In the middle of October, during a writing workshop I was running, I was reborn a crone. Literally. I didn’t know it at the time. I had been doing menopause inelegantly and with some concern. The summer had seen a hysteroscopy and a D&C and the red wave was back, at least until October, after having been intermittent for years, me waiting with both hope and dread for the big M.
Now, I gotta pause for a moment. Some of you are like reading this and are feeling that Too Much Information kind of feeling. Suck it up. I’m going to write about being a crone. Menstruation is actually the coin of womanhood for some people, nay, for our society in general. Whaaaattt??? Look, it’s all about women being luscious like fruit, or having babies whether you want to or not, right? (Disclaimer: I do not really believe it’s about being luscious like fruit or having babies whether you want to or not, right? I’m doing some hyperbole about the media and recent politics in some states. Making a point here.)
I became a crone. My period, the last one, was weird, stringy, off schedule, and short. After, I went for two months with nothing, went to my gyn, took some hormones, and…nothing. AND then we did some tests and discovered my uterine lining wasn’t enough to shed anymore. Game over.
My god. The worry! Because when you don’t work like you used to work, well, the worry. I will turn 54 shortly, and I’ve been through escalating health scares. What is this bump? Why does my chest hurt? What if I have cancer? Why is my cholesterol going up? This too is part of getting older. Not necessarily will an older person be in bad health, but each time something goes wrong (and things do keep going wrong. My warranty is old), I would turn my thoughts to ageist dread and mortality.
But, too, the relief. Some time, not this post, we’ll talk about waiting for the big M and an active sex life (and this is where many of you say you’re out. Don’t worry. It’ll be appropriate. Trust me.) Finally, a great deal of concern was lifted from my shoulders. NOT fertile. Yes! And I’m lucky enough to not have complications beyond the occasional warm flash. It seems to be working out for me so far.
In the spring, I had a croning party with some amazing people. A bunch of friends got together and we talked about this next stage of life. I tried to find a poem to commemorate my aging, and there was all this bullshit about the elderly staring down the barrel of the mortality gun. Shame on you, Dylan Thomas! Mortality is coming for all of us, which does not absolve us of the responsibility to live life for as long as we can, the best as we can.
And that’s what I’m all about here. I intend to change not a jot about my approach to living. I am soon 54. I’ve been traveling the world and will continue to do so. I teach and just changed up all my classes so I have more time to write the fiction I want to write. I intend to wear a Queen Hippolyta suit to a science fiction convention this July. It’s my life. This is the way I’ve always lived my life.
I know. I am soon 54. Do you really want to see me in a Queen Hippolyta suit? And here’s the thing: that I have to ask myself that question AT ALL is why I am writing The Crone. What kind of bullshit is it that I want to do the things I always have done, and just because my hair is gray and I have more wrinkles, the culture around me has made me question the certainty of who I am and whether I should do what I want? When did I even begin to think about the term “age appropriate?” Not cool, cultural indoctrination. I see I gotta fight you like I fight The Man (TM).
These articles, which I will put out at least twice a month, if not more, are going to grapple with that regarding my life in specific, and regarding aging women in the world in general. Crones. Kick. Ass. I hope you will join me on this journey, because living your life authentically is for everyone, and I hope if you’re a crone, you too will give the what-you-are-supposed-to-do people the finger.