I have a big blue teddybear that my husband gave me. He's soft and cuddly and sits on my side of the bed. I call him "Dougie Bear." Maybe it's childish, but I have never lost my love of stuffed animals. I have a chest full of Pound Puppies and Beanie Babies, and a bookcase littered with souvenir animals. I have a Kermit the Frog, a Lion King, a troll with pink hair, and more little bears, bunnies and dogs than you would want to count. That cuddly blue bear is sometimes my best friend - something I can hug and cry on, get angry at and punch out, or something I can curl up with and feel safe.
During the long six months of hormone therapy, I spent a lot of time huddled under my quilt with my teddybear. Sounds kind of silly for a woman who thinks she's menopausal, doesn't it? Well, whatever feels good and works.
During the therapy, nothing really changed. I continued to bleed and stash maxi pads. I continued to feel nauseous and vomit. I continued to speak in a soft whisper or a harsh crock. The only difference was that I had yet another pill to take every day. And keep taking them I did. I kept hoping for the day that they would somehow "kick in" and make the bleeding stop. But nothing happened. If anything, the bleeding increased in duration. Once I was reminded of the Bible story of Noah's ark. It rained for forty days and forty nights. I bled for forty days and forty nights.
I wore size eight. My younger daughter, who has a wonderfully silly sense of humor, called me "bony butt." I took pills. Nothing happened. Annoyance was rapidly changing to frustration and fear. I was so sick of being sick. I didn't want to throw up any more. I didn't want to bleed any more. I wanted to be able to have a conversation or sing "Happy Birthday." What was happening to my life? What was happening to my hair? At best, it was thin and straight; now it was thinner, drier, and more lifeless. I popped yet another Provera and promptly vomited it up. I hid under my quilt and hugged Dougie Bear.