There is a lot of information available for young girls who are entering adolescence. Most girls have mothers, older sisters, or close friends who can introduce them to the wonderful world of "a visit from Aunt Hattie" or "my first period." There are pamphlets, books, and videos showing them the changes which are occurring in their bodies, and preparing them for young womanhood. Most schools have sex education classes, where girls giggle at diagrams of female and male reproductive systems. On the other end of the line, for women entering menopause, there is virtually nothing. I had no mother or older sister to share this bad joke of nature with. I'm not a fool; of course I knew that the time would come when my menses would cease, I might experience some hot flashes, night sweats and palpitations, and that I would officially become "pre-menopausal." While the statistical age for the onset of menopause is 51.4 years, I was 47, and fully prepared to start writing off changes in bodily functions as the beginnings of "the change."

I began bleeding erratically and for long periods of time, ranging from six or seven days to thirty or more. What used to be a clockwork occurrence with me had become something that, to some extent, would rule my life and forever change its direction. Unusual bleeding had to be a symptom of early menopause. It couldn't possibly be one of cancer's seven warning signals, could it? For about six months, I bled - off and on, unceasingly, and miserably. I compensated by stashing maxi pads in my desk, my purse, the glove compartment of my car, and everywhere else I could think of. When I travelled, they were packed without thinking. Swimming had become a catch-as-catch-can activity, as had love making. I guess it was easier to assume that my childbearing years were coming to an end than it was to consider the possibility of anything else.

Finally, totally frustrated by the long periods of bleeding (metrorrhagia and menorrhagia), I made an appointment at the local clinic. The doctor did a Pap smear and I went home - still bleeding. I've got to admit that, at this point, I was more annoyed than concerned. Hey, middle age isn't all fun and games. I already used Clairol to cover the gray, and parts of my body were beginning to move in a slightly southerly direction. This had to be just another piece of the puzzle. The doctor called about a week later and said, "Kate, I have good news and bad news. Which would you like first?"

"It doesn't matter," I replied, "whatever you want to give me."

She paused a moment, and then proceeded, "Your thyroid tests (T3, T4, T7 and TSH) are a little off. The TSH is 17 (it should be near zero), and I think we should up the Synthroid to .2 milligrams a day."

OK. This was nothing unusual. "All right," I whispered. I still had laryngitis that reduced my voice to a harsh crock or a soft whisper.

Then she went on, "Now I'll give you the bad news." The bad news? Wasn't a messed up thyroid test the bad news? Hadn't she already given it to me?

"Your Pap smear showed some abnormalities," she continued. I noticed her voice becoming more gentle and concerned as she spoke. "It shows mild hyperplasia, mild metaplasia, and adenoma." There was a pregnant pause as we both assimilated what she was saying. "I'd like to refer you to a gynocologist for a little more evaluation."

So, the bleeding wasn't menopause. It wasn't just a cruel joke of nature. Now it had a name. But I hung my hopes on the word, "mild." Mild couldn't mean much. It was the opposite of severe, wasn't it?

"Yes," I replied, somewhat dazed. "Please make the appointment for me." For the first time my bleeding had become something more than an annoyance. It had become something I could no longer write off and ignore. It had become more than a nuisance. It had become the beginning of a journey that would affect the rest of my life. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought of my father's mother. She was the grandmother I had never known. She had died of uterine cancer at forty-nine. I was forty-seven, and have always had more than a passing interest in genetics, especially recombitant DNA. Had some gene been passed down to me that would pressage a similar fate? Please, no.