“I don’t know — maybe put a little less food on your plate.”

That was her advice. She was a doctor, for crying out loud.

She was my doctor, unfortunately.

Most of the physicians I’ve seen in my life made me feel like they didn’t care about me or my problems. They had sicker people to see, and I looked “normal.” They spoke quickly, interrupted me, and showed me the door. They were busy, and I wasn’t a priority.

On the hazy, overcast morning of my doctor’s appointment, rain fell silently from the sky. I remember it vividly because I live in Southern California, where it rarely rains, and the doctor was late for my appointment. No one can drive in the rain out here. But, I’ll tell you about that some other time.

She entered the room awkwardly and apologized for her tardiness, but she was unfriendly and cold. Perhaps she was embarrassed that she was late. Maybe she was dreading confirming my diagnosis. Either way, this appointment was about to go south.

She flipped through my charts and kept her head down. My feet dangled off the exam room table. Crunchy paper rustled as I moved, so I did my best to remain still. The fluorescent lights lit up the room with an unnecessary intensity. I don’t remember breathing.

I heard the air conditioner click on. She finally confirmed that my test results revealed that I was in menopause. Then she told me to lose weight.

I was 37 years old.

The average age for menopause to start for American women is 51. I arrived there 14 years before I was supposed to.

I was pissed.

After my doctor told me to lose weight, she informed me that losing weight would be more challenging now because I was in menopause.

Ah, okay. Perfect. That information was well-timed. I knew it wasn’t that simple, and I blew her off.

Years later, I partnered with a nutritionist to lower my cholesterol and improve my overall health, consequently losing weight.

It wasn’t the amount of food I was eating; it was the hormone imbalance partnered with the fact that I ate too much sugar. But yes, by all means — reveal a life-changing diagnosis and then tell your patient to lose weight by (“I don’t know”) putting less food on her plate. That seems helpful.

I never saw that doctor again. I don’t even remember her name.

Cold water and no relief

The road to this diagnosis began in the middle of the night. Stabbing pain in one eye jolted me out of a hard sleep. I reached out to rub my eye, and tears streamed down my cheeks with no relief. I got up to splash cold water on my face, and finally, after a few minutes, the pain subsided.

What the hell? Was I about to lose my eyesight?

This was one symptom of many, which would eventually end up in my diagnosis of menopause. My physicians, by and large, sucked.

All the doctors I had in my thirties were uninterested in genuinely helping me. Why did they even go to med school? Each visit was the same.

“I don’t know. You’re fine. See the front desk on your way out.” Every last one of them said that.

I looked fine, so no biggie

Multiple symptoms ran parallel but felt unrelated at first.

“Your body just really doesn’t want to have a period, I guess!” — Words of wisdom from one of my doctors

I stared blankly at her, wondering why she wasn’t doing more to help me, but I had no questions to ask. I didn’t know how to help myself. Was it really okay that I had four periods a year?

That doctor also told me to put running shoes next to my bed to encourage me to get up and run every day. I nodded along.

I had zero intentions of doing that.

No one tested me for anything. All my doctors just moved on from my concerns, thinking I must be okay because I looked fine. Nothing was explained. They had to get to other patients, so they handed me my chart and showed me the door.

I felt like I was aging rapidly, but I couldn’t explain why. I thought it was all in my head or that I must be overworked, which was always the case in my thirties.

Sometimes I would get hot flashes followed by nausea. I would play this fun game with myself: Is this a hot flash or food poisoning? It was always a hot flash. This happened daily.

No one seemed worried about my symptoms, and I returned to my regularly-scheduled life without answers.

The pieces began to fit

With all of this going on, I started a new job, switched insurance, and trudged in to see another doctor. She finally decided to run some tests and check my FSH levels.

Pretty soon, I started to feel unstable on my own two feet. I had to climb ladders at work, and I often felt like I couldn’t hang on. It wasn’t a dizzy feeling, it was like the ladder was in the upside-down world, and I couldn’t get a good grip.

During the week I waited for my test results, I headed to the optometrist to see what I could do about that stabbing pain in my eye. That symptom was random. No warning — just stabbing pain. Tears flooded my eyes but provided no relief from the pain.

It happened at work. It happened in my sleep. Luckily it never happened while I was driving.

The optometrist diagnosed me with dry eye, gave me some eye drops, and told me to take omega-3. After that appointment, I knew what was coming. I was waiting for the diagnosis of menopause.

The puzzle pieces were beginning to fit together. Hot flashes, dry eyes, no periods, aging rapidly, and balance issues, hmmm.

After the diagnosis, I ditched the “less food on your plate” doctor and made an appointment with a specialist.

I’m so sorry, you’re so young

My new OBGYN was young and hip. Her office staff and nurses rained pity on me. “I’m so sorry. You’re so young,” they told me after reading my chart.

I stared down at my checkered slip-on Vans. I didn’t want to tell them that it wasn’t a big deal because I didn’t want kids. Saying you don’t want children to people who deliver babies for a living is a strange predicament. I kept my mouth shut.

No one could tell me why this happened. It’s usually hereditary, but with the women in my family, I don’t know. I don’t have any answers. It doesn’t matter why I guess. It happened, and I had to find a way to move forward.

My doctor prescribed synthetic hormones. I avoided it for a couple of months, trying to figure out how to move forward with more natural options. I finally decided to take the pill. I knew I wanted to get off medication eventually, but I would cross that bridge when I had to.

I wasn’t ready to eat only spinach, drink herbal teas, and let my hair go grey; I was too young. After about two months, I started to feel like myself again.

I got on with my life

I kept my diagnosis hidden for years. I only told a handful of people. Every group on the internet was just women devastated that they couldn’t bear children. I couldn’t relate, so I shut my computer and got on with my life.

Menopause is this odd mix of physical and mental adjustments. It’s dramatically different for everyone who goes through it. It was isolating to experience it at such an early age.

I didn’t discuss it with anyone. Who would understand, anyway? I finally felt better, and I wanted to forget it and move on.

Don’t give up

Managing your health is complicated. Doctors are busy and have little time to be the detectives they should be. It’s up to us to figure a lot of this stuff out on our own.

We treat the symptoms in Western medicine, not the cause, leaving most people continually searching for answers. We down prescription medicine to curb aches and pains, but doctors have no incentive to find the real problem.

It’s taken me almost a decade to tell this story. To find a voice behind the hardship, the loneliness, and alienation.

The healthcare system in America is infuriating, and it makes you want to give up. Don’t. You deserve to feel good every day. You deserve a doctor that will listen to you. Keep searching until you find them.

Be your own advocate. Put the pieces together as you go along, and take notes. Don’t listen to awkward doctors who tell you to put less food on your plate. Burn it down and start over. You’ll find what you’re looking for.