When my 31-yo daughter told me “Janet Jackson is pregnant and she is your age, can you imagine being pregnant again?” I said HELL NO! But…
First, I confirmed the HELL NO one more time, followed with a shudder just for good measure, and then I went on with my life without thinking about it again.
Until last night.
A ceremony for our ovaries
It was after midnight and I couldn’t fall asleep, so I turned on TV. I decided to watch a recorded sitcom, The Middle. Have you seen that one? It’s noting glamorous but I like it for two reasons:
- The mom, Frankie Heck, is Debra (Patricia Heaton) from Everybody Loves Raymond, and who doesn’t love Raymond, right?
- It’s about a middle-age, middle-class, middle-America family living in Indiana (where I reside) facing the day-to-day struggles of home life, work, and raising children. Mom uses a sense of humor to try to steer her family through life’s ups and downs.
Why does this matter?
So last night Frankie becomes sad when her doctor informs her that her ovaries are shriveled up, which means her days of having kids are over.
“My ovaries are like raisins and not the cute, plump California ones that dance and wear gloves. They’re like the hard, shriveled, sad, deformed ones in Raisin Flakes we get from the Frugal Hoosier.” complained Frankie to her husband.
Can you relate?
I didn’t. Not until she said, pointing to her crotch area, “They don’t shut men’s factory down. I liked knowing it was still open and now it’s all red-tagged and padlocked with bulldozers in a parking lot. I wish I could still have a baby if I wanted to, but I don’t want to.”
Can you relate now?
I did. That’s exactly what I said when my doctor informed me of my raisin ovaries some 10 years ago. That’s right my friend, my factory has been padlocked for that long. I took it hard, although it was short lived. I mean I didn’t want a baby at the ripe old age of 40, but I wanted it to be MY choice. Mother Nature was putting a big ugly label on me that read YOU’RE OFFICIALLY OLD and the only thing you can produce are raisins! I didn’t feel old even when I turned 50, by the way.Getting old sucks. Should we have a #ceremony for our #ovaries? #menopause #gettingold… Click To Tweet
How did Frankie Heck handle it?
Not good. One night her and Mike, Mr. Heck, were babysitting a neighbor’s baby. They drove around the neighborhood to make her fall asleep and reminisced about times they did it with they own kids. At one moment they remembered a bump in the road ahead and braced themselves for a waking baby, but there was no bump. Frankie lost it: “THEY PAVED THE BUMP!”
I lost it with her and wept like a baby (I guess you had to be there).
I wanted, may NEEDED that bump to be there! “One moment you’re driving your baby around to fall asleep and the next your doctor tells you he can’t find your ovaries. That should be marked in some way. Everyone makes a big deal when you get married and have a baby, but no one is having a ceremony for your shriveled ovaries. They deserve more respect!”
“Like when a player retires and they hoist his jersey into the rafters.” Said Mike with guy’s perspective.
“Yes, they got the job done and deserve some sort of a send-off for their years of service. They deserve more of an ending, they deserve a goodbye.” SNIFF.
No, I don’t wish my hands constantly smelling like butt cream, but at least there were butts that needed me. Now I feel like no one gives a rat’s butt. OH MY WORD, I think I’m having an empty nest syndrome all over again. Or maybe I’m just sad my ovaries didn’t get a proper goodbye.
If you’d ask me now, after my night spent crying over my raisins if I could imagine being pregnant again I would still say HELL TO THE NO!
Do we need a ceremony for our ovaries?
I’d like to know how you cope with getting old. Even if you’re still young but have kid(s), you certainly think of a day when they’re grown, out of the house, and you only have raisins left. What kinds of emotions stir up your night?