On Midlife and Motherhood

Wtf is happening

Doctors removed a melanoma from my right breast in 2007. I can vividly remember the smell of burning flesh, the pressure of them twisting and stitching my skin, the white light above me. “Six months later, and you’d be at City of Hope,” the doctor had said after the biopsy. My arm stayed in a sling for two weeks, which made everything painful. Things like working, driving, putting on a shirt, or going to the bathroom, took more time and tears.

I healed; slowly, the space between my appointments grew longer, and the scars on my biopsied body began to fade. When I quit my full-time job in 2015, lost medical insurance, and then moved to Manhattan, I stopped my annual check-ups. A few more babies, breastfeeding, two years of Covid lockdown, and well, here I am at almost 42, making the rounds with new doctors.

“Are you telling me you’ve never had a mammogram?”

“No. My former medical practice recommended they start at 45 years of age.”

“Yes, but you’ve had cancer in your breast, and skin cancer runs in your family. You need to have a mammogram as soon as possible. I’ll put the order in for you.”

Wtf even is midlife?

My new doctor is super judgy. She hates that I don’t get a D-tap or flu shot every year, loathes that I advocate for myself, and is mesmerized by my height. But Jesus, she’s honest, so I’ll tolerate her implicit message that I am both a giant and a moron.

Maybe she’s right. I don’t know how to do middle age. I’m in group threads about urinary incontinence, thyroid issues, hormones, unexplainable back pain, and boobs after a decade of breastfeeding. (It’s possible I’ve had seven or so bra sizes. Do you even understand how expensive that is???)

The combination of stress, teeth changes, body aches and pain, headaches, and trauma are rarely taken seriously by a medical professional as legitimate reasons for further testing. It is a miracle women make it this far without help or empathy from society. We’re supposed to resist or ignore aging and fade into oblivion, pretending everything is okay. If a doctor chooses to listen, the advice response usually goes like this: “Reduce your stress. Drink water. Get some sleep.”

Okay, boss, but who can sleep with little kids and work and EARTH BEING A TYRANT?

Like, how am I supposed to “reduce stress” and calm my nervous system by doing yoga with a baby crawling all over me? How do I stay engaged with the world and detached enough to remain sane? How is it good for my mental health to go for a walk when it is hotter than a billy goat with a blow torch?

I never expected to have our beautiful children so late in life. Even when I left home for Los Angeles, I didn’t picture myself a day past 25 to marry and start a family. I have to tell you, three geriatric pregnancies and zero regrets later, that birthing babies is a young person’s game. I may go through menopause when my kids are teens. A house of hormones. Perfect.

Friendship makes middle age more manageable and more complicated. Covid disrupted our relationships and community, so we adapted and adjusted. I’d guess more than half of my friendship time at this stage of parenting is sending voice memos, watching Marco polos, and sharing memes. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the technology that makes connection possible. I remember having to page friends, use pay phones, and pay .25 cents a minute to talk long distance. Thank God we’ve evolved.

I miss the weekly, daily connections that I might be too underwater and tired to rebuild. I grieve the loss of proximity that makes it easier to talk about midlife and motherhood.

Mothering and living together in community make us vulnerable to each other. Solidarity is possible when we see struggle up close. Otherwise, we feel unmoored, with frayed nerves and heavy burdens that feel harder to ease.

The other day, I got so mad at a lady influencer who caught my attention with a reel about burnout. I’m paraphrasing, but it went something like, “Feeling stressed? Sometimes you gotta get away from it all and find a secluded beach in Europe to rest.”

As if people and parents don’t know that they need a vacation they can never take. As if sitting on a beach drinking mai tai’s solves crises, dysfunction, and illness. As if the only way to solve your lack of rest is to escape your life.

---

The most common thing I hear from friends at this age is, "I feel washed up."

How could you not? There is no framework for aging. Who gets praised for being invisible? Who teaches us to aspire to working a sustainable job and living an ordinary life? The work of mothering is often unseen and transformative. We are permanently affected by the toll children take on our bodies, and there is little time to care for ourselves. Mothers of older children assure me this changes. I'm grateful.

On the whole, women don't listen to their bodies but grow up learning to manage pain, to endure, to stuff it down somewhere. Or to think, huh, that's a new thing, weird! Guess I'll figure out how to deal with that every day until forever! Is it any wonder that we go until we give out?

So few of my friends have any older women willing to talk about the changes they experienced in their life and body as they aged. For some weird reason, we don't discuss this in families or friendship circles. Well, we do know a few reasons, but I don't have the time to get into bodies as commodities, the patriarchy, racism, and the productivity pay gap. Never mind that there are not enough studies and research to support understanding women and their bodies.

Alison Leiby @AlisonLeiby

The description of every illness or disease that affects women always starts with “No one know how or why this happens”.

What I do have time to touch briefly is shame. In high school, I played goalie in an indoor soccer league. We scrimmaged the boys after school one day, and I hit hard with another player blocking a goal. The pain traveled from my right ankle to my temple, but not a chance in hell was I going to let those boys win. We played for another forty minutes, and I drove home. As I sat in the basement peeling off sweaty clothes, cleats, socks, and shin guards, I noticed my ankle was blue and the size of a baseball. Hmmm, that looks painful, I said to myself from above my body. Maybe I should ask Mom to help me wrap it.

I've got countless examples of moments where my mind could only connect to my body from outside itself, assessing the situation, responding far below baseline for normal, and entering into self-management for survival. Whether I was sexually assaulted, given a new job while on maternity leave, or felt in my bones that something was wrong, I've spent a lifetime ignoring myself.

The silence of shame keeps us isolated, figuring things out independently rather than engaging vulnerably with others.

Thank God for the brutal honesty recovery requires. I've finally put my head back in my body. I love my people, and my people love me. Still, I needed the reminder that it's okay to age. It's okay to change. It's okay to ask for help.

Hold on, my friend and good neighbor. You are not alone. Remember that the times we most need each other are the times we're most tempted to pull apart.