Real Simple – Not!

Fuck!! An explosive wail heaves from my throat. I'm standing in my grown-up daughter’s shower trying to hang a new shower curtain. My source for all things important, Real Simple Magazine, has alerted me to the horrors of off-gassing from chemical filled shower curtains. I’ve learned that these brightly colored protectors of the floor actually get lighter as their chemicals release and migrate into our lungs and cells. Oh my God! In full combat mode I marched off to my computer, did Google search after Google search, found chemical free shower curtains and procured them post haste.

I am now on a rampage to clear my home of all that is evil. I am standing in my no-longer-lives-at-home-but-comes-home-to-visit-sometimes daughter’s shower. I am attempting to hang one of my newly acquired, chemical free shower curtains. I am holding the crumpled, mostly on the floor, curtain in one hand, and this excessively sweet, ducky curtain hanger in the other. As I reach up to hook the little yellow quacker through the hole at the top of the curtain, the bottom of the curtain gets caught under my foot. This causes my reach to unexpectedly stop short, and jettisons the ducky from my hand, smashing it to the floor.

Fuck!! I moan. Ducky is on the tile floor minus its cute orange beak, I’m enraged, and my eyes are rimmed with tears. Luckily, being the insightful menopausal woman that I am, I quickly realize that my reaction to ducky's demise is obviously an overreaction. I pause a moment to examine where this fuselage of emotion might be coming from, but instead disassociate and trot off to the everything drawer in our kitchen in search of Superglue. Long story short, and after a lot more swearing, I find the glue, make my way back to my I-still-miss-her daughter’s bathroom, glue ducky’s beak back on, and hang the chemical free shower curtain. When finished, I glance at the clock. I am wondering not how long this task took, but whether 3:30 is too early for a glass of wine. 5:00 is my usual cocktail lift-off hour, but on rare occasions I’ve made allowances for a 4:45 start time.

Next, I find myself in the master bathroom throwing out all of my husband’s and my shampoos conditioners and body washes. I have learned from Real Simple Magazine that these too contain nastiness that will eat through your brain. I again engage with the mighty Google and search for chemical free bath products and order a slew of them. My goal, turn all our bathrooms into safe zones. I then send e-mails to my three children ticking off the offending bath product chemicals, and urge my progeny to eradicate these vermin from their homes as well.

Feeling momentarily satisfied with my household massacre, I innocently glance at myself in the mirror as I head back to the kitchen to check the clock. It’s only 4:30. Bummer. But on top of this too-early-to-drink hour, what I see in the mirror is startling. My hair looks like I stuck my finger in a socket, I have dark circles under my eyes, and I think I see the start of an age spot on my forehead. I’m agitated, emotionally spent, and resignedly surrender to a confrontation with the beast of my mania.

The letter in the mail said, "probably not cancerous." So does that mean I should "probably" not worry? From my actions over the past few hours, I would have to say that not worrying is not an option. My annual mammogram revealed a spot on my right breast that is suspicious, not suspicious enough for the follow-up ultrasound I had a few years back, revealing healthy, but dense breast tissue, but suspicious enough for a six month “recheck.” "It's probably nothing," the letter encourages. Probably nothing for whom?

My mind’s been like a pinball machine. It keeps ricocheting from thought to thought as I grasp at ways to keep my family and me safe. Meanwhile this troublesome termite of a notion has been burrowing its way into my psyche, wreaking havoc. I have watched a few friends survive cancer, I have driven other friends to shear their locks mid-chemo, and I have grieved over the loss of dear friends whose "probablies" became “definitelies”.

To cope I purge, when DING, another obstacle collides with my pinball. To make the mood swings and hot flashes of menopause even more fun, there is the arid drying up of the body to contend with – skin, eyeballs, crotch. At a recent gynecological appointment, I tell my doctor that sex hurts. She looks here, pokes there, confirms atrophy of my lady parts and recommends this lovely device called an Estring. Smaller than a frisbee, larger than a silver dollar, you squeeze this thingie into your special place and voilà, little bits of estrogen leach out to just where they're needed. They chemically plump up the lady walls which menopause has made as crispy as dried up rice paper. However, today it’s occurring to me that that thingie has estrogen in it, artificial estrogen in it, and isn't that the kind of stuff that encourages "probablies” to grow? And might this dawning of understanding, coupled with the threat of a “recheck,” be the impetus for my chemical purging and perseverative checking of time?

I call my gynecologist. I leave a message regarding my concern over the mix of suspicious mammogram with fake estrogen. I check the clock again, 4:45. Might this be one of those days where an early cocktail lift-off is warranted? At five o'clock the phone rings. It's the gynecologist's office. Dr. Crotch has looked over my mammogram, revisited the miniscule dosage of estrogen in my Estring and says there is no connection between boob and crotch. She confirms that this amount of estrogen does not affect breast tissue. Phew, I think as I pour myself a healthy goblet of Pinot Noir. No effect on breast tissue. But then paranoid me wakes up and wonders, why did she specify breast tissue? Might artificial estrogen affect other kinds of tissue in my body?

But it’s too late for that debate, the wine has begun to work its magic. The world is muted, my heartbeat has slowed, and I find myself being drawn to the doings of Alicia Florrick on The Good Wife. Will she run for state's attorney? Will she take a new lover? I head to the den and turn on the TV. Purging is exhausting, mania is exhausting. Tomorrow I will do more Google searches. Tomorrow I will try again to ignore my “probably”. Tomorrow I will pursue more ways to make my life real simple, and hopefully, real safe.