The patron saint of PMS

“Madeline was being assaulted by a vicious bout of PMS on Chloe’s first day of school.  She was fighting back, but to no avail.  I choose my mood, she told herself as she stood in the kitchen…

PMS was still a relatively new experience for Madeline.  Another jolly part of the aging process.  She’d never really believed in it before.  Then, as she hit her late thirties, her body said, OK, you don’t believe in PMS?  I’ll show you PMS.  Get a load of this, bitch. 

Now, for one day every month, she had to fake everything:  her basic humanity, her love for her children, her love for Ed.  She’d once been appalled to hear of women claiming PMS as a defense for murder.  Now she understood.  She could happily murder someone today!  In fact, she felt like there should be some sort of recognition for her remarkable strength of character that she didn’t.”  From the novel, Big Little Lies, by Liane Moriarty (if you are only watching the TV series you are MISSING OUT.  Read her books—start with this one)

I Want To Punch You In The Face But I Love Jesus, The Ultimate PMS Companion Book (by Sherri Lynn) book I just bought.  More quotes forthcoming, I’m sure.

In one, remaining, and unfortunate way, my body is like that of a 16 year old girl.  It’s not in my perky bosom or tight little booty (ha!  I could hardly claim those when I WAS a 16 year old girl)!  But rather, in the wild rhythms of my monthly cycle.  Though they remain fairly regular (I used to say you could set your watch by them, back in those days when I actually paid attention to their comings and goings), they nevertheless clutch me and shake my emotions violently flinging me from sentimental tears to angry tantrums from moment to moment.  Last night I cried about a photocopied poem my son’s teacher put in his backpack on his last day of school (yeah, that’s how we roll.  School starts in under 2 weeks—time to clean out the backpacks!).  And then I cried about my other child’s preschool teacher’s poem (sent several years ago and which she dug out after gleefully observing the strong reaction her brother’s had evoked). 

This morning, I was angry at my husband for the unforgiveable sin of standing at the sink I wanted to use.  And then for chewing a bagel.  And for kissing me goodbye and saying “I love you.”  About this time every month, I sink into paroxysms of deep despair about my unbelievably difficult life.  In good months, I am able to swallow my rage and sorrow (and not, you know, punch people in the face).  In bad months, I unleash that fury (100% of the time to date this has been verbal.  I have not actually punched anyone in the face). Nevertheless, it ain’t pretty.  Even I (especially I) don’t want to live with me during these days.

Right now, I’m sitting at a beautiful little coffee shop owned by a dear woman I know personally.  In the bright summer sunshine.  Completely alone.  They served me my latte garnished with two chocolate covered espresso beans (I love chocolate covered espresso beans).  On the table in front of me is a blooming pot full of pink and purple and yellow flowers (I love pink and purple and yellow).  In a few minutes I have to leave to go to my annual mammogram.

See?  Life is an evil, green faced witch with a giant wart on her nose. 

I went an entire decade having just one or two periods a year.  For real.  I have 5 children, and I breastfed each one for nearly 2 years.  In the equation of women’s biology, that meant just a few experiences with this hormonal tango for a vast majority of my adult life.  (I’ve been menstruating for almost 30 years—wait.  Only going 10 without a period means it wasn’t the “vast majority” was it?  I hate math.  I hate estrogen.) 

I have really been trying to grow in my spiritual life of late.  I want to give my life over to Jesus (because he won’t leave me alone for one reason).  I honestly thought this morning that it was possible I was possessed by a demon.  Perhaps I am.  And the devil’s name is PMS.

Can PMS be my cross?  Must I find a way to love through this painful, disheartening, unpleasant inner turmoil?  I’m sorry, men, but you honestly have no idea.  Hell hath no fury and all that.  I listened to a Christian podcast the other day and two thirty-something women mentioned that for years during that one week of every month, they felt they were stumbling on their faith journey (“Back-slidden” was the specific—apparently Protestant?—term they used). Last month, I searched for a patron saint of PMS, because, seriously, I need a saintly sister to calm my raw nerves around this time of the month.  I need someone to call upon—like a wise, holy older sister—to ease my suffering.   

According to Father Google, there isn’t really a patron saint of PMS (go figure).  Some recommend Saint Gianna Molla who was a physician and died in childbirth or St. Rose of Lima who was so beautiful she had to beat men off with a stick.  Both feel like a stretch to me, especially Rose.  Beauty is not the first thing I think of associated with PMS.   (And of the many reasons I struggle to compare my life to that of the saints, having to beat men off with a stick due to my beauty is even harder to imagine than, say, being eaten by lions).   One chat board recommended St. Felicity of Rome, who was martyred after watching each of her 7 sons tortured and killed for their faith.  So that’s a tough one to adopt as a recourse to my first world problems associated with chocolate chips on my just swept floor and too many sporting events to attend on a given weekday.  I think the safest answer is NO, there is no patron saint of PMS. 

And this, of course, is where my mind parades martyr visions of female saints being beheaded, drawn and quartered, fed to lions, plagued by wretched illness, having breasts cut off and tongues cut out and eyes gouged from their heads.  Jesus himself said, “You have not yet endured to the point of shedding blood.”  Well, now that you mention it.... But I presume this sort of “shedding blood” isn’t exactly what He had in mind.  Or maybe it IS—and it was a message for all men everywhere that this PMS mess is no joke (as though any man who lives with a woman might still wonder after a few months of exposure to it).  Regardless, I endure. 

But, make no mistake—this is indeed a cross for me.  Every month.  Every blessed month.  But, one must deal.  I will tame my snarly tongue and sip my perfect latte in this lovely sunshine.  And speaking of breasts being cut off…. I have an appointment to keep.