Menopausal, Maniacal Me
They said the experimental medicine would remove all my gender hormones and slam me into menopause, and they couldn't treat it or it would nullify the effects of the new treatments. I was ready to accept this; it had to be better than what I'd been going through. Right?
WRONG!
It took a few days before I noticed any changes, and even then it wasn't anything really noticeable. Unless, you spoke to me. Or, didn't speak to me.
"Hi, Honey," my husband said, coming through the door with his hands behind his back. He walked over and kissed my forehead and handed me a small bouquet of yellow roses he'd bought for me. "Surprise!" I looked at the roses, then at him.
"That's nice," I said rather blandly, taking them from him. "Thanks." I couldn't help it; my eyes filled with tears.
"What's the matter, Honey?" he asked in concern. He thought I'd be happy.
"My favorite roses are white," I said. "It's no big deal, I just thought that in fifteen years you'd know that by now." He looked at me with utter confusion.
"Um... they didn't have white," he excused.
"Well it's not like I don't like them, I didn't say that!" I snapped, shoving them into a vase.
"I didn't say you did," he said, heading out of the room. He changed into work clothes and went out to mow the lawn while I made dinner. I got quite irritated at finding that I would have to wash the frying pan my daughter had left to soak, before I could use it. Not a terrible crime, but I couldn't tolerate it.
"Nichole!" I bellered. "Ni-CHOLE!" She was upstairs in her room and I could hear her footsteps hurring down the steps. She peeked around the corner at me.
"Yeah, Mom?"
"Why isn't this pan clean?" I demanded. It had been her turn to wash dishes.
"I cut my hand on a glass and it hurt when I put it in the dish-water. I planned to wash it before you used it, I'm sorry, Mom."
"You cut your hand? Let me see. Why didn't you tell me?"
"You've had enough to worry about, Mom. It's just a little cut." I looked at it, and it was no 'little' cut. Her finger was laid open, though she'd cleaned it well and it had stopped bleeding.
"Oh my God, come into the bathroom," I said, pulling her with me as I walked to the other room. I put a topical antibiotic and butterfly closures on it and bandaged it for her. She thanked me and ran back up to her room, and I washed the frying pan myself. While I swished the soapy hot water around the pan with a sponge, I started thinking. What a witch I must be, that my own children can't come to me with an injury. I started to cry. The tears flowed like there was no end, and soon I was blubbering.
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