Menopause - Your Last Chance To Grow Up

My mother passed away when I was in my thirties and the menopause was a distant hurdle. So when my time came for this rite of passage she was not there to be consulted. In a kind of mild desperation I turned to a number of older women in a search for surrogate mothering and asked, “How was it for you?” To my surprise, I was met with a wall of denial. Nearly all said they couldn’t remember, a few said they hadn’t noticed anything, and at least two women opined that they were too busy to succumb to such a triviality. This left me feeling vulnerable, confused, and not a little ashamed. Now if I had been living in Japan where apparently a life-long diet of tofu mitigates the symptoms, it would have been understandable, but I live in the Western world and my ladies at best may have hazarded the occasional miso soup.

So what was this? It occurred to me that these women had grown up in an era in which such things were never mentioned, let alone discussed. I had probably inadvertently embarrassed them. During my own childhood (lost in history I suppose), I remember those mysterious whispered comments such as “She’s got women’s troubles.” With a fertile imagination at work and the assured knowledge that I too would one day be a woman, these “women’s trouble” became a monster lying in wait. As I grew and the sixties blossomed into full Technicolor, everything was out in the open, so by the time I was a candidate for the above mentioned, at least I knew what was meant: infertility, excess bleeding, prolapsed womb, yeast infection. However, the “change” was not on anyone’s lips. Of course there is much literature available and some great publications like “Our Bodies, Ourselves”, but like any grieving person I needed one-on-one comforting. I use the word “grieving” deliberately, for unlike puberty which is a flowering, the menopause, with its sister manifestations of confusion, discomfort, and bodily changes, is a reminder of the end of things—an unflowering so to speak. And what full-blooded woman wants to be a part of that? So in our panic we turn to hormonal supplements, plastic surgery, anti-depressants, a never-ending cornucopia of alternatives. Yet underneath we are all suffering bereavement—our younger self has passed over and we are left in the limbo world of loss.

How we cope depends on the individual, and as I write this, I think that what I really want to say is this; we can be a phoenix rising. This is our last chance to really grow up. Let’s face it, at 55 and over, we have probably achieved as much as we are ever going to in terms of what we set out to do, so the way is now clear for new horizons, new accomplishments, new ideas. My personal turning point was when, aged 58, after a lifelong fear of water, I taught myself to swim. O.K. I know that’s a bit extreme, but that was my epiphany.

Ladies—a menstrual-free life is great! Being called a “wrinkly” is not the worst thing. Most of my closest friends are involved in new and amazing adventures, and I don’t mean travel to exotic places. The adventure is an inner one. Each of us is a repository of immense knowledge. It doesn’t matter what your background is—ethnic, educational or financial—when you reach 60 you know a thing or two. So use it. It could be the wearing of a red hat, learning a new skill, or coming to terms with illness. Don’t become invisible and don’t suffer alone. I and millions like me are there for anyone who needs a shoulder. Life is a continuity of choices—basically two; how do I make this better or how do I make this worse? Very often, us mature women know.

So no throwing in the towel. In fact come and see what I get up to these days designing printed tops for my more mature and discerning clients (and I don’t mean old and picky!) who are making the most of their lives and want to look good doing it. It’s undergoing a major overhaul these days (who isn’t?). Drop by and spoil yourself. You deserve it.

Wouldn’t be me these days if I didn’t leave you with a short poem, one of many written over the last few, eventful years.

Over the hill?
On the decline?
I can choose
To toboggan, or roly-poly,
Stumble and tumble,
Carefully descend with faltering steps,
Or leap from rock to rock.
I can sit on my bum and slide,
I can stop and have a picnic,
Pick flowers, bird watch, hang glide,
Jump from the top and get it all over with.
But the choice is still mine
And the view continues
Until you reach the bottom.

Mali Joy Livingstone