I’ve been talking to the universe (again). Alone in my car I’ll say, “So, universe, listen up.” Then I’ll continue, aloud, for a decent stretch, the way one would shoot the shit with a sister. Though I try to get to the damn point already, in case the universe has ADD.

Since I share this freely, I might as well disclose that I also make a point of visualizing things each morning and last thing I do before sleep. I don’t actually see anything, but I try to imagine myself in the life setting I want. Then—wait for it—I speak in present tense, as if I’m already living the life I desire.

With whatever it is I want, I speak as if I already have it. I don’t just speak it, I visualize it and imagine myself in it, hoping to feel at least a little of the “giddy.” For me, giddy is the feeling I most want to experience. Monetary freedom, for example, isn’t a feeling. Carefree and breezy, feelings (and a creative weather forecast).

“Amazing,” I say from my current kitchen, “I could choose to read this cookbook in my white library room, the sun soaked one that still manages to keep reliably cool and glare free, the one with floor to ceiling bookshelves and a rolling ladder, right there down the hall. Choice is up to me.” Imagining that I actually have this option stirs something up in me. Kick in the step, swagger in the walk, ass in the shake (ass comes first when we’re talking this much ass).

I imagine and speak in specific details, for example, of my kitchen, the one with the surround sound and flat-paneled TV that pulls out from the ceiling into which it’s built. The very one near my espresso bar station.

Lately our little talks have been about health. Not my health, actually, but of those very close to me who’ve been struggling. People I love dearly, people who show up in my dreams. They’ve been going through some tough things. I speak as if they’re already well, then visualize them surrounded by healing golden light, in a bubble of it, radiating nourishment and healing… just to keep them so healthy, see?

Today, after meeting with a reproductive endocrinologist and being handed the news that yes, I am, in premature menopause, and yes the bone density tests reveal that I have mild hip osteopenia (T score of -1.54) and a normal to low spinal T score of (-1.26), I got into my car and summoned the universe to listen up but good. Then, I said, “Thank you.” Seriously.

“No, it’s not the greatest news here, but it truly could be so much worse. Thank you for guiding me into that doctor’s office when you did, so they were able to discover this now, not ten years from now. I’m already healthy and strong, and this really will only make me stronger. Do I love the idea of “bioidentical hormone replacement therapy?” Of course not. I am terrified of this option and don’t know what my other options are. Have there even been any studies of women in their 30s and HRT? Not that I’ve found. “Pig,” I’ve heard before. But “Guinea Pig” is in a whole other league.

All this in combination with anti-osteoporosis drugs like Atelvia or Actonel for my bones, which I believe with long term use creates micro-fractures. This is scary and it sucks, but. But it could be life-threatening news, and I’m deeply thankful that it’s not.

Maybe this happened to me so I could write about it and reach someone who might otherwise have taken longer to drag her vag into the gyn. “She’ll then thank you universe, for having me go through this (even though it sounds kind of evil, I know it’s not). That’s what we’re here for right? To serve, to give of ourselves, to share for a greater good; we’re all connected, parts of the same thing, a part of you universe, or God, or whatever created our existence. So, thank you. Now you can make a note that I’ve received the message and there’s no reason to give me any more shit to write about.”

AMH blood testing will confirm the premature menopause one way or another, but based on the magic wand up the crotch maneuver, today’s ultrasound, where my girly gadgets were measured, gave the reproductive endocrinologist a better picture of what’s going on. And what’s going on is NOT poly-cystic ovaries. “What I’m seeing here looks consistent with menopause. There are no cysts. Nothing.”

“So, I should just assume I’m in premature menopause, without needing the AMH test results?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Then we talked cause to this unusual effect. What could have caused this, for me to be 1 in 250 women to go into premature menopause? Genetic and thyroid and attacking ovarian antibody tests have been ordered, more blood drawn, results to follow… IN TWO FCUKING WEEKS.

“You do realize I have to live with this woman,” Phil said to the doctor.

“I will drive him crazy, it’s true,” I said. Though, he will get off easy, being in New York for another two weeks beginning on the night of Mother’s Day. Still, I can be very “present” over the phone.

“Okay, how about this? If anything comes across my desk before then, anything major, I will call you before our May 25th appointment?”

Oh, joy. I’m turning off my phone now. Er, I mean, “I am already well.” They will find nothing in these blood tests. No underlying autoimmune or genetic disorders. Right people? Go on, please say it aloud for me, okay?

“She’s totally normal, ______ (Universe, G-d, Great Creator. Insert your favorite flavor)… for a woman who talks to herself as much as she does.”

May 25. You’ve got to hang in there with my crazy until then. After I shut off my phone, I’m going back to my dream kitchen to make foods, which according to my Five-Elements Acupuncturist sister, “draw out the damp.” A wing and a prayer, people.

Also, something near my heart or my actual heart has been feeling funky. Maybe it’s a pulled muscle or something on the surface, from where my laptop pokes into me when it slides up as I type with the laptop on my stomach. So tomorrow I have an appointment scheduled with Phil’s cardiologist. Let the good times roll. Next week I’ll schedule a mammogram, just to get it all over with at once. Then I’ll go shopping for jeans and bathing suits.

Like I said, if you’re reading this, it could be because you’re supposed to. So get yourself current with your doctors and blood tests, just for piece of mind. And send this on to your own loved ones because this universe might want to get in touch with someone through the shit it’s making me go through. So let this body of mine do another body good.

I was in a parking lot this morning, head between my legs. I don’t actually think this is supposed to help with fainting, but I think I saw it on the Brady Bunch, or watched my mother do it at some point. I had to pull the car over. I was on the phone with my doctor; blood results were in and I felt the prickling sweat, my stomach rising, head light.

“Well the good news is that your cholesterol is excellent. 186. But.” Here it is. “But your FSH levels are still in the menopausal range. With polycystic ovaries, which is what we thought you had, the FSH levels usually return to normal when treated with birth control. But you’ve been on birth control for the past three months, and your FSH is still in the menopausal range, which isn’t good. Because once menopause happens your bone density goes down hill from there. So, I’m suggesting that you come in for a bone density test, which we normally don’t give until 45 or 50. You’re 36, and we need to see if you’re already…” Then he mentioned something related to osteoporosis. “You told me you’re not trying to have more kids, which is good. Because if you wanted to, you’d probably have to use a donor egg.” What is happening? Why is my body breaking down while I’m so young? My mother didn’t go into menopause until she was 52. “So, we’ll do a bone density test and then likely do hormone replacement therapy, because you really don’t want things going down hill at 36.” No?

May 15, bone density test scheduled followed by a consult, where he’ll likely talk to me about hormone replacement therapy. I am beyond. I don’t even know how to go from there. I am beyond. I’m just trying to breathe, to not faint, to remind myself that it can always be worse. But what I really want to know is what’s causing this? I didn’t realize quite how blessed I was to have these precious children, from my own eggs. I mean, I did, but not in this context.

I call my mother, head still between my knees. The kids in the back seat carrying on, harping out tunes, pushing, hitting, laughing. I tell her. She tells me she wouldn’t do hormone replacement therapy. “I hear it can cause cancer, and you’d be taking it for YEARS. Your grandmother had breast cancer, it’s in your family history; you can’t discount that. I would get a second opinion.”

A second opinion won’t change my FSH levels. “No, but a different doctor might have other suggestions, maybe a change in diet or exercise. I don’t know. Look, people get estimates on their houses, second and third opinions. You should at least do that with your own body.” I hate this.

To top it all off, Lucas is sick with a cough that hacks away until he vomits on the table (just happened again this morning). He can’t go to school like that, even though he has all the energy and wants desperately to play. Worse still, I’ve caught his cold and feel sick and irritable, short tempered, and want to get the fuck away from everyone. But I can’t. Phil is in New York. I have no relief. I want to hide under my covers and pretend this away. Instead, I’ll take Lucas back to the doctor because I can’t take this, hearing him suffer and cough all day. But I know this, at least, is temporary. Menopause at 36 isn’t. How is this happening?

I will also add this. Why, for the love of gravy, do they have to call it ovary FAILURE? I mean how totally negative. No one wants the word FAILURE attached to their identity. Why isn’t it called ovary GRADUATION? And I will try an endocrinologist. As I just said to Dulce over the phone, “I doubt they’re going to tell me anything worse than what I’m now being told, so really, what do I have to lose? It’s like taking the SAT twice. Where only your best score is revealed to schools. So here’s hoping to a better score. I never thought I’d say this, but here’s hoping I become “completely dense” from here on out.

With the concept of an earned experience (not a toy or a thing) as the reward, the kids keep track of how many points they’ve each earned. Once they earn ten, they get to choose a special experience (a dino dig, afternoon tea, a family picnic, a day of fishing). The key factor: they’re not allowed to ask for a point. If they ask, they don’t get it. Also, particularly uncharacteristic behavior (like peeing on a wall) will snatch that point right back with a loss. It’s remarkable how they can recall exactly how many points they have at any given moment. Ask them how much 5 + 8 is, and I’m affronted with blank stares. But how many points they have? That, they always know. Lucas is at 9 points. Abigail earned a point this morning when she, completely unprompted, swept up the whole house AND whipped out the dustpan, filled the dustpan and successfully emptied it in the trash. Then, she decided to surprise me by quickly dressing, socks and sneakers, hair AND teeth brushed, without my ever having to ask. Love that girl.

I’m wondering if this reward system would work in marriage. I guess marriage itself is supposed to be the reward. Perhaps my reward should be a tour through a crock pot factory or a crack house. Because “marriage as its own sweet reward,” is not quite right. More like, “Oh, wow, that’s a crock and crack all rolled into one.” Side of bitter greens, please.

Truth: I don’t even know what I’d want as an experiential reward for good behavior. You know, aside from: peace. And…

A couples cooking class.
A food photography workshop.
Back to watercolor class.
A trip to Lego Land with the kids.
I’ve got it. What I want—aside from a vacation in Burma with a professional photography guide—is a family vacation in the Florida Keys. At Club Med. Oh, this has got to happen. And one of those days WILL involve deep sea fishing (without the kids) and a sushi dinner. I can’t wait. I love fishing! I also love my parents, love that they, my mother really, made it a point of including fishing in our lives early on. I am such a lucky girl. I really am so blessed. Plus, I’m having all the toppings I want today, ’cause I rage like that. Period.

I went to the gynecologist yesterday for an annual exam. I’m 36 years old. I know my period has been fucked up for over a year now, coming infrequently. I assumed it was because of the weight loss and stress of moving. The nurse asked me what I used for birth control, and I answered honestly. “Marriage.” I thought it sounded better than, “abstinence.”

Yesterday they took blood and also did an ultrasound of my ovaries. The doctor believed I had poly-cystic ovaries (my whole life, I’ve never heard this) which results in fewer periods, but a technician looked at my ovaries with a giant wand up the crotch and saw two cysts on one ovary and one cyst on the other, all smaller than 1-inch. With poly-cystic, he said, people have like six to eight cysts. He said he thought I was ovulating right now, consistent with my silky thin discharge (normal), and TMI, I know. He said I should take Provera for 10 days to bring on a period, and then he wants to start me on birth control, to regulate my period, so it comes more often than THREE times a year (which is how often I had it last year).

This morning, 8:27am, I get a message from him.

“Hi, Stephanie, this is Dr. Silfen. I got the results of your blood work. You’re not pregnant, as we expected. Your thyroid is normal, your prolactin level is normal. You’re estrogen level is high. And your FSH is in the menopausal range, which does not make sense. Your LH is very high, consistent to what I spoke about yesterday, PCO, poly-cystic ovaries, so what I’m going to recommend is that you take the Provera for ten days. I think you’re going to get a period, but if you don’t get a period, give me a call and we’ll decide what to do. But first let’s just take the medication and go we’ll go from there. Bye.”

So, now, I’m my father’s daughter. A wreck. I walk around the grocery store looking at people. Fat, thin, old. People buying ingredients, fondling fruit, living their lives. I feel removed from it, from the everyday, seeing daily events as motions. Medical news can shift things in your life, especially your perspective. Literally.

Lord love a duck! Here’s hoping that I soon, very soon, see spot run. Period.

Pregnant at least 13 weeks. The doctor tells me she doesn’t think… “Well, I suspect your sac is light.” I ask that my husband come in to see. We just want to see all these moments, every chance we can. “No,” she says, not a good idea. But I feel it. There’s something here. I point to a knot in my stomach, like a hard ball. There are too many nurses around me. I never get to see the ultrasound screen.

One nurse with dark hair sees my razor burn crotch, coming in late, and says, WHAT’S THAT?! as if that’s the reason I’m there. As if that is what we’re dealing with. I get angry, tell her to shut the fuck up. She yells back at me. Then the doctor interrupts. I still can’t believe they won’t let Phil in.

The doctor stops looking, sits back, leaning on the radiator as she says something. I say, stillbirth? No, not that. Then she says she wasn’t going to tell me the sex, a boy, but I won’t be able to have him. “I’m that far along?!” I say.

“Oh, yes, yes,” she says. “But, he won’t survive the seasons.”

I get very frustrated with her, yell that I don’t need metaphors. I need ENGLISH. She has red hair, short, straight, with ugly clear, wide glasses. The white coat. She says, “He’s gotten good at mimicking this stage of pregnancy but won’t survive the rest of it.” She keeps saying “I’ll need to patch,” which to me sounds like D&R. I still don’t understand, tell her I once had a blighted ovum. Is that this? No, there is a heartbeat. There is a sex. She finally says she thinks it’s neo-natal SOMETHING. And I feel like it’s a type of cancer. She says they’ll biopsy the fetus once he’s out. I wake up. Dream over.

I try to figure out if I’m pregnant at all. I’m not. I remember the life I’m living, with my children running around downstairs, I hear them. My lower back hurts, like I’ll have my period soon. I don’t remember what day it is, what the schedule is. I just know that today will feel different, somehow.

I feel angry, boxed out, like someone’s not doing a good job explaining things to me, no matter how many times I ask. I want a second opinion on something, but I can’t figure out what it is. Why do we have dreams like this? What’s it telling me?

The dream just before this one? I was working in some office, on a computer. Movies kept cropping up on my screen, and as much as I tried, I couldn’t figure out a way to mute them without pressing three different buttons. I worried I’d get fired, that they’d think I was goofing off.

Before that, I was in an office that burned down, the whole thing, all the computers. Then I’m at the headhunter being placed for a job I don’t even want. It’s as if I were stuck with a bunch of things I didn’t want, but the one thing I wanted I couldn’t have.

I can’t remember ever yelling at someone the way I did at that nurse who was commenting on my crotch. Asshole never had red ingrown hairs of her own, clearly not a redhead.

QUESTION FROM A GREEK TRAGEDY READER [Let's call her Apple]: This isn’t as serious as your usual questions, but I really want an unbiased opinion, so here goes…

At my best friend’s daughter’s 1st birthday party I announced to her that I had created the PERFECT baby girl name (for my yet-to-be-conceived child). Merilee, a quirky spelling of Mary Lee. She agrees it’s a fabulous name and then mentions that Mary Lee is her grandmother’s name, and we all joke about how I’m naming my 1st born daughter after her grandmother (who isn’t a favorite in her family and circle of friends). Fast forward 8 months and my friend is pregnant. Me? Still no kids. She informs me via text that she and her hubby have decided to name the baby after her Grandmother and they’re going to spell it…. Wait for it… Merilee.

Seriously?! So, does this fall under some sort of ‘girl code’? Are there etiquette rules for this kind of thing? Do I have to go with the flow because it’s a family name? Or can I call "shotgun" because I thought of it first?

I know this certainly falls in the "silly/petty" category but I just wanted your opinion. 

Before I take a smack + crack at answering this (and I will), I’ll let others weigh in with their own words of wisdom. Floor’s all yours…

…As promised, let’s go there. The fact that your friend texted you this news isn’t a random act of rudeitude. It’s Pulling a Warner. That’s right, she basically invited you to a fancy restaurant, so you couldn’t make a scene after she dumped your pink stink for a Jackie O’ type. She intentionally sent you a text to avoid the confrontation. She knows you’re not going to like it. She also knows that she’s rationalizing her actions. That is, deep down she knows that what she’s doing is flying-monkey-wrong. It’s why she chose to communicate the way she did, and if you ever called her out on it, she could simply turn things on you, making you out to be the crazy obsessive petty one in your friendshit.

"Jesus, I didn’t think twice about it because it’s not your name. Why else would I casually text it to you? If it were a big deal, don’t you think I would’ve talked to you about it in person? What kind of person do you think I am?" Your answer: the baby plagiarist kind.

Piss poor behavior aside, let’s deal with the rest of it. You’re not going to like what I have to say next. First, and this is really an aside, as the name you chose doesn’t change the behaviors and actions at play, yet I feel compelled to rain on the Merilee parade. Don’t go naming your kids with unusual spellings. Because they have to go around, for the rest of their lives correcting paperwork, using the military alphabet to communicate the proper spelling to customer service operators, and correcting mispronunciations when idiots butcher the name to "Mer-eye-lee." And no one is going to read that name and think it says "Mary Lee." For her whole life, she’ll be called "Merrily" which, admittedly, isn’t as bad as "Merry," which immediately brings to mind a bouncy fraggle muppet, that or a rotund elderly man in a red velvet track suit–pick your poison. I’d butcher my parents if they’d squeezed an f into my name. Stefanie can’t tell someone her own name without adding, "with an f." No good can come of it.

Sidebar: a friend recently told me that a child in her daughter’s class was named "L-A." How would you go about pronouncing this name? Go on, try. "El-aye?" "Ella?" No. Correct pronunciation: El-dash-ah. "The dash ain’t silent" her mother barked at the teacher.

Off the sudsbox, let’s return to the facts. You need to ask yourself what upsets you more: the principle of it or the fact that your name has been nabbed up, leaving it less unique? Because the truth is, you don’t know for certain if you’ll even have children, or a girl for that matter. And if you do, there’s still nothing stopping you from using Merilee, you know, aside from common sense. That was a joke.

Bottom line, I’d talk to her. I wouldn’t accuse her of anything. I’d ask her why she decided to text you that? I’d ask her if she remembered that it was the baby name you’d created. I’d try to give her the benefit of the doubt (even though, personally I wouldn’t buy it–I’d pretend to be fair). Then I’d tell her how you feel. That you feel angry, swindled, duped. Whether it’s true or not, it’s how you feel. And you’re hurt that she could be so casual about telling you, or not even realizing what a big deal it is to you. After I got that out, I’d tell her that you realize you might not even have a girl, so she can do what she’d like, but it certainly won’t stop you from using the name one day if you do have a wee girl. Then I’d hand her a copy of the best baby name book I know: the Pottery Barn Catalog.

GOT QUESTIONS? NEED ADVICE? If you have questions or need advice on anything from where to eat to how to get over the bastard, just email your question to my advice email address. Nope, I’m not a shrink, but since people keep asking for my opinion, I might as well share it and air it, so everyone else can weigh in too.