This weekend was particularly dull and cold. I’m prone to bouts of pitifulness on dreary days and would be awful in the northern hemisphere climes with their anaemic summers. So, when I caught a glimmer of beautiful sunshine this morning, gratitude returned. My thankful heart brought some grace for myself and gifted me with flowers. Here’s why.

 

The Big M

 

One of the topics brought to the mainstream is what I call the Big M. I gave it that moniker when I was confronted with this ‘silent threat’ at the age of 45, and no one could talk about it. The rite of passage for growing women was shrouded in secrecy, mystery, and shame. My symptoms were not the standard “hot flushes” that are synonymous with this time of life.

 

I had done a battery of tests to understand my chronic exhaustion, permanent headache, and what dawned on me years later, post-natal depression, which had escalated after the birth of my second child. I was quite taken aback when my doctor shared my blood test results.

 

“Is it perimenopause?” I asked once he had gone through my very low hormone readings. If I remember well, all levels were low, but my progesterone was literally on the floor. I was mildly relieved that I could label my ‘condition’ as anything beyond she’s just ‘crazy’ and finally get the right treatment. Though I was also stunned by how I had arrived at this very grown stage.

 

Nonetheless, that did not prepare me for the final blow. “No, it’s menopause”. It landed like a thud of unwanted lard around my thighs. I had two beautiful children under five. And while I had zero desire to try for a girl child, I was thrown. Menopause was for grannies. Who, by the way, were my age, but it still felt like a foreign concept. What the fudge?

 

Creating my own path

 

Once again, as with my AMA and birthing journey, no one in my circles was going through a similar experience. AMA is advanced maternal age, the medical term that describes any pregnant woman above 35. Apparently, AMA is the woke version of ‘geriatric pregnancy’ which was used in earlier years. How condescending.

 

So, there I was, uninitiated. I had skipped perimenopause in lieu of advanced maternal pregnancy and childbirth and jumped straight into the Big M immediately after. “Do you think having my kids later brought this on sooner?”, I tried to find some reason. When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see an aged, spent woman. Not at that stage anyway. That was a couple of years before COVID-19 robbed any youthful glow I had. May we never go through that hysteria and trauma again.

 

In my limited medical experience, I assumed that ‘challenging’ my body to bring on childbearing hormones when they weren’t supposed to – at least according to biology and society – had conjured some hormonal revenge that summoned menopause ahead of time. My doctor disagreed.

 

I’m still on the fence, that thought lingers. My peers were on their way to downsizing, feeling the beginnings of the empty nest, divorcing, dating again, and preparing for retirement in a few years. There I was, in the thick of raising minors. We had barely started primary school. Post menopause.

 

Gratitude always wins

 

It didn’t take long for my initial shock to morph into absolute gratitude. We had been blessed with not one, but two healthy children right before my eggs had vanished! And it was without any invasive fertility treatment. A miracle, twice! It was truly a happy realisation. Then everything made sense. After giving birth for the last time, aged 42, my menstrual cycle never returned.

 

At that time, I was consumed with not only the ups and downs of motherhood but the fear of having another “Oops, I’m pregnant”. I was hanging on by a thread and another pregnancy in my late 40s would have taken me rock bottom. There’s nothing wrong with that, but I was struggling on all levels. I didn’t do much research and went with the first suggestion of Mirena, a hormonal IUD.

 

Taking a pill every day would cause more complications in my already chaotic life. I just wanted to make sure that I was back in control of my reproductive system. But the Universe is definitely female as She has a unique sense of humour. She was never going to allow me to make that decision again. My reproduction factory had defaulted, shut down, was no longer viable.

 

I deserve my flowers

 

This brings me to the beautiful bouquet I am giving and receiving myself. I’m the only person that I know – I’m sure there are others among the 7 billion of us but they’re not in my orbit – who managed to get through childbirth and menopause within the same lifecycle. Back in the day, some women ended up in asylums through either of those life phases. Then, there were no proper diagnoses, the patriarchal medical fraternity didn’t care, and these women were considered crazy, a menace to themselves, their children and society. 

 

But here I am. My husband lives to tell the tale. My children are alive. They’re healthy, growing as they should. I’m proud that they’re relatively calm, and well-adjusted, though I do wonder how they will recall their early days in adulthood. I’ve had a career pivot during this period. I am relatively calm and happy where I am. On most days. It wasn’t always like this. There are off days but those are getting fewer and farther. I’m work in progress.

 

I’ve earned my flowers. You’ve done damn good, Mrs T!

 

We won’t be silenced

 

I’d like to express heartfelt thanks to the strong voices coming out to show humanity that we’re relevant regardless of age. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. There’s nothing to hide from. Halle Berry comes to mind. She’s 57 years old, as beautiful as ever, and is campaigning for legislation changes around the Big M and women’s health. Hormone treatment must become readily available for all who need it.

 

Menopause has been released from the closet. We still have a way to go to take ourselves back to the times of ancient civilisations when women were celebrated during this majestic life phase. Women were revered for their intuitive wisdom, soft beauty, and fierce strength. Here’s to the rise of the Feminine, bringing back the sorely missing balance with the Masculine.

 

And remember dear hearts, don’t forget to pat yourselves on the back. Celebrate all kinds of progress; the ‘I-got-out-of-bed-today’ ones and the ‘I-made-a-million’ ones. They’re all significant. They all matter. You matter.