Dana Goldstein - Murder on my Mind: A Memoir of Menopause

The Girl in the Gold Bikini: My turbulent journey through food and family

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Published by Digital Shoebox Inc

Copyright 2021 Dana Goldstein

Interior Illustrations copyright 2021 Dana Goldstein

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published in 2021 by Digital Shoebox Inc, Calgary.

Author page: www.danagoldstein.ca

Cover design by Dina Ferreira Stoddard www.klutchphotography.com

Image credits: Janet Pliszka (Author photo) www.visualhues.com

ISBN (paperback): 978-1-7751438-3-3

ISBN (e-book): 978-1-7751438-4-0

DISCLAIMER

I am not a medical doctor and, as such, nothing in this book should be considered medical advice. The content within these pages is intended to be anecdotal and is reflective only of my own experiences. Please consult with your doctor for your own medical questions and concerns. Not everyone is equipped to manage this insanity on their own, as I did. As a writer, I am inclined to suffer for my art so I can better share the story. In hindsight, a little serotonin boost from antidepressants might have been wise.

Dedicated to my uterus and to the three men who had a vested interest in it: Jeff, Mason, and Westin. I couldnt have done any of this without you.

Not your Mothers Perimenopause

When my mother moved into assisted living, I began the arduous task of cleaning out the condo where she had lived for more than 30 years. It had been my home, too, throughout my university years. When I walked into the condo, after not being in that space for more than 15 years, I felt sad. Her whole life was about to be packed into boxes and thrown away. I tried to separate myself from the emotional reaction and focus on cleaning the mess she left behind. In the next second, I was angry, then overwhelmed, and then I had to pee. As I emptied my bladder, I awkwardly leaned forward and to the left to open the cabinet under the sink. Underneath was a single roll of toilet paper, a scrub brush, and a paper can of Comet scouring powder, its metal top so rusted out I couldnt tell where the original scattering holes were. I laughed, knowing two things had happened here.

1. My mother kept everything until the last drop was used, regardless of how many decades had passed; and
2. This was where I got my obsessive need to squeeze and roll the toothpaste tighter than a joint to get every drop.

My mother saved everything, just in case, she used to say. She had the plastic-wrapped cups from a Howard Johnson hotel we stayed in for a few days in the summer of 1983. In the under-sink cabinet in the master bathroom, I found an unreasonable number of makeup travel bags, all clearly a gift with purchase. The amount of stuff I was going to have throw out and sift through was astounding.

But among all the garbage, there were some gems.

Going through the drawers in her master bedroom night tables was like going back in time. Each table had two drawers, all equally packed with paper. In one drawer, I found a yellow, legal-sized envelope with the court transcript from my parents divorce in 1981. A little further down into the pile, I came across a notebook where she chronicled the guests at their wedding in 1965, listing the gift that was given, or indicating in bold letters NO GIFT. In another drawer, I was thrilled to find she kept my letter of recommendation for a journalism fellowship. But when I flipped it over, my heart sank. Shed written a list of painters and their phone numbers on it.

Among the clutter, I found a letter penned in 1989 by 19-year-old me. I cringed as I read it for the first time in decades. The letter was addressed To Whom it May Concern and in it I wrote of the alarming actions of my mother, all cloaked in juvenile humour so I wouldnt be in too much trouble.

Please save me, I wrote, should she completely lose her mind. I have so much left to give this world.

I complained about her irrational behaviour (yelling at me for coming home late from my job) and her inability to remember anything about her own daughter (like that fact that I have never liked onions. Like, ever). I wrote a paragraph about how she was scaring off her friends, attacking them for some perceived slight and then trying to make me feel guilty for going out with my own friends and not inviting her. I begged for anyone to help, to make my suffering (and hers) short-lived, and to spare me from prolonged exposure to her crazy.

I cant remember what prompted me to write the letter, but I know I wrote it as a means of helping my mother identify what I saw was happening. I made reference in the letter to The Change. At 19, I was able to figure out that my mother was in the midst of her menopausal journey, that her unreasonable and volatile behaviour was something she couldnt control and wouldnt acknowledge.

The letter wasnt particularly well-written, nor was the humour anything more than juvenile. What I had here, I realized, was evidence of my mothers own struggle with menopausal mood swings around the time she was 43.

While I started my perimenopause earlier than she did, I paused to consider that maybe the letter could give me some idea of what I might expect for my own journey. In a moment of denial, I chucked the letter into the bag of paperwork destined for the shredder.

Perimenopause lasts years, while menopause only lasts a day the day that marks one year without a period. Post-menopause takes over from there, but the ride isnt immediately over.

My mother had refused to acknowledge what she was going through. I, on the other hand, was going to fully embrace the crazy and sometimes even have fun with it, as youll see in the pages of this book. I wasnt going to make this a hell for my kids like my mother made it for me. Ah, the lies we tell ourselves.

One

Diagnosis

I sat on the edge of the table in the doctors office, swinging my legs like a toddler, waiting for the results of multiple tests. This was only my second visit with this doctor, and I wasnt sure if I liked her. She was Russian, but that isnt what made me uncomfortable. I know how to handle Russian women. I had grown up with strong and smart Russian women all around me. I learned at an early age you dont mess with women who spent hours standing in line in the middle of a Moscow winter waiting for a loaf of bread and some eggs. They fear nothing. And they dont take your shit.