Diary of a Writer in Midlife Crisis

I just have to keep telling this story because it is full of horrors. Who knew that a simple fall in the park could generate such turmoil?

So, I left you lying in the park, full of mulch, while hoards of bicyclists whizzed by me. None of whom cared to stop to see if I was alright or still breathing. (Okay, the story is getting more inflated but so is my elbow, so let me have it.)

I finally drag myself and the dogs home and call my father, since my husband is on a flight to San Antonio. "I fell and I’m fine,” I tell him, lying. “But the dogs did NOT poop and rather than risk any further damage, I respectfully request your help walking them.” I’m sorry, but I’d rather live with a broken limb that have pee and poop all over my precious rugs.

"WHAT? Are you okay? Do we need to go to the hospital?"

"No, I'm fine. As long as I don't move anything."

Cut to Jill and Owen at the Doylestown Emergency Room (only after stopping for a fountain soda at 7-Eleven for dad). There Brenda, a lovely woman in a pair of print scrubs that did not flatter her (Bren, stick with solids), asks me a litany of questions one might expect while at triage.

Why are you here? What happened? Where does it hurt? What's your birth date? Do you still get your periods?

WHAM! SMACK. CLACK. BOOM! SHAZAM! Followed up by a soccer punch in the gut, a wide-palmed slap across the ass, and a chaser of one dry heave.

First of all, why do they need to know if I still get my periods when I'm there for an arm x-ray? And second, am I really that old? I mean, I’m just barely out of my 30s. (Okay, well maybe a bit longer, but C’MON!)

Bren, Bren, forgive me if you can hear my thoughts about the duck print accentuating your midsection, but PLEASE. There’s no need to be nasty. Pick another question. Like, how do you keep your skin so soft?

Suddenly, a minor arm fracture has become a most traumatic event.

“Jill, I want you to list the 10 most critical moments in your life,” says Dr. Phil.

“Easy. The first time my mother told me I was fat and would never fit in—and the time I hurt my arm and the triage nurse asked me if I still menstruated.” Audience applause. The front row looks teary.

This fall might require some follow-up psychoanalysis.

“Jill,” I say to myself, “Take a deep breath. Brenda is clearly borderline. Go to your happy place. You’re on Oprah talking about your New York Times bestselling novel. Wendy Manuel and Tammy Levin, the torture queens from high school are in the front, weighing in like a couple of Sumo wrestlers. Karen Brog, who made out with Ricky Moss, your then boyfriend, is sitting next to them. The years have not been kind to her, as evidenced by, among other things, a deeply receding hairline.

“There, there now, Jill. You’re doing fine.” I breathe in, close my eyes, and relax.

Brenda speaks. “I know, it’s a silly question. But you do still get your periods, right?” She is looking for a reaction.

RIGHT BRENDA. SHIT. DUH. OF COURSE. Yo, yo, Bren, you ain’t no spring chicken yourself.

“Yes, I do.” I bat my eyelashes. “You?”

She looks at me and chuckles. I notice there are baby chicks on her socks.

Even though I’m now fully upright, this fall just keeps getting worse and worse.

As I wait for Brenda to complete my paperwork, I have to wonder: when did all these years go by? I mean, I’m used to these nosy health care types asking me when I’ve gotten my last period—not whether it’s over. Fertility out. Uterus useless. That’s a wrap.

Next stop: death.

I guess it wouldn’t be so horrific if 12 more people (from the radiologist to the woman taking my insurance information) didn’t ask me the same damn question. I stop for a soda after in the hospital cafeteria and say to the woman at the register, “I suppose you want to know if I’m still getting my periods too?”

“That’ll be $1.12.” She doesn't look directly at me.

“I like your hairnet,” I squeak, only slightly mortified.

I give up. This aging stuff. Can’t help it. And so, I’ll try to embrace the fact that I still have good hair and that, while I’m not Twiggy, I still take up only one seat on the airplane.

At least for now.

Until next time.