Yesterday was my annual gynaecological check-up. I knew things weren't going to be straight forward, but it still gave me a lot to think about. Fast forward past the part where we know that just going through the whole thing is gross enough. I found out my ovaries aren't working anymore.
I'm 35 years old.
Now this doesn't trouble me in the sense that I'd like to have more children - I mean I've already had my tubes tied, but it does signal the end of an era. An era of fertility? I'm not sure what. The question would be: as much as I hate having periods, do I locate some of my femininity in them? Surely not? Women have become so masculine in our climb up the corporate ladder and shattering glass ceilings, that somewhere along the way I think we sacrificed some of our femininity. Sad, but true. And if I was one of those women who hadn't fallen pregnant at a young age, and quite by accident, my thirties might be marred by the desperation and disappointment of infertility.
Menopause. Something that happens to 50-somethings.
No. It isn't.
And here I've been saying "bring it on" for years. You've made me think too. Perhaps we need to grieve for the loss of our fertility like any other personal loss, but then, afterward, there is the "wise woman" stage of our lives to look forward to. You could see it as early entry to a privileged place of spirit and peace. (That's what I tell my childless self, anyway!)
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