In the Lingering Spaces
2002 (Five Years in Aus)
Monica sat bolt upright, gasping. It was the third time that month she’d woken from the same sick, strange dream. It left a heavy sting of emptiness when she woke, but… she could never quite place the events that led to her abrupt rousing. Though more frequent as of late, the dream that she could never quite recall had long plagued her. At least the last several years; at least since the move.
At first, Monica thought the dreams were stress related. She and Wendell had given up everything so suddenly, so determinedly, that surely the stress of it all would weigh heavily on her. She was, after all, somewhat of an emotive sort. Not so much that she had not exceled in her career path. Oh no, she quite relished the highly clinical nature of dentistry. The sterile environment and the limited and calculable approach to solving most mouth maladies . But after the move it all became too much. Too bright, too loud, too malodorous. She couldn’t stand to be in the cramped office space, hunched over another body.
Starting their practice over in Australia had been their dream for… well it felt like she’d always wanted it, but when they spoke of it after they were well and truly settled neither of them could remember where they got the idea. Nor when they really started desiring it. Still, she should have celebrated the success they had in integrating into the community.
But Monica did not celebrate. She wilted. Whether it was under the unforgiving Australian sun, or perhaps the newfound freedom of not knowing a single soul for thousands of miles; having no living relatives and needing for nothing – the unbearable lightness of simply being crushed her spirit. Down, down, down, until it was dust and motes. The dream, or dreams, were nearly constant at first. Every night she thrashed, startling her husband and leaving her sobbing without a cause. Wendell would gently reassure her, and only asked what the dreams were once she’d settled. She could never quite explain. Only that it felt like she’d lost everything.
Sometime in early ’98, though, something shifted. There was at last a dream that she could recall. While she could not ever put her finger on the others, she was willing to at least hope that this version of the dream was the worst. It was not a long dream, though it was vivid. Flashes of light and darkness, a high, manic cackle, and visions of someone screaming. Then, a quiet whisper of a plea to their mother as a knife slashed over and over again.
It was a deeply unsettling and gory dream – made all the more horrific by the fact that Monica had simply produced it out of her own dark mind. She had not ever had a penchant for horror films and the scene was entirely unfamiliar to her. The next morning, she called for an appointment and shortly after that began taking medications to stem her anxiety. The dreams calmed to a dull, amorphous sort of ache then. She rarely woke from them again. They decided it must have been the pressures of the move and establishing a new practice in a new country culminating on her shoulders. So, she quietly stepped down from work, opting instead to focus on gardening for a while. Always she thought, once I’ve found level again I will go back. Level never came.
After waking for a third time in as many weeks, Monica found herself cursing the witching hour as she slung her feet to the carpeted floor, determined to sort herself out. She padded to the stairs and down, flipping on the light as she went to get a cup of water. The computer they so frivolously bought sat dark in the corner of the lounge room. A compromise of sorts; Wendell wanted it and she absolutely wanted nothing to do with it - so it sat in the room she spent the least time. She stared at the thing from across the kitchen peninsula, gulping down water to settle her mind after the terror she woke with. She filled the glass once more and took a smaller sip, ready to begin her search.
Monica pulled up the only search engine she’d heard of; a library catalogue of some sort that was kept in a centralized location but available to all. How that worked she would never know, but she was grateful for the ever-evolving world and its expansive access to knowledge. She slowly typed in the word ‘menopause,’ and then ‘bad dreams.’ The results varied enough to not give her a direct answer, so she resolved to call her gynae in the morning. How she’d never thought to pursue this thread to her dreams she wasn’t sure, but when they’d first moved she’d been barely into her forties and it had not crossed her mind. Especially since she’d not ever had children. Never wanted them.
She had put the thought out of mind for quite a while, but she knew that the cause could be tied to her age, but well, she just didn’t like to think of it. For so many reasons. It made her decision to not become a mother so much more final. Even though she’d not wanted children, the last few years had been difficult to explain. The thought was rooted in her mind that she was a career woman with a fulfilling, exciting life outside of motherhood. But she would be lying if she said she felt nothing about the idea of motherhood. Especially once they’d moved to Aus, she often found herself staring at mothers and their children, particularly mother and daughter pairs, and feeling something like loss.
At first, she hardly noticed either herself watching these women, or the feelings that lingered. It was like she was programmed to ignore it, because she… she’d never wanted children, right? Or … Monica chided herself. Of course she wouldn’t pay any mind to parents and their children, she never wanted any. She thought that this is exactly why it’s probably the hormones. Never had any issues and suddenly it’s all that she can think of.
Monica sat on the edge of the exam room table waiting for the good doctor to come in and go through the motions. After a good nights’ rest, she had already come to the conclusion that she was in full menopause, that she had started the journey through pre- and peri- menopause right exactly as she and Wendell had made their move, and that those finicky hormonal fluctuations were the root cause of her nightmares and her onset anxiety.
Logical though this was, and therefore appealing as an answer, she still needed medical confirmation and then a treatment plan. If hormones were the root of her problems, anti-anxiety medications would hardly solve all of her ills. Sure, she was a little young but that wasn’t unusual. She’d read one article that indicated as much: lack of childbirth and nursing was at least somewhat linked to earlier menopausal presentations.
“Mrs. Wilkins, good morning!,” a clipped, friendly voice brought her attention to the door. “Doctor Ziegler.”
“Morning, Doctor Ziegler. Lovely to meet you. It’s Doctor Wilkins, actually.”
“My apologies,” the doctor kindly smiled at her as he took his seat across from Monica. She could tell he was doing that thing (good) male gynecologists do to help their patients feel more at ease; sitting immediately lower than her, smiling softly, using a direct but not unkind tenor of voice, doing his best not to contradict her immediately. It was working. Monica felt encouraged by his manner already, and suspected this would be a quick and easy fix.
“So, I see here that you are curious about menopausal symptoms and possible treatments. Can you tell me, briefly, what you are experiencing? Any hot flashes, irregular cycles, migraines, vaginal irregularities or pain during intercourse? Anything unusual at all, just let me have it.”
Monica faltered; she wasn’t experiencing any of those things. Only the dreams and anxiety. “Well, none of those things, no. But I’ve been having terrible dreams and poor sleep. For years now, actually.”
The doctor hummed. “That’s all right, every presentation is different. If any two women had the same symptomology I think I’d be out of a job. While we’re at it, any hair loss or even hair texture change? Night sweats, fatigue, insomnia? Any particular reason you can think of for the dreams that mightn’t be hormones?”
“Well the nightmares certainly create some insomnia but, I’m able to sleep fine. And no reason specifically, outside of stress. They started back in ‘97, when we moved here.”
“I see…” he wrote a note on his clipboard. “Have you tried calming meds?”
“A light dose, yeah. They’ve been working for a while but they seem to have stopped recently. All the old feelings are back.”
“Not uncommon, I’m afraid. Sometimes our systems get too used to the medication and we build up a tolerance. That’s quite alright, though. We can still do a battery of tests. See if it’s not perhaps pre-menopause or related. Get you sleeping better.”
He paused to let her ask any clarifying questions, but she merely gestured for him to continue. “So, we’ll do a blood draw today and a pap. I don’t see any records of your last exam here, though, have you kept up your yearlys?”
“Oh, no. Nothing has ever been, well, amiss in that regard and I assumed with the general practitioner clearance and all, I’d be fine… I’m not opposed to the exams I just didn’t see the need recently. I think I had one or two back in England, but never had children or any issues so I never thought much of it. Probably why it took me so long to think of contacting you, honestly. Just not a regular thing for me.”
“Not to worry. We will get it all sorted. Let me just call a nurse.”
The exam was supposed to be quick and painless, though the scrub brush sensation was not anything close to comfortable. Monica breathed deeply through her nose and looked at the ceiling while she waited for the invasion to end.
Doctor Ziegler coughed lightly, “ahem, M- Dr Wilkins? Did you say you’d not had any children?”
“Yep. Never got the itch, running the dental practice with my husband took up too much time and we wanted to travel instead of raise a family.” Monica repeated this refrain many times over the years, although only since moving to Aus. She couldn’t recall having ever explained it before then, most likely because her friends had always known so she never … wanted … to be a mother. Something tugged at Monica’s mind. It was the same feeling about the kettle being left on. She frowned. "Why?”
Doctor Ziegler withdrew his speculum, and tapped her knees twice to indicate she could scoot back.
“Oh just, I understand it’s such a personal decision to adopt out, so please forgive my overstep, but your body has clearly birthed a baby. Makes me wonder at the underlying causes already, usually just the act of pregnancy and birth can extend onset of menopause. You’re only 46, so that’s a little early for someone with your physical experience.”
Monica's vision clouded, hazing over into darkness. Her throat constricted and she tried to pull a breath but none would come. She couldn't breathe. She clawed at her neck, ripping the flimsy paper gown.
Monica yanked the paper gown off her body, uncaring that it exposed her to the nurse and doctor. She could not breathe, and she felt … she felt… nausea roiled her stomach and she pitched sideways, losing that morning’s breakfast violently. Doctor Ziegler was calmly standing beside her, saying something she could not hear to the nurse. A moment later, the door opened and another pair of feet appeared in Monica’s line of vision. She was dimly aware of a paper sheet being draped around her shoulders. Someone was floating a small cup of water in front of her, urging her to take a sip.
“Doctor Wilkins…can you hear me?”
“Monica.”
Doctor Ziegler paused.
“Monica is fine. Call me Monica.”
“Ok, Monica. Can I get you to lay back please, we are going to keep you covered but I want to make sure you aren’t going into shock on me.”
Monica let herself be guided down to the table, her mind rattling around like it wanted to break apart. Her body had birthed a child? Why couldn’t she remember? That did not make any sense and could not be correct.
Doctor Ziegler appeared to be checking her over, and seemed generally content with her state because he lightly cleared his throat before he asked, “so, I see that this is not something you like to discuss?” His tone was even and professional, concerned even. Monica was grateful for that because she didn’t think that she could handle any perceived derision for a choice that she could not remember making.
“It isn’t that I don’t like to discuss… that, Doctor Ziegler. It’s that I haven’t the faintest memory of it.”
“That was a rather strong reaction for something you don’t seem to recall. I am nearly certain that you almost went into shock. I can assure you that there is no judgment here, if that is your concern. Family choice is just that, and I know how demanding medical practice is, if you didn’t want children that would make perfect sense.”
“No, you –“ Monica was going to fight it again, but stopped. The dreams. The feelings of longing, of grief, of ache. Particularly, one dream. A grotesque dream of a beautiful girl with honeyed brown eyes pleading with her and calling her mum. The matted hair that looked to be a mess of curls. The little girl at the practice that made her stop, the one who had that same wild hair. The feelings. The feelings. The feelings. Monica started crying silently. Doctor Ziegler put a hand on her back, and tried to be a generally calm presence.
It still made no sense and she still could not truly remember. Wendell surely would have known or said something, he was her first and only in University and he knew that then. There is simply no reconciling what the doctor said and what she knew.
Monica tried again. “I don’t remember having a baby. I don’t remember being pregn—” Images slammed into her head, unbidden. Sitting on a table with a midwife at her side, holding an instrument to her belly. Her belly that was hard, round, and covered in clear jelly. A scattered image on a screen. A beaming Wendell. A hospital room, explosions of pain, a tiny, mewling scream and then…. Nothing. No pink baby. Everything just stopped.
Monica looked at the Doctor. “Could you please call my husband? He’s my emergency contact. I don’t think that I can get myself home.”