a few years, and of course we had our fair share of army ‘quarters’ or basic brick boxes.  And then we had two long term homes.  Shore House where we spent our pre teen and teenage years, in beautiful Bosham.  This was the last house we all lived in as a family before maturity (or lack of it!) scattered us to the four winds, careers, countries and relationships.

18 years ago my parents bought Home Farm House.  I wasn’t there for the purchase or the move – but that’s pretty normal!  Many’s the time we’ve come home for school holidays, half term or an exeat weekend to a new home!  I well remember taking two school friends to Five Trees and spending much of the weekend throwing buckets of hot soapy water on a floor and chipping the plaster off to reveal the 16th Century flagstones beneath.

When I went to Boarding School for the first time the beautiful Hill House, where we were all so happy, was packed up and sold.  I lost my leased horse, paddock, room to roam on Frensham Common where I learned to ride and ice skate.  I lost my freedom, my childhood, my home in one fell swoop.

It was a few years before my parents bought Five Trees and I had some sense of belonging to a place again.  There were only 9 months or so of exeat weekends at my cousins’ house but it was long enough for me to feel like a displaced person and for that to last lifelong.

It would be twenty years before I owned my childhood longed for horse.  And 30 before I finally had the land and freedom I had craved ever since that early loss.  But even with my own home and farm, animals and horses, losing the parental home has me feeling bereft.

In everyone’s lives there are essential rites of passage – adolescence, deaths, marriage, births, menopause, the sale of the family home, parental deaths.  As my parents let go of that beautiful house, pack up their belongings, disseminate their possessions to charity shops and newly rented accommodation while they try and find their perfect new home, we are all feeling the momentousness of the move.

Home Farm House was a home – it was a lovely warm, welcoming house, with beautiful garden and outlook – the product my parents’ hard work.  I have wept for its loss while hoping it brings great joy and happiness to its new owners.  I was devastated not to be able to get back to the UK for a last hurrah with the whole family in situ together for the final time.

But now that the boxes are packed and everything my parents own is gone and I can see from afar that it is just a house.  It is all that they have and all that they are that make it a home.  A home embodies the energy of the people who inhabit it – it exhibits their souls.  So though my parents have critical eyes and voice their judgements freely, from the love in their home, the sheen on the warm mahogany tables, gleaming floors and welcoming kitchen heart of the home, they demonstrate their warm and loving hearts beneath the masks they have adopted and worn so well.

Those hearts and collection of furniture, paintings and household items go with them.  We will always have a home away from home wherever they are, as long as they live.

Those feelings of devastating loss are just a practice run for when they die.  It is impossible to imagine the hole they will leave in our lives.  Not to have them on the planet anymore – knowing us, loving us, judging us, correcting us, critiquing us, sending us parcels, treating us and our children to new clothes, trips, toys etc.

As much as a home is place of safety and rest for the heart, it is the hearts of the inhabitants that makes a house a home.

Menopause as a grieving process

wedgie

Many of us are familiar with The Five Stages of Grief as introduced by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and we recognise that when someone we love dies we will experience some or all of the emotions associated with the long grieving process – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.  Not many of us realise that we can expect to react similarly in other times of crisis or loss (job, divorce, rape, illness, burglary etc).  In fact, if you like, these emotions are the major themes of our lives, playing either in the background or the foreground, sometimes softly and other times at deafening levels if we could only see ourselves as others see us.

If there is a taboo in our society about talking about or dealing with death and the dying (and there is), then it is doubly so for menopause.  Just as we do not publicise our periods , we are not expected or allowed to talk openly about Menopause.  But we should.  Because this is a life changer that destroys marriages, creates volatile home environments for children and young people and takes women to the outer edges of their sanity and their ability to cope.  Depression has come out of the closet in all its guises, now it’s time for Menopause to step forward into the spotlight.

Let’s talk about the fact that women universally think that menopause happens to women over 50.  They don’t know that peri-menopause starts around age 40, and earlier if you have used in vitro or fertility drugs which provoke early and often release of eggs.  Peri-menopause – it sounds so harmless, so sweet, so unassuming . . . but it’s not.

Often the first symptom is an all consuming rage which is unidentified as a symptom of peri menopause and therefore directed at husband, children, employers and employees and colleagues.  Families and worklife can be wrecked if the emotion isn’t correctly attributed and some sort of management commenced.  Some women have hot flushes, some don’t.  Some have a couple a night and some have hundreds a day.  They are embarrassing, exhausting, debilitating.  We have to learn how to dress differently in order to manage them, and most women will try a plethora of remedies in order to stem or stop them.

After the rage has wreaked its havoc then comes the depression (which may simply be a reaction to the unforeseen and unexpected change of life).  For many women (especially those hounded by hot flushes) the depression is all consuming, a deep dark pit at the bottom of which is a desire to leave life and all we love.  Undiagnosed, this can end in the ultimate tragedy.

Woven among the above is the denial ‘this can’t be happening to me now’, ‘I’m not ready’, ‘’m too young’ etc as we realise that our biological clock is ticking away our childbearing years and heralding the dawn of the demise into old age and eventual death.  We are forced to contemplate our own mortality, our life purpose, our own needs and wants and desires after subjugating our souls and selves during our childrearing years.  Often women feel rudderless, pointless, empty, barren and embittered as the women’s heartbeat in our womb slows and stops.  Some women are beset with almost constant bleeding and are left begging for the cessation of the flow.  All the physical symptoms are exhausting and the broken nights of sleeplessness add to the out of control feelings and the inability to cope.

This is a time when we need to nurture ourselves, take time out from daily stresses and reflect on our lives thus far and question ourselves deeply about what we want to feel, see, hear, achieve in the second and final half of our lives.  This should be a time of deep going within, withdrawal and meditation for a woman.  This is the perfect opportunity for a life changing journey or pilgrimage to seek out her soul’s longing.  But instead she is often hurried and harried at work and by the frenetic pace of modern life.  All too often a peri-menopausal woman is at war with a teenager in the house, a clash of hormones which is a recipe for disaster and can destroy parent-child relationships.  In my case, menopause has coincided with toddlerdom for my first and apparently, only, child.  I can only hope we can both forget some of our darkest days.  I now fully understand the wisdom of having children in our youthful, fertile years and get them long gone from the nest so that menopause can at least be survived in the sanctity of one’s own space.

Bargaining is part of the process.  Being women we reach out to complementary health professionals, herbal remedies, natural oestrogen boosters and yoga, pilates, exercise, healthier food etc which might stave off or alleviate the symptoms.  We’re bargaining with Mother Nature for more time.

Finally we begin to accept that in all of life there are seasons and we begin to embrace what our autumn years can gift to us, rather than railing against the injustice of the loss of youth and elasticity.  We accept that while we might have saggier skin, boobs and bellies, our hearts are purer, bigger and more open to the wonder of life.  We have experienced life and now we have wisdom to share.  We can devote time and energy to long cherished dreams, creative endeavours and play pursuits.  Menopause is a time when women ask ‘what about me?’, ‘what makes ME happy?’ and finally have time to explore ourselves.  It’s a transition from youth to maturity and we must mourn our losses as well as celebrate what we gain.  Let no woman suffer in silence and may every woman better understand what will come to us all.

Menopause or I don’t want to die

Just as I had really started enjoying the summer of my life, with my little boy, my farm, my lovely husband, I turned into a raging Monster with a heart and soul black and dark and thick with anger and frustration.  Then the hot flushes started.  And still I didn’t have the sense to marry the two together.  I blamed toddlerdom (even though I have an angel child), Ged and the world at large.  My marriage almost didn’t survive the onslaught.  I couldn’t believe that Menopause could happen to me aged only 45.  We wanted another child . . . every time last year my period came later and later I was convinced I was pregnant.  I didn’t see the writing on the wall … didn’t even know there WAS writing on the wall.

I thought menopause happened in your fifties, not your forties.  I thought I was in my prime, not starting the steady decline to death.  I thought anything was possible and the world was my oyster.  Instead my ovaries were shutting down, changing me forever from woman to wasteland of broken dreams, lost opportunities and babies terminated before they ever had a chance to become.

Menopause is a bitch.  The mood swings, the violent rages welling up from nowhere, no reason and no way to control them.  The hot flushes which take over and rule my life.  The feeling of being ill and at the mercy of something so far beyond my control as to make me look like King Canute trying to stop the waves . . . The constant pain in my uterus, the grief – the endless waves of grief as I farewell my child bearing years, the little girl I didn’t get to have and hold, the sense of myself as young, that glorious feeling of ripe fertility only possible in late pregnancy, the sense of limitless possibilities . . .

All of a sudden I, who have duelled and diced and danced with death so many times in my lifetime and have longed to fall into his peaceful embrace am screaming and sobbing ‘I don’t want to die’.  Clearly one has to see one’s one ultimate destiny and the steady decline towards it unblinkered in order to appreciate just how precious this life, and every moment in it, is.

After all, we don’t know what is going to happen next.  I was flirting with the idea of getting pregnant again, not taking it that seriously, thinking I had plenty of time . . .

Baby is dying too.  She has Cushings and she is going downhill fast.  So I am also screaming and sobbing ‘I don’t know how or who to be without Baby’ and ‘please don’t go’ and ‘just one last summer together please’.  I’m letting go of babies real and ethereal – those who are and those who were never meant to be . . .

You see, I was so busy being busy, so determinedly procrastinating, saving the fun and enjoyment and play til some  ‘later’ in the ever diminishing future when all the work is done that I didn’t realise that we have to have fun NOW because we just don’t know what tomorrow may bring and the greatest gift we can give anyone, can share with anyone, can spend is TIME.  Sweet, precious, limited, ever ticking time.

Like Peter Pan before me, I never wanted to grow up.  I succeeded pretty well.  I only ever thought of myself as grown up last year and now it appears I am old, dried up, used up, washed up.  Old before my time with creaking joints and sore, tired muscles and wrinkles like clothes left too long in the dryer.

I didn’t know this was around the corner.  I never imagined how debilitating, depressing and daunting this particular female rite of passage could be.  It feels like transition in labour – totally out of control, completely uncomfortable, sick making, overwhelming and I’m trying to stand on the merry go round, yelling ‘I didn’t sign up for this, let me off!’

Why the code of silence Women?  Why don’t we talk about this, map the stages and ages of our ovaries and life’s passages so we know what to expect, when and how to wear and bear it.

The addict in me is appalled at how many pills I am taking at the moment.  And how many I seem to need.  My naturopath says ‘why not?’ and ‘stop fighting it, this is beyond your control.’  But really I would rather just ride it out and get it over with.  But I can’t.  I have a little boy to look after.  A little boy of three who knows what a hot flush is, where the fan is, and hates having to have all the car windows open while I ride one out.

I have to try and manage and mitigate and massage some of my moods into something resembling normality.  For my own sanity.  For my child’s future psychological health.  For Ged’s peace of mind.  If only I could sleep how much better would all our lives be . . .

I completely understand why my Mother’s generation took HRT.  Instead I am on red clover, licorice, zizyphus, vitamin E, iron, B6, zinc, st john’s wort, the occasional kava, some sort of anti stress pill and who knows what from my acupuncturist.  The grief I can handle, the physical symptoms are driving me mad . . .

No man could handle menopause.  No woman ought to have to.  It’s too much, too soon, I’m not ready, can’t cope and don’t want to die . . . .