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.

I just dug up this post from my archives (I still can’t believe I’ve been blogging for over eight years now) because for the past few days I keep circling back to this message; I’ve been hearing it everywhere. Perhaps it’s topical, presenting itself to me as a reminder to apply these learnings to my marriage. And perhaps I’m meant to share this again with you because you need to hear it.

Watching Oprah’s Life Class the other day, I heard the “Fake It To Make It” message once again. Keisha, a woman who chose to adopt her incarcerated brother’s little boy expressed her deep resentment toward her nephew, a hearing impaired child with Diabetes. He was hungry for her affections, and she confessed that she was at war with herself because while she didn’t want to damage this sweet boy, she also was deeply resentful, hating having to sacrifice, and didn’t want to hug him or give him the affection he so often craved. She wanted to find love elsewhere, wanted to pursue her degree in medicine, and he got in the way of her plans. Brave woman to admit to that truth. Intellectually, of course she realized he didn’t deserve any of this, that he deserved only love, but she couldn’t get past her feelings of “This isn’t fair! I never would’ve signed up for this had I known.” At one point, Oprah addressed the audience to remind viewers to look within their own lives, not at Keisha’s, and figure out where they are ignoring the love that’s right in front of them for the taking. Keisha was looking for someone to love, to start a real life, oblivious to the fact that this boy was that someone she could love. Yes, she wanted romantic love, a partner, but it was coming at her in a different form. The little boy, Oprah said, was there to help her open up some heart space. Bishop T.D. Jakes’s advice to Keisha was to fake it, that the feelings would come. Fake it to make it. I felt myself nodding.

Belief follows behavior. Sometimes you have to force yourself to invest in the choices you’ve made and to make the most of your situation. It can’t hurt to at least try. It was the message I needed to hear this week. Fake it to make it in every aspect of your life. Your job, your love life, even your health…

I took a Health Psychology class in college, where I learned, among other things, about the power of positive (and craptastic) thinking, particularly its impact on our health. I already knew that imagining myself making contact with the ball on a softball field would improve my chances of slamming the thing for real. That we can literally practice in our mind, visualizing it happening, and studies have proven that it works.

I also knew, as a writer, that I could elicit a physical response from words alone.
With just a paragraph of description, with nothing but imagery and words, we can cause a physical reaction. Simply describing, for example, the texture of a lemon, its pores, and slightly green tip. The resistance of a knife as it cleaves through the skin, cleanly. The sound of the knife pushing forward on the wooden board. The way the halves rock and teeter, laid out on their sides. How some of the seeds are left whole, small winks hiding beneath the translucent pockets of sour. Wiping the knife blade clean of the acrid juices, and that first squirt, clean and bright, a spray. Then pulling a wedge to my lips, taking that quick first lick, just to test, and the wince that comes after that first sharp taste, a sting and burn, and a bloom of saliva from the back of your jaws.

I could salivate just from reading it, a physical response to imagery. Then I studied the Placebo Effect, “the power of healing that can stem simply from a patient’s belief that a treatment will be effective.” Basically in a randomized and double-blind study, patients were divided into two groups: one received actual medication, and the other group was given a look-alike placebo pill. The study was double-blind, meaning not just the patients, but the doctors too had no idea which was which. And all the patients believed the pill would help them… and it did. Just the belief that it was working improved the patients’ health. This could be the reason so many people believe in the effectiveness of alternative medicines. In fact, “Ten years and $2.5 billion in research have found no cures from alternative medicine. Yet these mostly unproven treatments are now mainstream and used by more than a third of all Americans.”

The Placebo Effect has always fascinated me, not so much with regard to our health, or the validity of acupuncture or chiropractic treatments, but with how this concept of “belief following behavior” could be applied to my dating life.

The practice of forcing myself to date the men who were actually interested in me—the over-eager boring ones who never made me work for it, the ones who’d make great fathers, and put me first—was a test-study of the “belief follows behavior” axiom. If I forced myself to date celery instead of funnel cake (behavior), I’d soon actually believe that I prefer these celeriac men (belief). The same way that forcing yourself to smile even if you’re miserable (behavior), actually DOES make you feel better (belief). “If I’m smiling, I must be happy.” Then we actually feel happier. So if I forced myself to continue to date a man to whom I had no attraction (behavior), the assumption is that I’d grow to be attracted to him (belief). That’s why we hear so many stories of, “Well, I wasn’t attracted at first, but then the more I got to know him, the more I liked him.”

It extends beyond our dating lives, touching almost everything. Believe you’re already a thin person, you start to eat and behave like a thin person. Insert cough here. No need to worry; there’s a placebo for that.

A YEAR AGO: Food and Mood Dreams, Obsession Under Pressure
2 YEARS AGO: Not A Euphemism
4 YEARS AGO: Back in LA

Unrelated. It’s the first word that strikes me for this post. I have two totally unrelated items to share. The first of which involves hives on Kind Sir’s sweet face (neck, one area on his back, hands and forearms). We first noticed them, I want to say when I picked him up at school. My eyesight is for shit, so to me, his red cheek just looked flushed, as if he’d just been running  or was hit in the face with a dodgeball (this happened to me more than once in my adolescence). I didn’t think much of it. Then we went swimming in our backyard. I mention that it was our backyard and not the main country club pool because our backyard pool isn’t heated, so we braved it in frigid waters. When he swam into my arms, and I held him, I felt bumps on his face, tried to inspect them, but he wiggled free. I left it alone. Then came a clean bean bubble bath. Phil came home and noticed the red, too.

Upon further inspection, I realized that it had gotten much worse. Now the bumps were hives, some skin colored, some red, growing in size. I went over the food he’d eaten that day: matzoh made at school, almonds, ten mini chocolate chips, hummus, carrots, milk, rice cereal, turkey. Nothing unusual for him at all. We called his teacher, who assured us he hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary. But you never can tell what he’s stuffing into himself—our boy’s signature self-soothing comfort move is to suck his thumb while picking his nose, single handed. We’ve tried to break him of the habit, but until he really wants to stop, we’ve found that it’s become pointless to constantly remind him not to do it. It’s just not working, at all. Though this is most likely unrelated to the hive situation.

We medicated him with Benedryl once he became really uncomfortable, scratching. The hives cleared up quickly after that. The following day, Phil took the kids swimming in the heated country club pool, and once again, Kind Sir broke into a bad case of hives. Mind you these two instances were the first times he ever had any type of allergy to anything. And he’s done a lot of swimming, and we’ve never had this happen. But I know we can develop allergies, and maybe there’s something about this time of year in Florida? I don’t know. Phil took the kids to Pirate’s Cove, a playground near our home, that has a splashpad / sprayground. Where once again the hives returned. I wonder if it’s chlorine related.

Unrelated to swimming, yesterday we went for Sunday brunch, a buffet of dreams consisting of sausage, bacon, bagels, waffles, French toast… you name it, they have it from pecan pie to creme brule; it’s a food orgy.  As we finished brunch, Lucas climbed into Phil’s lap, and Phil noticed that the hives were coming back. Not all of them, but some were starting to form and grow. Lucas began to scratch. Benedryl yet again came to his rescue. He’s been fine. But I’m now scared to take him swimming… or anywhere.

I google, a basic nightmare, with underlying causes that rhyme with anemia. Perhaps he’s allergic to the cold? So I take an icepack and hold it to his forearm for five minutes, but no hives. I’m getting his ass to the allergist, but I fear they’ll tell me “it could be anything. There’s not much we can do.” I also realize, of course, that this is the least of it. That it could be so, so much worse. I just looked, he has a hive that’s popped up on his wrist just now.

In unrelated news, I received an interesting email about a new series “Kids on Race: The Hidden Picture.” It airs tonight on Anderson Cooper 360°.

“A white child and a black child look at the exact same picture of two students on the playground.
The pictures, designed to be ambiguous, are at the heart of a new study on children and race commissioned by CNN’s Anderson Cooper 360°. White and black kids were asked: “What’s happening in this picture?”, “Are these two children friends?” and “Would their parents like it if they were friends?” The study found a chasm between the races as young as age 6.

Overall, black first-graders had far more positive interpretations of the images than white first-graders. The majority of black 6-year-olds were much more likely to say things like, “Chris is helping Alex up off the ground” versus “Chris pushed Alex off the swing.”

They were also far more likely to think the children pictured are friends and to believe their parents would like them to be friends. In fact, only 38% of black children had a negative interpretation of the pictures, whereas almost double – a full 70% of white kids – felt something negative was happening.”

Link to the AC 360° blog

Anderson Cooper 360° airs at 8 &10 pm ET on CNN. Video link from tonight’s segment will be available after the show.

FROM A READER: “It sounds like your hormones are definitely up the wop at the moment. However, FSH levels are not reliable as they can vary. A better indicator of fertility these days is the AMH (Anti-Mullerian Hormone)test.Look that up. Maybe you could get that done. But I would be worried about high estrogen levels – due to the association with breast cancer and would try to lower it if I could. Maybe you could look into ways of balancing hormones naturally etc – i.e evening primrose, agnus castus etc. Try not to have any alcohol for a while or too much caffeine.”

This comment NEARLY gave me hives. I realize that wasn’t your intent, of course, but you’ve just focused my attention to yet another concern. First I had to google “up the wop,” fearing it was a technical medical slang. I still don’t know what it means, but I figure it’s polite for “you’re fcuked.” So then I look up “how to lower estrogen levels,” because I won’t be affronted by a list of possible diseases I likely have (the only result of medical searches), and in only two days time since my appointment, I feel like my life is going to become unrecognizable… cutting out dairy (I can’t imagine. I live off Greek yogurt for its protein. Adore frozen yogurt as a special treat. I could learn to live without meat, I could, but to live without meat *and* sugar *and* cheese? All three? To live a life of chicken and almond milk and no soy? THAT calls for Drama and whining. I just can’t imagine. Mostly the sugar thing, especially when asked to limit my fruit intake. Limiting anything, actually, makes me lunge for it immediately. Whereas, if you tell me I can have all that I want of something, there will undoubtedly be an initial spike (read: binge), but then there’s a leveling. But if you get all “off limits” on me, I’ll climb barbed wire to milk a cow, then have one.

I realize people have health scares for a reason, to redirect them, to wake them up, rattle them into important. I have been unable to sleep. Now *need* to take Ambien. Thankfully I’ve been “off” caffeine for a year now, so that’s not an issue. And I don’t drink all that regularly, a few times a week, a glass or so, sometimes none. But now? With all this news of HIGH estrogen levels and menopausal range hormone levels, never even mind this “common potato” PCOS (which is likely the least of it), all I want to do is have a glass of wine or five to get myself to sleep. I am very disturbed.

I realize, of course!, that this isn’t anything as close to as serious as Phil’s heart issues or what Lucas has dealt with, given his brain surgery. Of course. But it’s the very first time in my life where my mortality is even something that’s bubbled to the top. I realize this happens, and that I’m lucky not to have worried about my health up until this point, at thirty-six, but it is alarming to me. The change of it all, the changes that have to happen with diet and exercise (consistent) were always a luxury, a vanity, never a necessity. And it does, it scares the shit out of me. Though not literally because I haven’t been able to stop eating since receiving this phone call from my doctor. I’ll leave that comment alone, actually.

All that aired, I’d still rather have well-meaning concern than be in it alone, so thank you. All of you. And if you know of any friends in Florida with a “friend” visiting, I can take all the bleeding friends I can get. A girl can only hope to have such a profound influence on a friend, right? Let’s right this wrong together.

Oh, and in case my tone is all over the place, then I’ve done my job. Because *I* am all over the place, high and low, serious, scoffing, this is nothing relax, this is something, what are you waiting for? I’m here there and everywhere.

I’m also bored by The Bachelor this season. And, I miss Lost.

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.