The Estrogen Dialogues

By Margy McCarthy

Nobody warned me about the potential repercussions of the “you can have it all” eighties.

Maybe Nostradamus or some gypsy woman somewhere said something about it, but my friends and I weren’t paying attention. We were all too busy wondering who shot J.R., adjusting our shoulder-pads, and seeking personally-meaningful careers that allowed us to express ourselves creatively while flipping through pages of the latest from Adolfo and L.L. Bean.

We were a new breed of American adult female. We had opportunities previous generations never dreamed of, and we were encouraged- nay, expected- to take care of number one, get an education, and postpone procreation until the glass ceilings had all been chiseled through. We were so busy bringing home the bacon and frying it up in a pan, we didn’t give much thought to the implications of not birthing our own children straight out of the blocks.

And now the implications are here. We eye the calendar warily each month with nightmare visions of our only claim to lasting fame being the Guinness Book World Record for oldest recorded childbirth. We discover for ourselves what our mothers meant when they expressed a stray desire to coat their bodies in peppermint oil and ride the roller coaster at the state fair naked. We settle uneasily into a new routine of deep-penetrating anti-wrinkle serums and progesterone creams; we find ourselves staring with envy at our vehicles on the lift at Jiffy-Lube… and our daughters simultaneously begin THE MENARCHE.

Say it with me. Menarche. Has a militaristic ring to it, doesn’t it? A strong word. Powerful. Commanding. And, oh, how commanding it is.

I have heard of menopausal women becoming despondent; mourning their lost youth and their inability to conceive. I have heard of women who wept their own personal trail of tears right into “The Pause”-- but I ain’t one of ’em. No sirree. The moment Shriek was handed to me in the hospital and I saw for myself that she had all her parts intact, I was ready to be done. In the thirteen years since, I have calmed my horror at the sight of a box of tampons in the guest bath at my parents house when my dad’s sixty-something sister was visiting with the knowledge that my own mother experienced an early, fairly graceful (except for the hot-flash roller-coaster remark) change of life. I fell to my knees and fervently prayed that the determining factors for my own reproductive longevity were provided in DNA from the maternal side of my family.

And so it seemed to be. For four full months the tides, the pull of full moons, the hormonal fluctuations lost their power over me. I relaxed into the lull, smug and self-satisfied. I leaned back in my chair with a smile. There would be no more visits from old Auntie Flo for me. This was easy! I crawled comfortably into my bed each night and woke refreshed, inwardly chuckling at the very idea of night sweats.

And then, just as I was certain I had crept unscathed out the back door of fertility- Shriek began menarching all over the place like the Russian army on steroids, rounding up recruits. “Как вы, Margy?” the generals shouted greetings from the tops of their tanks, “Долгое время никакое видит!” (How are you, Margy? Long time, no see!)

“No, no!” I moaned, throwing back the suddenly oppressive stifling inferno of my bedcovers, “Go away!

“Вы должны соединить армию!” (You must join the army!) they called, and the drums began to pound, high tide rushed in, and the full moon pulsed hypnotically.

“But I served my time!” I protested, “I don’t want to reenlist.”

“Вы не имеете никакой выбор.” (You have no choice) they laughed, "Вы решили вашу судьбу 30 лет тому назад.” (You decided your fate thirty years ago.)

The eighties sure did have their consequences. I guess I should have paid more attention to perestroika, and less to Dallas.

Comments

[Nina]

Hilarious! Brilliant. And so true.

Вашa другa, Nina

[Joanne]

That was hilarious! With 4 daughters, I don't think I will ever go through menopause.

[margalit]

It happened to me, too. Twice. I thought I was done, I had passed the year mark, and then it came back. For maybe 4 or 5 months, and then went away again.... for another year. And came back. It's been gone for many months but I'm wiser now and I don't think it's quite gone forever. I know I still feel mettlesmirch (ovulation pain) and I still get totally PMS right on schedule. It so sucks.

[Daisy]

I am so, so ready to be done with the March of Monthly. I hope it doesn't speak Russian to me on the way out -- PigLatin or Gibberish would work, though.