by Lois Barrett of Hello Jubilee!
I had a menopausal meltdown this morning. Something sad happened, I started to cry, and next thing you know, the emotional dam burst! Just like that, I was riding an out-of-control raft of negative emotions, where every burden, concern and responsibility churned up all at once like whitewater, and I was shooting the rapids and hanging on for dear life. A couple of hours later, the river is still, I am safe on the beach, exhausted and drained, and reflecting on what happened.
The event that precipitated my crying jag: I awoke this morning to the news that Bubby, my son’s turtle, had died in the night. “But the vet said he would make it,” I protested. “She said it was just a parasite and he would be OK.”
Bubby hadn’t been himself for about a week. He’d seemed very weak, not moving or swimming around the way he usually does, and not eating much either. Each morning my son, Luke, would check to see if Bubby seemed any better than the day before but, by late on Christmas Eve, we decided we’d better take him to the vet. Because of the holiday closures, the first appointment we could get was yesterday afternoon. The vet examined Bubby thoroughly and said he likely had a parasite and would respond to a baby turtle-sized dose of antibiotics. Relieved, we brought the little guy home and Luke put him in about an inch of lukewarm V8 juice, something the vet advocated as a way for Bubby to absorb some much-needed nutrients. Bubby moved around in the V8 juice and seemed to take little laps, an encouraging sign. We put him on his basking rock for a while, and then back into a bit of water so he wouldn’t get dehydrated. He continued to seem weak and very still, and was probably traumatized by the trip to the vet’s and all of the handling.
Bubby, a baby red-eared slider my son had brought home a few months ago, had wormed his little way into all our hearts, somewhat to our collective surprise. I never imagined becoming emotionally attached to a turtle, and I certainly never imagined taking that turtle to a reptile veterinarian for medical care and handing over a sum of money which I am far too mortified to disclose. But Bubby had an endearing, curious and playful little personality and somehow we couldn’t just watch him languish away in his enfeebled estate. Although smaller than a hotel-size bar of soap, he seemed able to recognize and distinguish between each member of our family, swimming up to the glass when Luke appeared, especially around feeding time, but diving off his basking rock and into his tropical plant hiding place whenever any of the rest of us passed by.
This morning, though, my husband found Bubby at the bottom of the tank, presumably drowned. Although we thought we had left him in a safe place where he would be supported in his weakened state, he somehow fell into the water and didn’t have the strength to stay afloat.
So it’s a sad day in the Barrett household. I was surprised by my strong reaction to the news of Bubby’s demise. I started to weep, really loudly. To be honest (and to use a thesaurus), I started to bawl, blubber, boohoo, cry a river, cry convulsively, cry eyes out, howl, lament, sob, turn on waterworks, wail. Which is kind of surprising as I’ve never been particularly emotional about death, although I did used to shed tears on cue at just about every episode of Oprah. And those Sylvan Learning commercials never fail to bring a tear to my eye, where the heretofore underachieving offspring finally brings home an A on their report card. Ah, underachieving offspring … a theme that hits so close to home!
The emotional outbursts for Oprah and Sylvan, however, are much more subdued and dignified than the howl-fest that occurred this morning. My poor husband, who was with me at the time, didn’t know whether to laugh out loud, cry along with me, or run for the hills. Then he gently suggested that it was OK for me to be like this because he had read that menopausal women have trouble controlling their emotions.
Don’t you love it when men say that kind of thing? “It’s OK, dear, you can’t help yourself, you’re just insane. I love you even though you’re a raving lunatic.” We had our 30th anniversary two days ago. Will we make it to 31? Not at this rate.
Anyhow, as I lay crashed on the beach of my emotional white-water wild ride, some menopausal reflection and learning is in order. What can I learn from this episode? What can I learn from the thoughts and feelings – of failure, of futility, of helplessness – and how can I turn these thoughts and feelings into wisdom?
Stay tuned.
p.s Goodbye, Bubby, we loved you, little guy. Your successor will be your namesake … Dubble-Bubby.
Ed Note: The turtle illustrated is not Bubby. It is his successor, named only for himself, Hector Kristofferson
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Jane Gassner
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