Menopause in a Prison Cell

I wrote to friends outside of prison to ask what they were using to treat their menopausal symptoms. The lists were long: black cohosh supplements, other herbs, sunshine, flaxseed, apricots, berries. The general consensus was that the most effective treatment was estrogen vaginal cream and hormone replacement therapy. This advice was well-meaning but useless. I have no way of obtaining these remedies.

I assumed that maybe my friends behind bars were denied medication because they weren’t describing their agony accurately. I was a nurse before prison, so I’m fluent in the language that insurance providers need to approve coverage. Next, I made a sick call listing my collection of symptoms, requested menopause treatment options and awaited a response.

It took several months before three maskless bald men appeared at my cell door. A white physician stood between two Black guards as I recounted textbook signs of menopause. He interrupted me to say I didn’t look old enough to go through menopause.

His sidekick chimed in, ​“Black don’t crack.”

The doctor asked, ​“You’re not all the way Black? Are you a mixed breed?”

I ignored them and continued describing my discomfort. The doctor folded his arms, accusing me of wanting pain meds. When I assured him that wasn’t the case, he suggested a hysterectomy. I wanted to scream, ​“This dude’s a nut!”

Instead, I said, ​“No, sir, I don’t want a hysterectomy.”

Then the doctor switched tactics. He dismissed my suffering as a normal part of aging. Exasperated, he told me to log each time I thought I was having menopausal symptoms. Imagine a world that tells men experiencing erectile dysfunction: This is a normal part of aging that you must get used to and log each time you think it happens. This is what I had to do to convince this doctor that my suffering was valid.

Not long after that medical visit, I asked guards for pads and tampons but was denied.

“Heard you got the menopause,” they told me. ​“Nice try, you don’t bleed.” I tried and failed to educate a pair of 20-somethings that women in menopause often experience heavy bleeding alternating with no bleeding.

In the end, I surrendered my hygiene for dignity. To prove I was really bleeding, I exchanged a soiled pad for a handful of new ones.

With no medical relief, the hot flashes continued to torment me relentlessly. In the summer of 2022, the temperature in my cell reached above 100 degrees. I fainted from a heat stroke. In tears, I again begged medical staff for menopause treatment.

Another year passed. In the summer of 2023, three women appeared at my cell door. A Black nurse practitioner, a white med tech and a guard. I shared a packet filled with information on menopause and studies on treatment. They prescribed Premarin, a hormone replacement therapy.

The change was instantaneous. It was like a switch turned me back into the old me. My skin cleared up and felt less dry. My hair regained its thickness. My mood was lighter and the brain fog cleared. Best of all, the hot flashes stopped. It was a miracle drug.

But the prescription ran out after two months. The doctors did not offer me a refill. So I’m back to square one, filling bowls with water and waiting for my next hot flash.

Asked by In These Times to comment on Harris’ case, prison spokesperson Amanda Hernandez declined due to confidentiality, but did state that free menstrual hygiene products were available to all female prisoners.