I’m thinking about my body, shaken after a bad night. Memories of the worst nights, tossing and sweating, mystery pain and panic rising up in the dark. The old rib injury flares, always a sign that something is amiss. The weird traveling headache, the roiling gut, the prone pain that comes and goes, makes no sense.
I hate it all.
The thing I hate the most, though, is thinking about my body. I never used to think about my body. It worked and when it didn’t, it was brief and minor. Now, it doesn’t know how to be that body anymore and I think about it all the time.
What is it doing now? What is this rash, that pain, the unexplained everything of the midlife body? Ringing ears, smudgy vision, weak ankles, grocery store nerves. I’m suddenly wary of this thing that has been here all along (my body!), but has been so stoically reliable and, therefore, virtually untended. Now, I think about my body because it yells at me. Something, it seems, is begging for attention every single day.
When I was young, I lived outside of my body. Youth was an exterior experience, a very outward facing time. My body was a mode of transportation that I could decorate if I wanted. I was blessed with good health and a strong body that endured all that I asked of it with grace. And I asked a lot. I was a reckless kid, up trees and faster than everyone else. Proving myself physically was imperative, partially due to my stepfather, an aggressive, competitive gym teacher. It was my dearest wish to beat him always, so I challenged him on tennis courts and softball fields, won speed contests and never let him see my weakness. I think he was secretly impressed by my tenacity and athleticism, but he was casually cruel and I never heard about it. He only mentioned our failures.
I didn’t think about my young body, except to admire it or chastise it for aesthetic reasons. The bad hair day, the audible zit, the mustache. I wrestled it into a rough facsimile of conventional beauty. Meanwhile, it faithfully powered me through every choice. Late nights, bad food, drinking and drugging, stupid boys and worse men. My body gave me four healthy children. Four trouble-free pregnancies and drama-free births. It nourished and nurtured all those people for decades and, in hindsight, I was blind to its power. I had high, unexamined expectations. My body will wake up every morning, healthy and strong, and I will hold up the sky for everyone until I fall asleep at night. I can do anything, my body is my servant.
Silly girl.
When I was 44, I fell down. Down like a tree, out like a light, for no apparent reason. I fell down because I wouldn’t sit down. I passed out and, upon waking, I was different. A new, raw and fragile woman. A body slipped of its husk, loosed from its chains.
I only realized my mistake - the mistake of ignoring the body - after the fact. After the ambulance, and the second faint while the crew fished for a vein, and the exhausted, helpless hours in an ER bed. Later, in the backyard with tea, my brain calmly explained it to me. Drew me a picture.
It was 2008, the year of global financial crisis, and I was catering nights to stanch the bleed when my husband’s pay was cut. The long, strong marriage was tested. I skipped dinner the night before, choosing instead a pomegranate martini. My visiting mother had been weepy and needy for days (hence the martini). I was deep in the daunting task of raising four children. I was, in hindsight, exhausted and stressed, and crashing into perimenopause - that tricky chapter when a woman should be handed a drink and a book and sent to sit for a few years.
Perimenopause can be a nonstop parade of symptoms, or none. It can last 10 years, more or less. Or not. A woman can begin to suffer as early as her thirties or she can never suffer at all. Who knows. Spin the wheel!
She may be told, as I was, that she just needs an antidepressant or a Xanax. That she should take a vacation or sleep more. Maybe yoga or meditation. Therapy. There may be finger wagging about her chocolate habit or her wine consumption, and there are many diets that promise to fix female troubles.
The truth, however — the messy, ungovernable truth — is that hormones rule and you have little control. Sleep and diets and vacations and pills may help for a bit, they may mask and assuage the upheaval briefly, but the next moment brings new upheaval. There’s no math or science involved. It’s a weary waiting, a trudge through the fields of discontent, never knowing where next to put one’s foot. And if the body isn’t built for this battle, it will cost more.
When my body got sick of my shit and threw up midlife roadblocks, I was indignant and completely in denial for far too long about the changes I would need to make. I had to learn how to think about my body, not as transportation or tool, but as the very thing keeping me alive. How did I not notice this before? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why aren’t we all talking about this, all the time?
Since I fell down, I’ve been to doctors and chiropractors, acupuncturists and massage therapists. I’ve had x-rays and ultrasounds. My blood has been over-analyzed and supplemented. I’ve taken Chinese herbs and thyroid medication. I do yoga and I try to meditate. I need reading glasses and ankle braces and the CBD cream is always at hand. I am, every day, thinking about how to mend the body. I wish it didn’t take falling down to learn. I wish I wasn’t such a cliché.
Before the fall, I was careful with my people but not with myself.
Now, at 58, I have to be careful with everything. Wine and long walks. Late nights, raw garlic, too many onions, too much noise. I wake and wonder, “How do I feel today?” I’m a hothouse flower when I thought I was evergreen.
Now, I have to think about my body. Maybe the brain was the problem and is finally catching up. I’m going to schedule a massage.
Things to share:
“I didn't cry much after I was 35, but staggered stony-faced into middle age, a handkerchief still in my bag just in case.” Hilary Mantel
Finally watching My Brilliant Friend, and it’s gorgeous and, so far, faithful to the books (which I loved).
Penpals are still saving me! It’s amazing how much the mood is lifted when the mailbox presents something other than bills and solicitations.
Cheers!
Lisa
Lisa, as always, you have captured the essence of this midlife transition. I recently traveled with a friend (She's 54 and I'm 59) We found ourselves kvetching about our bodies' unwillingness to cooperate. We were both athletic tom boys and could switch into high gear at a moments notice. Maybe those are bygone days, but the full time caregiver thing does take it's toll. My take away from your words is that maybe taking a long walk, settling in with a glass of wine and a good book is just the thing we need. It's ok to celebrate our surviving years of parenting, working, spousing, by simply slowing down. We have to sit down before we fall down from exhaustion!
Wonderful piece! I'm 70 and your words triggered memories of every step along the way.