Of all the questions I get about what it’s like to have a hysterectomy the easiest one to answer is this one: what’s it like not having periods any more?
It is, as you would imagine, bloody great (excuse the pun).
I was never lucky enough to be one of those menstruators who talked about their period as being a blessing from the moon or a chance to get in touch with their inner goddess. I have never been able to relate to period content on Instagram that celebrates cycles and free bleeding.
I understand the need for it and I celebrate any attempts to end period stigma – but it’s not designed for people with endometriosis or ovarian cysts or adenomyosis.
The idea that someone might be largely unbothered by their period is completely fascinating to me. People just have periods and it doesn’t ruin their lives? How novel!
My periods from ages 12 to 35 were all awful. Some were more awful than others (like the post-pregnancy periods that made me think I was dying). But none were better than awful. Awful was the baseline.
They were painful obviously but also heavy and weird, clotty, impossible to track, some periods would last three days, others would last three weeks. My longest period was two months long.
Some people can stop their periods by going on the pill or other hormonal birth control, but if you’ve got endometriosis, breakthrough bleeding often still happens.
So when I was finally granted a hysterectomy at 35, I was incredibly excited about yeeting my ute. People really wanted to feel sad for me. But I’m not a Terf, I don’t think my uterus makes me a woman. And I’d already decided long before my second child was born that I was done having kids.
I did bury my whare tangata – if you’re wondering. People do ask if you get to take it home. It’s buried with my child’s whenua and pito. His brother’s whenua accidentally went to the tip because it was in the freezer and the freezer broke and the Junk N Dump people picked it up and dumped it and I forgot to take it out. My husband has said his tupuna settled near the dump anyway so it’s fine.
I’ve written some nice things about my bits as closure. But I’ve never regretted even for a second having my surgery – because living without periods is incredible.
The things you can do! I would never wear white pants but I can wear them! My sheets are no longer stained rust brown! My underwear is pristine! Holidays are no longer ruined. I’m not running through the house asking where my cup is. I will never accidentally flick the cup and spray the wall with my blood. I will never have to shout at my child to “get out” while they ask me for some toast as I’m doubled over in pain trying to get a menstrual cup into my body.
I just did not know how great it would be not having periods. It’s genuinely one of the best things that has ever happened to my body.
Not a day goes by that I don’t rejoice that I’ll never be on the rag again. I never take it for granted. In my group chat, two of us are now uterus-less and we take every possible moment to say “can’t relate” when our mates talk about their period woes.
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Sometimes I think I’m having ghost periods – but then I do just like any excuse to eat a family-size chocolate bar on my own. A ghost period is still better than a period period.
All in all, would I recommend major surgery and the removal of multiple internal organs just to never have a period again?
The first period comes suddenly but the last period takes a while, writes Niki Bezzant.
The Sunday Essay is made possible thanks to the support of Creative New Zealand
Original illustration by Ruby Jones.
I might have had my last period.
It’s a thought I have every time I have a period, now – which is becoming a more and more rare and unpredictable event as I head toward my 52nd birthday.
Fifty two is the average age a woman will go through menopause in Aotearoa. I won’t know if I’m there, though, until I can look back and say it’s been a year since my last period. Menopause is really just one day, diagnosed in retrospect.
So I’m technically in late perimenopause; a stage defined partly by more and more irregular menstruation. Looking at my period tracker app I can see the crazy ride my hormones have been taking me on mapped out in graphic form: here’s a cycle of 46 days, then 25, then 15, then 23. Then, over summer, a cycle of 134 days; four and a half months without bleeding. That’s when I thought I might be heading for the magical one-year mark. But then that bumpy road kicked in again: 26 days; 22; 65. The app doesn’t know what to do with me.
I was more prepared for the start of my periods than I was for the end of them. My first period was in 1983 and I knew to expect it, and the basics of how to manage it, thanks to my mother. That was lucky for me, because I’d have been screwed if I’d had to rely on advertising or the media. The word ‘period’ was yet to appear in an ad. The TV and magazines of my youth featured a lot of mysterious blue liquid, white trousers, and copy about feeling confident and avoiding embarrassment, without ever mentioning why.
Embarrassment was the theme for my periods as a teen though. I spent many hours in classes worrying my pad might be leaking through to my school uniform skirt. It happened, too, more than once. Our pads were massive, but they didn’t have high-tech absorption or fancy wings. There’d regularly be the need to soak the knickers in cold water in the laundry.
Crazy cycles, of course, are just one manifestation of what’s going on in my body right now. But until I started researching for my book on menopause, I was, like many women, ignorant about my hormones beyond the basics. I probably knew more about testosterone than I did about oestrogen, the main female hormone. If you’d asked me a few years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to describe what oestrogen does.
Now I know oestrogen drives me. It is involved in almost every one of our bodily functions if we’re a human with ovaries; we have oestrogen receptors everywhere. Our brains, our muscles, our bones, our gut: oestrogen is there wielding an influence like a master of ceremonies. Although not a master. Master is the wrong word. I want to call oestrogen a she. She is powerful. She’s in control. She is my mistress.
As we age, oestrogen enters a natural decline. It’s a transition like puberty, but in reverse; when we come out the other side, our hormone levels are like they were before we started menstruating. (That we don’t feel as comfortable and accepting of this transition, and know so little compared to what we know about puberty, is whole other conversation.)
Oestrogen’s decline is not straightforward and gentle, as it is for men and their testosterone (worth pointing out to men who insist they have a similar experience to menopause. No. You really don’t). During perimenopause, oestrogen takes a bit of a roller-coaster ride. She goes up to levels higher than she’s ever been, and she plunges down to levels far below. And she goes everywhere inbetween.
Those ups and downs cause not only the erratic periods but also most of the other stomach-dropping symptoms we’ve come to know and hate about perimenopause. The flushes; the night sweats; the erratic moods; the rage. Not to mention all the other weird things that can happen. The list published in my book has 44 symptoms; I keep seeing more lists with more horrifying things on them on social media and I don’t doubt they’re true too. All those receptors; all those places – oestrogen is wreaking some havoc in our midlife bodies, to the point where if almost anything out of the ordinary happens to my body now; any weird pain or grumble, I think: probably perimenopause. Yes, mistress.
It’s weird not to know if I’ll have another period. Part of me wants to hold on to them for as long as possible, to feel the benefits of still having oestrogen fueling me enough to cycle. My periods are almost comforting to me now. I imagine oestrogen flowing through me, rising and falling, lubricating my joints and unscrambling my brain.
On the other hand it’s quite relaxing not menstruating. No more cramping; no more period diarrhea; no more monthly headaches. And I won’t miss the expense. I feel so ripped off that most of my menstruating life has been spent without the benefit of re-usable period products! I’ve had, I estimate, 468 periods, and spent conservatively enough money to pay for a small car on items from the “feminine hygiene” aisle, as it was called until very recently. That pisses me off.
Some women feel a real sense of grief at the end of their periods. There’s a sadness at the thought of the end of their reproductive lives; the idea of no more babies, even if they didn’t want any more. That part of our lives is over for good at menopause. We’re no longer reproductively viable. That of course, means that other thing that women are judged for: we are no longer young.
I’m OK with that, most of the time. I feel at 51 I’m hitting the height of my power (just as a man is). In my mind, I’m like one of those fabulous French women who becomes more chic and beautiful as she gets older, retaining the grace of her youth while acquiring a sexy layer of wisdom and experience. That’s how it is in my imagination.
In reality, I feel sad about the ageing sometimes. I like and enjoy my body, but I can see it changing, too, as oestrogen makes her fickle retreat, and I don’t always love it. Looking at pictures of myself from even five years ago I can see the difference. I don’t mind being older, truly. You can’t become known as someone who’s out there talking about menopause without embracing your fifties. But I don’t want to seem old.
The reason I feel that, I realise, is probably tied in to a whole mess of internalized misogyny. We’ve come a long way from the days when menopausal women were diagnosed with hysteria or mania and chucked into institutions. But still, “menopausal” is a pejorative term to many. And still, an older woman is not always – in Pākehā culture at least – as valued as an older man. Which is bullshit.
So it’s important to me that the menopause conversation now starting (which is awesome) doesn’t get too bogged down in the negative. For sure, this can be a truly crappy time for many women. We need to acknowledge that, not hide from it. And helping those women has become a big part of my kaupapa. Everyone – all ages and genders – needs to understand and support this transition better and I’m doing everything I can to make that happen.
But it’s important to also know that menopause is temporary. And once oestrogen calms down, she leaves us with some parting gifts.
When I surveyed women for the book, one of the questions I asked was about the upside of menopause. ‘No more periods’ was top of the list, something I’ve had a small inkling of. It feels free.
“I’ve found a new level of maturity, understanding how I have changed through this process; what I value, and the value I bring,” wrote one woman. “I’m excited for new beginnings and I can feel the new power,” said another.
That sounds pretty great. It makes me feel hopeful for the next season of my life. Hearing that and knowing what I now know about how this transition works, I’m not scared any more. I’m excited. I can’t wait to feel the power.
