I Thought It Was Just Me
The Quiet Crisis Of Women Who Have No Right To Complain
I turned fifty in the middle of my husband’s two-year unemployment. Three of our four kids were in college. Our youngest was in middle school, still in need of braces, algebra tutoring, and sports equipment. Already skint from the economic downturn and a couple of international moves, the unemployment left us financially, mentally, and emotionally drained. But we were able to keep the house. We were lucky.
Around this time, I could no longer rely on my body. I suffered from bouts of searing back pain. My bladder went on strike, demanding a mesh hammock. My female bits decided that they, too, had been overworked and under-appreciated. They wanted attention. From dodgy mammograms, ovarian cysts, random tumors, and a syndrome that, among other unpleasantries, gives me a five o’clock shadow, the stalwart organs that had served me well for decades were now giving me a run for my money (literally). But I didn’t have cancer. I was lucky.
This past year, my husband suffered a heart attack while on business in Mexico. He survived the heart attack but suffered a stroke post-surgery. I stood by his side as he relearned how to swallow and walk and lift a glass. He still can’t smile with both sides of his mouth, talk much above a loud whisper, or button his shirts. He will never know the joy of tossing his…