Last summer, shortly after coming back from BlogHer, I hopped in my car in the pre-dawn and drove 4 hours to see a specialist. My hope was that he could treat me with bio-identical hormone therapy, to get my hormones up to a respectable level where I might start ovulating again.
What he told me was crushingly disappointing: “I can treat you with fertility drugs to get you pregnant, or I can treat you with bio-identicals as though you were a 55 year old woman.”
I don’t want to be treated with fertility drugs. I’m pretty adamant on that one.
But it’s taken me a long time to come to terms with being treated like a 55-year-old menopausal woman, too. Last week, I finally got into the car at 5am to go back to the specialist. The road wasn’t great; the weather was questionable. The gas station that I usually stop at wasn’t open yet – no coffee is a bad sign, right?
And although none of those things were really true (I’ve driven uncaffeinated in worse weather), when I got to the edge of town, right before getting on the highway…I turned around and came back. It didn’t feel right.
I reassured Alfred that the car and I were fine, crawled back into bed, and cried.
I guess I’m just not ready to give up hope of being “normal”. I’m not ready to admit that the menopausal state I find myself in isn’t purely stress-related.
I am not ready to be treated as though I were a 55-year-old menopausal woman.