In January, Luisa Martínez García entered menopause. At first, it proceeded without any particular complications. No hot flashes, no night sweats, no rapid heartbeat or migraines. Her periods simply stopped: ‘Hello, old age, here I am,’ she thought with a touch of irony.
Louisa did not go to the doctor: she had read enough, and her friends had already shared their own experiences. ‘You’re lucky,’ they told her. ‘It’s strange how well you’re coping with it!’
It was as if they had jinxed her. Soon, strange symptoms began to appear: sudden mood swings, dizziness, fatigue that weighed on her like lead. She struggled to bend over to play with her granddaughter Lucia, lost her appetite, and developed a new, constant backache. In the mornings, her face was puffy, and by noon, her legs felt heavy as stone. Her daughters-in-law were the first to sound the alarm: ‘You look pale, Mum. Go see a doctor — this isn’t normal!’
Louise remained silent. Deep down, she already suspected that something was wrong. Then came a burning pain in her chest, unbearable to the touch, and a pulling sensation in her lower abdomen that robbed her of sleep. Night after night, she cried quietly next to her husband Andres, a tireless snorer, staring at the ceiling, rummaging through her memories.
She didn’t want to die. She was only fifty-two and hadn’t retired yet. She and Andrés were looking for a small house in the mountains to live in during their retirement. Her children were thriving, her daughters-in-law dyed her grey hair and helped her choose loose-fitting clothes. Lucia, her treasure, would start primary school in the autumn — figure skating, colourful drawings… she was already knitting scarves thanks to her grandmother.
Spring and summer passed with great difficulty. By September, she was overcome by a stabbing pain in her side and back. Finally, she made an appointment with a doctor.
Almost the entire family accompanied her to the clinic. Andrés and their eldest son waited in the car, while her daughters-in-law stayed in the reception area. After asking the usual questions, the gynaecologist turned pale during the examination. ‘Oncology, urgently!’ she shouted into the phone. ‘Terminal stage. I can’t find the uterus!’
On the way to the hospital, Luisa screamed in her daughter-in-law’s arms. Andrés cried openly. And when the pain gave her a respite, she looked out the window at the golden autumn poplars of Madrid, silently saying goodbye. Who would take Lucia to school? Who would taste her first cookies?
The emergency room was in complete chaos. Amidst the stretchers and bustling doctors, a midwife suddenly appeared, triumphantly announcing, “It’s a boy! Three and a half kilograms!‘ The family hugged each other through their tears, and Andrés, stunned, muttered, ’But we were only celebrating my name day… just one extra glass of wine…”
The midwife winked: ‘Grandpa, looks like you’re going to need nappies and champagne. What a romantic dream!’
In the delivery room, Dr Carmen Rodriguez, the head physician, looked at Louise between breaths and asked, ‘So you blame wine too?’
‘Love is to blame,’ whispered Louise, exhausted. ‘I just turned fifty-two…’
‘Well, you almost got stuck at forty-nine,’ joked the doctor. ‘Push, warrior! That “tumour” wants to come out!’
When they showed the baby, the daughters-in-law exclaimed, ‘He looks just like his grandfather!’ Andrés, red as a tomato, muttered, ‘Well… It seems that going to the gym is paying off.’
Meanwhile, in the waiting room, little Lucía was drawing a family tree — now with a few extra branches.
