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Change of life, change my life
I had a grown-woman milestone last week: my first hot flash. It happened while I was sitting talking with one of my dearest friends. We were talking about perimenopause — that poorly-defined place that is no place before a woman’s body finally crosses all the way over into the next phase.
For months before the hot flash, I felt an irrational level of anxiety a few days before my period. My joints ached and I found that suddenly I wanted a nap every day, regardless of how well I slept the night before. I was 47, just about the right age. The great unconfirmed sources of the internet (and a few of the confirmed ones) all suggested that it might be, could be, maybe was perimenopause.
I hoped it was so. “Come on,” I whispered to my uterus, every 28-ish days, “We can be done with all this.”
Ever since I was nothing more than cells in my grandmother’s womb I have known that I didn’t want to have children. Before I even understood what a uterus was, I knew mine would be for something else. From my first period at age 13, it was a time keeper, a connector. Blessed with regular periods, I could predict cycles of energy, comfort, and ibuprofen usage. I could connect instantly with the women around me as I moved through a series of changing careers, each featuring very different kinds of women.