RONA ALTROWS
First letter to my mother
Mommy,
Why didn’t you tell me about this stuff?
Wait, that’s not how I wanted to say it. It’s coming out all wrong. Too confrontational, too much shifting of blame.
Blame for what?
Time betrayed you. You were meant to become a grand old lady. Instead you were dead at fifty-nine. But you must have gone through menopause. How was it?
Nobody talked about it then. Tell me now. Please.
First conversation with my self
Mirror, mirror.
You can see the botched suicide attempt at age twenty, the seventy-two-hour sponge bath of your feverish baby daughter, the crying jag when your parents said, No, you can’t go to Europe with a boy, he’s sure to corrupt you.
Ahead, what? Decline? Illness? Dementia? Or greater control?
In childbirth classes the instructor says: “It’s all about control. Keep your eyes glued on your focal point to keep control of the contraction. Control your breathing during the contraction. Rest between contractions to stay in control.” The instructor visits you in the eighteenth hour of anaesthetic-free dry labour. You don’t want to disappoint. You fake perfect concentration and perfect breathing for three contractions. “That’s it, that’s it, total control,” the instructor says. When she leaves, you let loose.
Now, you hit fifty, career’s okay, relationship’s good, no more pregnancies in the cards, no more diapers, no more first-day-of-kindergarten jitters to help your kid through.
You have learned not to take crap.
Now what?
Your period doesn’t come, doesn’t come, doesn’t come. You figure it’s for sure now, you’re done. You call your friends and say, “Guess what, I’ve arrived.” Then, on Day Sixty-one, boom, you get your rag.
What kind of control is that?
Conversation with my new medicine woman
You’re in choppy waters but you are a strong paddler. On the other side of this is calm.
You do have a medical degree?
Oh yes.
Why don’t you sound like other doctors?
I breathe through my fingernails. I would like to move a small herd of elephants into my bathroom. I am the emotional matrix of my family.
No wonder we connect.
Pick a card. Any card.
First conversation with my thirteen-year-old daughter
“You still can’t tell me to shut up, no matter how close you are to your period. You have problems with hormone levels? Me too.”
Second letter to my mother
No wonder it’s coming out all wrong. You never helped me get ready for this one.
Thanks to your two-year training program, I knew exactly what to do when the first period came. Look for the blue thread running down the centre of the pad. Keep the blue thread on the bottom, away from the body. Secure the ends of the pad to the clasps on the front and back of the belt. Make sure the long end of the pad is in the back.
We practiced a lot before I ever bled.
When I was four years old, you prepared me for motherhood with these words: When you hold your baby, hold her close.
But we never talked about menopause.
Can we talk now, Mommy? Can you give me the language, the tips, the tools?
First conversation with my friend
Eighty-five days. You?
Twenty-three. But then, the time before, I went more than three months. I’m all over the place. Plus forgetful. The night sweats are the worst.
For me, the worst thing is feeling misunderstood.
That too.
Are you taking anything?
Evening primrose oil, ginseng, black cohosh, devil’s claw. All the beneficial herbs.
Dong Quai?
You bet.
My doctor says it’s unproven.
What do Western doctors know?
This one is different. A medicine woman.
Consignment store incident
I’m standing in line with the skirt I have chosen folded over my arms. The two women in line ahead of me are about my age.
Looking straight at me, the salesperson says, “Oops, your dress is on inside out.” I glance down, then head back to the changing room. The women in line do not giggle. For that I am grateful.
Second conversation with my friend
Morris has offered to take Viagra.
What?
Once a week is all he can muster. Always on Sunday night. An hour later I’m ready for the next round. I mean, one orgasm is not necessarily enough.
Definitely not.
Well, he can’t do a thing after the one time. He’s too tired.
And in the morning?
Still hasn’t recovered.
Does he sigh?
Thank the Goddess no, he doesn’t do that.
Rolly sighs. We get up in the morning. I’m fixing coffee. He’ll come up behind me and pat me on the shoulder a few times, pat-pat-pat. Then he lets out a huge, heaving sigh.
Don’t those guys know you don’t have to be ninety until you’re ninety?
Would it help to find a younger lover?
Out of the question. How could I spend the night with someone who’s never heard of Otis Redding?
Second conversation with my thirteen-year-old daughter
I like it when we get along.
Me too.
My friends’ moms aren’t as open with them as you are with me.
I am going to share plenty with you about the journey I’m on now. Because when it’s your turn, I’d like you to have some traveller’s aids on hand.
What do you mean, traveller’s aids?
Language. Tools. Tips.
Second conversation with my self
It’s not my mother’s silence on the subject, that’s not what is making it come out all wrong. It’s because I am trying to describe a work in progress.
Wouldn’t it be wild to write about sex while having it? Then the sex and the writing would both come out wrong.
Still looking for the blue thread.