Guest Post by NYAnn who grew up in (and later returned to) upstate New York. She graduated from BYU with a BA in English and a Master’s in Library Science, and worked in academic, public, and special libraries in Utah, Ohio and New York until her recent retirement. She loves to read and regularly posts reviews at goodreads.com. She enjoys crossword puzzles, eating, and sleeping.

Menopause . . . I knew it happened. Girls started menstruating around age 12, and women stopped around—50? 60? But it was a vague concept, rarely discussed except for jokes about hot flashes. I was grown and away from home when my mother entered menopause and heard brief reports about heavy periods, a new gynecologist and a recommendation for a hysterectomy, a second and third opinion until she was satisfied with an out-patient procedure.

I wish I had known more. I wish I had asked more questions. But would it have done any good? I wasn’t fully prepared for puberty—and that’s fairly basic and straightforward. Menopause, I learned, is totally not and differs dramatically from person to person. Would reading, listening, talking have helped? Or just set me up?

Because, at age 48, I slammed into menopause. It altered me physically. It impacted my job. It affected my interactions with others. And it dramatically changed my relationship with God.

My first symptoms were light-headedness and feeling out of it. This was odd and I couldn’t link it to anything specific. But the episodes were generally short, and I could still function. Then, Memorial Day weekend, the next symptom hit—insomnia. This was far more dramatic and severely interfered with life. I asked for a priesthood blessing. I was assured that it was temporary, and promised insight to know how to avoid similar problems in the future. I took courage, gritted my teeth, and went on.

Until I couldn’t, because it didn’t pass and I wasn’t healed, despite researching best practices in coping with sleep deprivation. After a second bout on Independence Day a doctor in our family practice prescribed a mild anti-depressant that didn’t work. I brought up the possibility of being pre-menopausal. The male doctor dismissed it; the female doctor, several weeks later, referred me to all-natural products. I didn’t realize that I could see a gynecologist without a referral (and the family practice insisted they were fully competent), so at the end of August I returned to the male who gave me an ineffective hormone. After a frightening bout with crashing fatigue in mid-September, and periods that although lighter and shorter were more frequent and accompanied by terrible cramping, I saw a new doctor who honestly admitted that she was out of her depth and sent me to a “real” person. At last . . . and I learned the valuable lessons of searching, asking, trusting my instincts, and standing up for myself. The second hormone worked! My symptoms didn’t disappear, but they were (mostly) manageable. After several years, several ultrasounds, and a diagnosis of worsening fibroids, I had a hysterectomy. That solved the cramping, but other hormonal issues continued.       

One of the websites I found listed over 30 symptoms of menopause. Four I circled because they were so massive; another ten I checked off; two I added. That made sixteen—nearly half! And they were so wide-ranging and, frankly, bizarre! Aches and pains, especially in my shoulders? Gas, indigestion, and nausea? Gum soreness and excess fluid in my mouth? Over the next months and years some of these problems arrived and never left. Others popped in to say hello, waved and vanished. Still others came, eased to the point I sighed with relief, then returned with a vengeance. I soon had a gastroenterologist who, after subjecting me to tests, dietary restrictions and medications, diagnosed me with acid reflux and irritable bowel syndrome. I visited a rheumatologist who X-rayed me, sent me to physical therapy, and gave me drugs. I saw a periodontist who couldn’t find anything wrong with my gums, and an endodontist where I endured a root canal. Perhaps these additional issues would have occurred anyway—but it was hard not to think that menopause either caused or exacerbated them. Don’t ignore or dismiss health problems, even if they don’t seem related.

In many ways I was lucky. Thanks to excellent benefits through my job, everything was affordable. I had ample sick leave, and had accumulated hundreds of hours; when I eventually exhausted these I qualified for unpaid leave through FMLA (the Family and Medical Leave Act). My employer couldn’t fire me, and I retained my insurance. Even so, I felt that I was letting my co-workers down by my inconsistency. Especially at first, and then with new hires who hadn’t known me before, I wanted to send out an explanatory statement: “It’s not my fault! I’m not sluffing off! This is not who I really am!”

My husband and I didn’t always see eye to eye, and he was impatient at times with my physical woes; but having another person to talk to, drive me to endless appointments, pick up prescriptions and call me in sick, was incredibly helpful. My daughter was also kind, thoughtful and willing to assist. An empathetic but firm visiting teacher helped me overcome my tendency to downplay or apologize for my problems. I couldn’t have coped if I was alone. A support system is crucial.

I’d started journaling in college, and writing regularly had great benefits. These ranged from simply recording what was happening to pouring out my emotions and frustrations in a safe place. Pausing to organize, analyze, and reflect was more difficult, although there were occasional “Aha!” moments. Looking back at previous entries brought relief when life had improved, and sometimes “Wow!” when I realized how much I’d still managed to accomplish.  

Dark chocolate is the most marvelous edible in the world and makes any day brighter (plus, it’s good for you!).

The Relief Society president (who I’d grown up with) reminded me of several sisters who’d been adversely impacted by menopause psychologically, some severely. It could always be worse. “God gives women menopause because otherwise we’d take over the world,” I declared.

But why? Why is God so indifferent? Other issues contributed to my growing religious cynicism, but menopause was definitely the start. I asked for blessings of health or comfort and tried to exercise faith and hope and do my part. I prayed endlessly, sometimes with tears streaming down my face, for help, for guidance, for some indication that a divine being was actually listening and really cared. I faithfully attended church meetings and the temple, served in callings, read the scriptures and lesson manuals and magazines, hoping to hear or see the magic words or story or explanation that would make it all right. I tied myself in knots trying to justify what I was going through and how it was benefiting me or helping me grow spiritually. I was desperate to find a “reason” that didn’t dismiss me as a beloved child of God, make light of my issues, mock me, or turn me into a worthless sinner.

These feelings weren’t incessant, or I couldn’t have survived. There were happy, productive times and periods of stability. There were fantastic, encouraging people. There were days, weeks and months when I relaxed and even laughed.

But I didn’t realize how much stress and anxiety I was imposing on myself until I decided to just stop. My church attendance had become sporadic; I went to bed on Saturdays with the best of intentions, then felt guilty when I dragged myself up late, tired, and miserable. That choice was simply, “I’m not going to try anymore. If it happens, it happens. Whatever, I won’t worry.” I turned down callings. I still studied the scriptures, but with feminist commentaries and a pen close by to mark things up. I found helpful blogs. Finally, I stopped praying. As for Heavenly Mother, I can only conclude that she’s been exiled, imprisoned, or beaten into submission. How can a mother defend this (un)Godly behavior?

Seventeen years after it began, I still suffer from digestive issues and arthritis and deal with insomnia, but the majority of female problems have ended.  I’ve considerably lowered my expectations of “musts” and “shoulds,” and instead focus on what I need and want. That includes having little to do with the organized church and reading, studying and thinking on my own. I believe in the Jesus of the New Testament—especially in his healing of the woman with the “issue of blood” (Luke 8:43-48)—but object to a patriarchy uninterested in and unsupportive of women. Maybe someday they’ll adapt, or maybe someday I’ll adjust. Whatever, I’m at peace.

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This post is part of the series Menopause and Me.