What Happens When a Crone Like Me Makes a Simple Comment about Menopause

A true "what the hell!" response.

My recent effort to acquire calm and relaxation included limiting my Substack reading. I failed a few times at this, mostly because writers I find essential kept writing terrific stories.

One was Kim Foster’s essay, “On Getting Old.” The piece explored her response to entering menopause and the wider implications of society’s views on aging women. Foster’s writing always pops with intelligence, its intensity sometimes leaving me breathless. The recent spurt of movies, TV, and books centered on women aging has had me thinking of my own experience and I was curious about what she would say. I have rarely commented on Kim’s previous posts but her essay was so bracing that I decided then to do so.

Credit: Hans Ulmer

“On Getting Old” attracted a slew of comments. Especially compelling were those from women of color who objected to the fact that it seems the main character in stories about menopause is often a well-off white woman. Others mentioned the inequality women deal with in their pursuit of healthcare and the economic uncertainty that comes late in life. Most heartening were the good handful that spoke passionately about their continuing exuberance well into their 80s and 90s.

My comment was nothing like that and yet it has become the most liked. So far there are 398 likes and the number keeps growing. (To read it, select “Top First.”) What I wrote wasn’t the least controversial. It doesn’t add particularly unique thoughts about aging. Written in my mom’s unsympathetic—buck up, get over it, everything is fine—tone, I can’t imagine how it is helpful to younger women.

I went through menopause about 15 years ago, basically alone. Even among my friends and my sister we didn’t mention what we were going through. If we did, it was dismissive, something to make light of. A series of doctors–men and women–consistently dismissed the upheaval it was causing to my physical and mental health. When I brought up the problems I was having with sex, they seemed to think it was my fault. A memorable recommendation from one doctor was to accept the fact that I was kaput in that department and probably should be grateful for it, too.

Which brings me to humor. My comment advocates laughing. You have to have a healthy sense of humor when you meet your new face every morning. Fresh aches and joint failures that seem to pop up every hour are mostly hilarious, especially if you insist you’re not kaput. And let’s stop counting the many times we forget names and dates. There is great joy when you finally remember them.

This doesn’t mean I’m not cantankerous about aging at times. There is fear and sadness about what is ahead. Yet there is wonder at how all my stupid, hard, lucky, selfish, generous, lost, and found moments finally braid together. It is leading to strength and grace

I still can’t figure out why, at this particular moment, menopausal women are having a moment. It would have certainly been helpful to me 15 years ago. But it’s good that it’s happening, especially if the conversation widens to inclusively embrace all of our shared experiences.

I will blame my 90-year-old aunt for teaching me how to age. The first thing she would do in the morning after rolling carefully out of bed and zipping into her flowered bathrobe, was grab hold of her walker and head for her front door. She’d unlock it, take a big breath, and shout at the top of her lungs, “hello world!”. Then she’d (slowly) dress, put on her signature lipstick—Revlon’s #440, “Cherries in the Snow”—and sally forth, for whatever her day would bring.

---

One more thing before you go…..

Help spread your love of America Eats! by pressing the little heart above. You’ll be supporting my work in a very meaningful way and also helping my newsletter to have a presence on Substack!