A Farewell to Ovaries

It's a curious thing when I start to blog again. I feel like I should be outside, Camel Turkish Gold in hand, listening to NIN. Magically transported back to a time when "selfie" wasn't actually a word. God, I fucking hate that word, yet I use it because there is really no other way to explain "It's a picture of me and possibly other people but I take about six versions and then use about eight filters to make it appear I have longer eyelashes and an even skin tone."

Haven't been 'round these here blogger parts for close to three years. Sometimes when you have sooo much to say in your head, it's just easier to say nothing at all. NOTHING AT ALL. You worry that it sounds like you're whining or begging for attention. I think there's a certain loneliness that comes in your middle 40s. I know I loved turning 40. It really does feel like the new 20, but so much better. I called it the Era of Giving Zero Fucks.

I don't know who created this. If I knew, I would give endless credits because it is the best.

Suddenly I just didn't care about allll the little bullshit that tripped me up in my 30s. Was I still not down to that size I wanted? Was I still lacking a BA? Did I still feel like Dustin married down when he married me? ZERO FUCKS at FORTY. It was the movie "I Feel Pretty" and instead of hitting my head during spin class (like I'd ever go to spin class), I aged one year.

I walked around like I WAS down to that size. I found a new career and didn't care that I lacked that BA. I felt like Dustin - who I always feel lucky to have in my life - was equally lucky to have me in his life.

At some point there was a shift. It was subtle, not constant. Little moments that felt like dread falling over me like the mist that falls over you in the produce section when you're comparing heads of lettuce. No reason for suddenly feeling terrified, feeling like you were homesick, feeling like that little twinge of pain in your back was one of those heart attack symptoms that are common only for women, and telling someone would make you look nuts, but ignoring it all but guarantees a cardiac event is happening, and you were the ONE woman who didn't report it, who didn't ask for help.

I have some concerns, is what I'm saying.

I tried to connect the feelings to something. Where was I at? What had I eaten? What happened an hour before? What time of year was it? Was I wearing pants or shorts? Was the moon in the 7th house of Venus? It all felt very random, until it didn't. Thanks, calendars!


About a year and some change ago I noticed that it was vaguely around the same time each month. Never the same day, never the same issue. One month it's anxiety, one month it's depression. One month I think it's depression causing the anxiety. But it's always about five days before my "lady time."  (I'm nearly 44 and and I can't just say what it is. Nor can I allow myself to say things like "Aunt Flo" because that's just horrifying and weird.)

It's been nearly 2 years ago to the day that one of my closest and most A+ friends messaged me about how she started marking hers on her calendar, like to warn herself in advance and I realized "OHMYGOD IT IS NOT JUST ME LOSING MY MIND."

So for a while I know to expect that, every 20-25 days, I'm not going to feel great. So I'm going to try walking. I'm going to try coloring. I'm going to download app after app after app. I'm going to start a Facebook group, find a therapist, change meds, tweak meds again and again and again. And I'm tired of it. Nothing works and I'm throwing EVERYTHING I can at it. It's now around 7-10 days a month where I don't feel like I'm at one end or the other of the "Losing My Mind" spectrum, where it's physically painful to even think about leaving the house or I'm 100% sure (even though rationally I know I'm 100% not) that I'm having a heart attack.

And guess what? I'm done. I'm FUCKING DONE, kids. It's all going.

Several years back, my paternal aunt (cancer survivor) had testing done and was positive for BRCA1. My paternal grandmother (2x breast cancer survivor, 1x ovarian cancer survivor) wasn't tested as that was before the days of tests, but my four sisters and I decided to all be tested. I decided before getting the results that, if they were positive, I would have it all removed - breasts, ovaries, the works - bc it would likely save my life. BRCA1 was negative, so I didn't think much about it after that.

I'm looking at this the same way. Will throwing myself into immediate menopause be brutal? Absolutely. Without a doubt. Will immediate menopause be easier to deal with than 6-8 more years of what is happening now? Absolutely. Without a doubt. Menopause is a transition. This garbage here? Feeling endless and quite honestly, life threatening in terms of how I can function on a daily basis.

The votes are in from my various providers, and four out of four medical/psychological professionals agree that this is the best move.

My ovaries gave me the best things ever. One of those best things just made a hilarious face at me from behind the screen of her iPad, and I wish I had snapped a photo to show you all. But these little things inside of me are making me LOSE MY SHIT way too often. So friends, do what you've gotta do to get to where you need to be. Ovaries treating you like royalty? Awesome! Keep them around as long as you can and you can gracefully transition into that phase as nature intended. Are they roughing you up, causing you grief, making you crazy? Evict those bitches so you can get back to giving zero fucks.