Waiting for menopause

For some women, Auntie Flo is an unwelcome visitor who drops by at an inopportune time. They call her unflattering names and cannot wait for her departure.

In mom's case, Auntie Flo is God. Were she the religious sort, mom would stand at her doorstep and welcome her with a rangoli and aarthi and prepare payasam and halwa. She looks forwards to these monthly visits with the same eagerness she had once reserved for the Hum Log tele serial, going so far as to mark the date on her calendar and counting down the days with anticipation.

You see, Auntie Flo is mom’s Messiah, bringing her much-needed relief from a condition that has tormented her close to 15 years.

When mom spots a corner of her red sari against a white backdrop, she lets out a deep sigh in much the same way drug addicts do when they get their fix. This welcome visitor is the only one who can take the malady away – a monthly misery that afflicts her, and by extension, her family's well-being, and leaves mom gasping for relief like a thirsty desert wanderer.

With a wave of her magic wand, Auntie Flo decrees that mom can enjoy seven days without affliction, seven measly days out of 30 when she’s free to hop, skip, jump if she wants to, squeeze her children to her bosom, apply soap to her chest, sleep on her stomach, cross her arms and not grimace every time her blouse brushes against her.

If auntie is in a generous mood, she extends the grace period to 10 days; if she’s not, she departs, leaving mom as disappointed as an employee cheated out of his Diwali bonus.

“Unfortunately, there’s no cure for this condition,” every doctor has kindly informed her. “You’re going to have to live with it.”

Left with no choice in the matter, mom has grinned and borne it, birthing babies she was unable to breastfeed and rocking them an arm length's away, the mastitis that pervaded her body after delivery seeming no different from her monthly pain schedule.

Apparently, a majority of women suffer silently from this disorder, with the pain varying in its intensity from one woman to another. Chronic breast pain isn’t something that’s discussed in a social setting or even around the dinner table, and mom has found only comic relief in the advice that's come her way: “Come on, it can’t be that bad.” “Women are destined to suffer.” “What doesn’t kill you will make you stronger.” "Chee, how can you talk about this?" “Wear a good-fitting bra at all times.” “Don’t wear a bra.” “Must be just hormones.” "You can't complain of a little tenderness." “Hang in there.” “At least it’s not cancer.” “If you think about it, it will hurt more.” “Pray to God.”

In the last 15 years, mom has had ample time on her hands to test a few of these theories, but every effort has left her disappointed. “But why can’t you carry me, Amma?” her bewildered baby wants to know when she pushes her away. “Where does it hurt? Over here?” she asks, patting mom’s chest out of concern, unaware of the 10,000 hot needles of pain searing her mother’s chest.

For long has mom envied women who take their breasts for granted, mothers who breastfeed and let their babies play patty-cake on their chest, dancers who bob on stage, ladies who wear push-up bras, buxom aunties who nonchalantly whip out a money pouch from their cleavage. So desperate is she that her envy extends even to silicone babes who only complain of backache after the procedure.

Research indicates that more than 60 percent of women suffer from this malediction. Why then does mom feel all alone - despite the presence of a constant companion?