Many moons ago, I thought I was done.

I thought I was done timing these lunar cycles. Not the full moons that send my students' behaviors into the stratosphere, but the cycles that most women know and tolerate and handle with an aplomb that very few men could face on a monthly basis, thank you very much.


I thought I was done facing the dementors, those Potter-esque creatures that make their victims chilled to the bone, feel like they'll never be happy again, and after the attack, head for the chocolate.


I was rejoicing, cleaning out the bathroom vanity and saying, "I don't need these supplies any more!"


Enough euphemisms, readers? I thought I had reached the big M: Menopause.


I was wrong.


After restocking the bathroom and heaving a deep, heavy sigh, I realized this had gone on a bit longer than normal. I made note of the start date and kept track of unusual traits. Three weeks in, I called the clinic.


We scheduled tests. Blood tests, ultrasounds, the works. I thanked my lucky stars that I have good coverage. I thanked my lucky stars that I didn't decide to teach summer school this year; I had the flexibility to schedule appointments without making sub plans and using up sick days. I could even -- well, anything more borders on TMI, much too much information.


Results came in:
I'm anemic. Not surprising, to be honest.
I have a few abnormal cells here and there, but nothing serious.
These should not be problems. But should, you know, is a bogus word.

Based on this, we move ahead. I'll keep you informed, readers and friends. So far, rest easy in the knowledge that I'm resting and recovering, too. And I'm hiding that box of fudge in the refrigerator.

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