Obviously, menopause will make you think about mortality, and not just because of the alliterative mmmm sound. Menopause and mid-life have long been the fodder for books, movies and podcasts about reflection about what has come before, and choices about what lies ahead. I’m an overthinker so I feel like a professional reflector, and by that I mean that I’ve had anxiety for years about mistakes, missteps and how little time is left. I remember feeling like I had missed my calling (whatever it was supposed to have been) when I turned 20. So, it’s like I’ve been practicing for menopause my whole life! 

Today there was a new experience in my mortality play–taking down the holiday decorations. This is always bittersweet, since I think of myself as someone who loves the holiday season even though it never really delivers on all its nebulous promises of family togetherness with soft focus and the right gifts. Growing up, holidays were a fraught time for my family. There were custody battles, sibling battles, complicated visits with extended family and second families, and the ever present not-enough-money plotline. As an adult, I’ve tried to curate a holiday experience for my husband and son that was less heavy and more Hallmark. And I succeeded–to a point. Because the holidays, no matter how much I plan and prep and smile, always make me a little sad. I think it’s that way for a lot of people, no matter how many cookies we bake and movies we watch. 

The height of this seasonal depression has to be the post holiday slump. All the planning, all the cleaning, all the baking, all the anticipation–is over. And now you’re left with a dried out tree, five extra pounds and the specter of New Year’s with all its ‘what have you done and what do you plan to do-ness.

Today, this emotional/menopausal tsunami crept up on me while taking down the decorations. I’m 54. My son is 19. This year he brought his girlfriend home for the week before xmas. How long will it be until he’s spending the holiday at another family’s home? How long until my husband and I debate whether it’s worth it to put up a tree or not? How many holiday seasons does this bag of bones held together with tissue paper have left? 

Of course, the answer is ‘I don’t know.” And I HATE that answer. I HATE not knowing. It’s one of my greatest faults. I hate not knowing and I hate other people knowing that I don’t know. This hatred of not knowing has caused problems my whole life. I hate to be a beginner, which means that learning new things has always been a race for me, instead of an enjoyment of new experiences and knowledge. I hate uncertainty in any form. And menopause (and mortality) is all about uncertainty ranging from when will I have my next hot flash, to if/when will I have grandchildren, all the way to how long do I have left?

So as I shook out the inflatable Santa piloting a plane and unwrapped the lights from the porch, I tried to be more grateful than ghoulish. I tried to remember all the bright spots of the holidays this year–watching my son be a great boyfriend, my dog making a full recovery from surgery, finding a gift my husband didn’t immediately say we should return, and following my son dressed as a Gingerbread Man in a Christmas parade as he danced through the streets despite the rain. Those memories will hopefully imprint themselves into my aging brain folds and edge out the not-so-bright spots this holiday season…near constant hot flashes, losing my keys (on Christmas Eve), and throwing my back out (also on Christmas Eve). 

I don’t think I’ll ever consider myself an optimist. I don’t think I have enough time left on earth to change THAT much. But maybe I can use what time I have left and move toward being more optimistic. Maybe.