Hooray for Shriveled Ovaries!
My 4-year old granddaughter spent the weekend with me. As I sit here on Monday morning, I can only lament, "my gynecologist was right." A few years back, I had an ultrasound of my female-ness. She announced, "Your ovaries are shriveled." When she saw the look on my face, she added, "...as they should be." In my mind, I pictured what was once a plump, juicy grape, now a raisin. But it wasn't just a raisin. It was a raisin left on the vine, trying to soak up the sun for a season that would never come. It was a dried up, brittle raisin. I went into the appointment knowing I was in menopause, I left feeling kind of sad and a little angry at the adjective she'd chosen to use, "shriveled." Nobody wants anything on/in their body shriveled, no matter what time of life it is for them. Every friend I told the story to was appalled that "shriveled" was the word of choice by my doctor.
My granddaughter has some medical issues. They manifest in a way that makes her energy level through the roof most of the time. Her single-mother Mama is a special ed teacher. So when she had the opportunity to get away with friends for a weekend, of course, I wanted Baby Girl to spend it with me. We had a great time playing with the dollhouse, the train set, picnic on the sofa, making books, drawing, coloring, painting rocks, "cleaning" the patio furniture, and picking violets from the grass. I balked at having to have a 4-year old bedtime, but found myself sound asleep next to her.
And now, Monday morning -- I'm sore. My muscles are sore from all that sitting on the floor (I presume) my body feels weak, and I'm tired. From what...my 30-year old brain in a 54-year-old body asks? From playing, from laughing and being creative? And then I exclaim...to my dogs, "Thank God my ovaries are shriveled!"
Grandmas like me were made for this time of life -- for playing with grandchildren, for letting the dishes pile up while we set up house with our dolls; for reading the same story 17 times, for letting Baby Girl take all the time she needs (and it's a lot) to get from the back door to the car and into her car seat. I was made for this time of life. Hooray for shriveled ovaries!
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