When I first started telling people that I would be blogging about menopause a few of them were persistent in suggesting that I write about, “What my Mother never told me.” And as I sit down to write that’s not as easy as it sounds. I’ve never looked at this whole experience thinking, “Wow Mom, you could have saved me a lot of hassle if you’d just come clean years ago.” In fact, she tries really hard to help me and she’s definitely supportive – almost to a fault – but in reality, this has mostly been a very solitary journey for me. And now that I think about it, I’m not exactly sure why.

My Mom had a hysterectomy when I was a senior in college, so I was away from home. I don’t really remember being aware that there were “problems” – and I think, back then, doctors were yanking uterus’ out at the drop of a hat (she’s gonna kill me when she reads this). I’m sure she had her reasons for being concerned about what was happening to her. I can remember her not wanting my sister or me to see her in her hospital bed. Maybe she was protecting us, but in retrospect, I’m kind of embarrassed that she went through something that major and I was so oblivious. (I do remember her being concerned that her incision would interfere with her golf swing.)

So 25 years go by and it’s time for my hysterectomy. Now don’t go jumping to conclusions about heredity because my hysterectomy was necessary due to severe endometriosis (although no one knew that until I was lying prone on the operating table) and that’s not something my Mother ever had. But what could I really learn from my Mom’s experience? In my case, not as much as you’d think.

My Mom was certainly with me every step of the way as I stumbled around trying to find answers. And I do recall that it was frustrating for both of us because she had answers but they weren’t typically the ones that solved my particular problems. Although, she was the first one to tell me to supplement my estrogen if I didn’t want my body to curve into a permanent S – and I am an adamant proponent of HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy). God knows Mom really tried with collective knowledge of her and her friends and acquaintances, i.e., coworkers, friends, beauticians, etc., (It’s important to note that nail specialists tend to understand gynecology much better than cleaning ladies – although you always go to cleaning ladies for advice on buying new cars). I guess the main drawback was that some of the knowledge was old and outdated (no it’s not that the female body has changed, but the medical profession has changed quite a bit in relation to treatments). Her own memory was somewhat faded and some of those shared experiences that she offered up were not handled particularly well in the first place, in my opinion. So we had a lot of weird and contradictory conversations. They went something like this, “I’m worried to hear that you’re bleeding so heavily. My friend Mary’s gynecologist said that you could become anemic and really damage your health if you don’t find a way to stop that. Maybe you should go to the emergency room, how many days has it been?” “Thanks Mom, but I’m not going to the emergency room, my doctor says I’ll be fine and this is pretty normal.” “Your doctor sounds like a medical school dropout, I want you to see my friend Angie’s guy – he really helped her…” It was always so touching when my Mother determined that my doctors weren’t taking good enough care of her baby – but it could also be exacerbating. She would go on a tirade threatening everything up to and including castration of the offending physician. Unfortunately, those were often the very times when I was finally feeling that I had reached the best possible answer due to the diligence and superior intellect of “the dropout.” Clearly she did not agree. And I was not going to escape her wrath when she was on a roll (guess I get that quality from her). In all honesty, there were times when her support felt more like an indictment of me and my ability to reason at all – although I know it was never meant that way. Mothers and daughters, what can you say.

She wanted to help me so badly that she was willing to annoy the hell out of me in order to do it. And sometimes, when I was annoyed as hell – I knew it was because she was right and I wasn’t ready to face the facts.

So overall would I have been better off with or without my Mother’s involvement in my journey into menopause? Unequivocably, no. Some days she made me pull my hair out, but she always gave me something to think about and she absolutely always gave me the loving support that let me know I’d be ok no matter what. She was ALWAYS there for me. Ironically, my Mom’s Mother (my Grandma Irene) died when my Mom was 27. So she probably never had a conversation with her own Mother about menopause. I’d say she did a hell of a job helping me – especially without the benefit of any guidance for her own journey. (Thanks Mom, I love ya!)

And now that I deal with the joys of surgical scar tissue causing abdominal pressure I hear, “That can’t be right; I know I never had that. You probably need to go see a specialist as that just isn’t right. It doesn’t make sense that you would have that when I never did. I’ve never heard of that before…” Some things never change…but would you really want them to?