Chapter 7
7
“I don’t think we’ve met.” With a flourish, Lowry Riordan indicated that I sit down.
He wore khaki chinos, hiking boots and a couple of layers of frayed T-shirts. Dr Waterbury had favored three-piece suits and, honestly, I preferred it.
“I lived in New York until October just gone.”
“Great city.” He sat, resting his left ankle on his right knee. “What can I do for you today?”
“I began taking HRT about fourteen months ago. I’ve the names of the hormones here.” I got out my phone. “The brands will be different but you’ll know the closest dupes to prescribe.”
“Yeeeeeaah.” He displayed his lower teeth in a theatrical wince.
“So the progesterone was—”
“I’m gonna stop you there. In the Western world, we over-medicalize what is a perfectly natural part of a woman’s life.”
Wait now, what ? He wasn’t…no, he couldn’t possibly be about to fob me off with black cohosh and yams? US doctors adore over-medicalizing things. Their prescription writing is inspired by Tolstoy, lengthy narratives full of twists and turns. Usually starting with something new that people were “seeing great results from.” Followed by three other medicines to counteract the side effects from the new product. Then a couple more to counteract the side effects from the earlier side-effect-cancelling remedies.
“In league with big pharma” is a familiar accusation. To which I say, And what about it? In my clueless youth, overburdened with idealism, I might have agreed with Dr Lowry Riordan here, but that was before I’d hit perimenopause.
“Take a country like India,” Lowry Riordan said. “A female population of six hundred million and only a tiny percentage take HRT. The rest just get on with it.”
My brain was scrambling hard . It produced, “Lowry, I’ve been to India and I loved it. But fifteen percent of the population don’t have running water either.”
He set his mouth in a displeased line, then said, “There are cancer risks associated with HRT.”
“It’s low. And there’s no history of breast cancer in my family. I check my breasts daily.” Maybe not literally daily but I would if he’d give me a prescription. “Please. I’ve already tried natural remedies. They didn’t help.”
“In good conscience, I can’t prescribe HRT.”
In good conscience? What did that mean? “But you don’t have to take it!” Then, more calmly, “You don’t know what perimenopause feels like. It’s really tough, in lots of different ways.”
“I don’t have Crohn’s Disease either but I’m also qualified to treat that.”
Into the ensuing silence, he said, “Research proves natural supplements work as well as…without any of the risks of breast cancer…best practice…serving women…blaaaaaaaaah…”
As I paid the bill I asked Shannon O’malley, “How retired is Dr Waterbury?”
“He’s in a home with Alzheimer’s.”
“So? Working part-time?”
—
“Jesus Christ!” Claire raged. “If a man came in with an itchy bollock, he’d be prescribed painkillers, antihistamines and a hot girl in a porn-y nurse’s costume to scratch it for him. But if a woman shows up with a sinus infection or a verruca, they get antidepressants. Except if they’re actually depressed, then they’re told to get a dog.”
“I didn’t want HRT,” Margaret said, “because I just wanted it to be over—periods, mood changes…I didn’t like that I’d no control over myself. Now that I’m through it, I feel safer. Neverthe less , Anna, you should be allowed as much HRT as you like.”
“I’m planning on taking it till the day I die,” Claire said. “Even when I’m lying in my coffin, could one of you rub on a pump of testosterone gel, it’s great for hair growth. Also for the libido.” She levelled a look at Margaret. “Talking about you, Mrs Dead from the Neck Down.”
“I wasn’t allowed HRT,” Mum said. “Because it gave us breast cancer.”
“Everyone? You mean your entire generation?”
“That’s right, all of us. So they said.”
Mum’s menopause might not have been as obvious as other mothers’ because she’d always been short-tempered. Yelling angrily was her—and my sisters’—preferred mode of communication. Conversations moved from innocent questions to shrieked denials in under a second. Even so, I remembered everyone laughing at Mum as she’d raged and wept. With my new knowledge my heart hurt for her.
“I’ll have to get HRT,” Helen said. “Otherwise I’ll end up in a maximum-security prison. I can barely control my rage as it is. Once the—what’s the calming hormone, Claire? Progesterone? Once it’s gone, I won’t be able to not kill people. I bet there’s loads of women doing time for murder just because some mansplainy doctor wouldn’t give them HRT. Miscarriages of justice. We should do a podcast about them!”
“Rachel?” Claire said. “What do you thi— Rachel!”
“Sorry!” Rachel had been smiling at nothing. “I seem to be okay. A few symptoms but I’m grand.”
Of course she was. She and Luke had had a messy break-up over a decade ago. But since they’d got back together, a blanket of endorphins surrounded her, like her own micro-climate. A small thing like menopause wasn’t going to leave a scratch.
“How come you get all the HRT you need?” I asked Claire.
“Because I see a consultant. If you have loads of cash you can see her too.”
“I’ll chip in for an appointment,” Margaret said.
“We’ll all club together,” Rachel declared.
“I can pay.” I’d been trying to budget, but I was still transitioning from earning plenty to earning nothing. These huge attitude shifts take time .
However, the first available slot was seven months hence. Reluctantly, Claire donated a month’s supply of hormones but not before warning me that this was strictly a one-off.
I assured her of my gratitude, then silently addressed the universe. “Any chance something good could happen soon? I’d really appreciate it.”