When this all happened around the 12th of June, I said immediately I had to blog this for my dawlings. I have been asked when I was going to release it, and I suppose it's time. This is so typical of me, which means it's not short. So grab and drink and enjoy my struggles as a menopausal woman. Your day is coming. It was embarrassing as well as hoot to experience. To honor my WOW gal pals....
Warning* Screen protection possibly needed 
I think it started happening around my 35th birthday. My
doctor starting using crude words like "peri-menopause", hot flashes,
night sweats and other such words that offend. I was young. I was
not in danger of becoming one of those slightly demented menopausal women.
Well welcome to
dementia! In full transparency I will admit that from time to time I
would experience a burst of heat and question, "Was that a hot
flash?" You young ones out there take note. A hot flash is much like
falling in love or labor...when it's real you don't have to question "was
that?" You just know this is real. But it is an insidious
little threat. It creeps up on you in the second half of your fourth
decade. Sometimes even in the third
decade. Don’t think just because you are
a youthful 32 that you are out of the reach of this new exciting dimension of your
life. No my sisters, beware the treacherous nature of this beast. It's ever so
slight, and ever so sly that you shake your head in bewilderment wondering what
that was that just happened. You may have a
slightly older best buddy whom you share your inner most thoughts with, and with
bewilderment you tell her of these unusual occurrences. You are shocked when she chortles a
laugh so huge that she lunges for the bathroom. Yet another joyful occurrence of this stage of life, leaks happen.
My own blessed sister, as a child she was referred to as "the brat". But she turned out okay and she's one of my biggest cheerleaders. :) She shared with me the harrowing story of how her teenage son had a banquet
to attend. It required him to shower, wear dress
clothes and a tie; complete with all the proper hygiene issues…deodorant,
hair styling and clean underwear. She
told him they had to leave in 30 minutes.
In true teen fashion, he waited 25 minutes to START to transformation
from sweaty, smelly, cross country odor teenage boy to ready for the banquet as an elegantly coiffed young man. She was
rushing him out the door and into the typical mom van when half way down the the
gravel road, she sneezed. Uh oh. She whipped the van around to return to the
house because now she required a dry change of underwear and pants. She chastised him that now they were going to
be late because had he finished his dressing earlier; she could have still peed her pants, gone home, changed and still
arrived in time, no one the wiser. That would be the perfect world. They
were late and true to his nature, my nephew excused his lateness with the
explanation, “Mom sneezed and peed her pants.
So we had to go back for her to change."
Ack! Could ya just die? My poor sister.
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My handsome nephew Michael. He's trying out his
Presidential look. What he's really thinking, surrounded by these
lovelies, is "I'm the man. Yes, I am the man." |
Because I love my sister dear to my heart, I will not post her
photo here. I will however introduce you
to my nephew Michael - the heinous teenage boy who blabbed my sister’s bladder
issues to a gymnasium of awaiting banquet attendees.
Yes. My friends welcome to menopause.
I recall around
age 41, I was asking my son to check and see if the....the....that thing...was
still on. He (rightfully so) objected to the ambiguity of my question.
He asked for further explanation.
"What
thing?" he asked me.
"That thing
that is in the middle of the wall by the back door." I used gestures
to draw out the back door. Still he had that wrinkle in the center of his
forehead.
"There's a
lot of THINGS on that wall mom."
Exasperated
because he could not understand my clear English, I had
to enunciate my words. "That TH-ING on. the. wall. It
has that bronze hoody thing over it that sucks out air or smoke. It's
square." (I drew a square with my hands for clarity.) "It gets hot,
you put pots of food inside and it cooks it."
"The
OVEN?" he laughed, yes he laughed at his mother. Which I am sure is prohibited somewhere in
the Bible, probably in the book of Jericho. Yes, the book of Jericho
where the wise sayings are kept that were not included in the proper books of the
Bible. Wise things like don’t cross your eyes or they will stick that
way. Don't swim for 30 minutes after you eat. Cleanliness is next
to Godliness. Don't sass yo momma nor laugh at her NEITHER henceforth!
So I asked him to
check and see if the hot box where I cook food aka OVEN was left on. And
that's when it started. The thing about these menopausal symptoms is they
don't come and stay and get it over with. No, one may hit you for a couple
weeks and then disappear. No sooner did I get over that
"forgetting plain words mid-sentence" symptom, than it's
cousin "Night Sweats" showed up for a visit.
Night sweats was quite rude. He did not intrude on your day
time chores, but mercy about 2 am he was guaranteed to strike up a
party. You slept peacefully for 3 - 4 hours to be jerked away by the
presence of Night Sweats in your bed. Yes, he was that rude. He
would crawl under the blankets and take up all the room. You would awake gasping;
throwing blankets aside so fast those tornado sirens two counties over begin to
wail. Stumbling your way to bathroom, you flipped up the switch and would
peer at the wet, wilted face in the mirror. Unexplained slimy moisture coated every
square inch of your body and soaked through your night clothes. No
explanation why in a room where your water bottle has ice chips floating,
should you awaken with damp clothing and a coating of rich slime covering your
body. Confused you would strip out of your garments, and stare stupidly
at them, trying to determine how you came to be so WET in the middle of the
night.
Night Sweats stuck
around for a couple months and I quickly learned to just leave a pair of PJ's
on a hook in the bathroom....along with a towel, deodorant, underwear,
powder and other weapons against unwelcome wetness. It is not beyond the
realm of possibilities to even decide that a shower was the only thing
that would allow you to dry up
enough to go back to sleep.
So after mental
confusion and night sweats tore through my life and left, then entered an especially
fun visitor called "Aunt Flo". Everyone over the age of 20 or
so is well acquainted with the special characteristics of "Aunt Flo".
She is not of the variety that would strike a pouty pose and demand that you
"kiss her grits!" No, Auntie Flo is someone who comes for a
visit every 28 days or so if you are VERY lucky. Otherwise she may come
to visit every 14 days, 26.5 days, 45 days, or even 60 days. Her
appearance depends upon what kind of mood she is in and how nice
her accommodations are. She may be VERY cranky and arrive with
suitcases of cramps, swelling or other horrendous adventures. As young women we
welcome the visit of Aunt Flo because her presence assures us that we won't be
expecting any OTHER little visitors. So we put up with her visits, her
irritability and unpredictability. Of course, I should mention the flip side for
those who hunger after the arrival of the other little expectations only to have
their hope and dreams shot to…well you get the point. So her arrival is met with all the regular
baggage and goodies with other special gifts like disappointment, depression
and disgust.
But there comes a
point where the ole biddy knows her days are numbered. We no longer
welcome her presence because we are done with her business. You know
those relatives who seem to sense when dinner is about to be put on the table
and they show up at the door? Flo figures out that you are at the point
you are entertaining the idea of kicking her to the curb and not dealing with her
again. So one month she arrives and determines that she is not leaving.
Just to trip you up, she may arrive early or late, but either way you
are at a function getting ready to venture out onto center stage and suddenly
you feel her presence. And it's such an INTENSE presence that you are
running to a restroom, flinging aside little old ladies and small children in
your race to the privacy of a ladies room stall, praying you reach it before
everyone else becomes aware that AF has arrived. Welcome to a new pinnacle of your life...the flood stage. In her despair
of losing her welcome in your life, she decides to visit on a whim with excess
baggage to spare.
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| These might work. |
I once had dinner with a woman who was a victim to high flood stages. She rode home ensconced upon a dozen of my son's diapers, while praying that was enough to get her home. Your mate will become concerned for your heath and ask
worriedly, "Honey is this MUCH Aunt Flo good for you?" You
weakly wave your hand at him. You fear if Aunt Flo catches his concern,
she will be encouraged to stay even longer. So you suffer through this
presence and eventually she gets tired of her own games. Her visits
stretch out further and further.
And you would think
that was good, but then the Mutha of all menopausal issues. The books,
manuals and doctors refer to this blandly as the "hot flash".
For me, I had this complication called Breast cancer, Estrogen FED breast
cancer at that. Since Aunt Flo was still an irritating factor in my life,
the doctor decided he would medically kick her to the curb until I could
surgically finish her off. So at 10 am, I reported to the clinic
dutifully to receive the injection in the posterior side of my person, that would kiss Aunt Flo good bye forever,
By 10 pm I was
quite certain my face was melting off. I had been sitting quietly minding
my own business, reading through a book when it felt as if someone tossed a
heated towel upon my head. I suspiciously looked at the dear Mr. sitting
across the room staring at his computer. I watched him for a moment and
could not ascertain that he had anything to do with the sudden influx of warmth
I was feeling. I went back to the book and tried to ignore the growing
heat of my scalp. Finally the heat grew so intense that I stood up and
walked to the sink, thrust my head under the faucet and hosed down my head. Mr. Man looked aghast and
exclaimed, "What in the WORLD is wrong with you!" Apparently this behavior unnerved him.
I rose up from the
sink, gave him a good dose of stink eye and informed him, "Nothing is
wrong, dear. Go back to your facebook." He continued to view
me with disbelief and confusion as I paced, doused and paced some more. I
felt liquid fire raining down my head and melting my face, leaving
great drops of molten flesh in giant clumps on the floor. They turned to ash the following day, making it easier to vacuum away.
And that was the
easy part. After I had a full hysterectomy, the injections became unnecessary.
It did not however lessen the power of these so called hot flashes.
I occasionally would hop in the shower mid-day just to try to cool off
the furnaces being fired within. All I succeeded in doing was creating
lots and lots of steam, and then more steam. Who needs a steam room?
I would turn the faucets on and wait for the cooling effects of those
inviting jets of water. But alas, I just got hotter. As the stream
of water drew closer to my skin, the radiating heat of my body simply changed the water over
to steam. Eventually... after 5 minutes or so, the skin temp
would lower slightly from the evaporation of the steam and the water would
finally hit my flesh. ahhhh. I'd dry off and about 5 minutes later
I would be ablaze yet again.
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| Credits: cartoonstock.com |
Last winter, I
generated so much body heat that I was able to reduce the thermostat down to a
mere 63 degrees and run through the house in short sleeves and jeans. At
night I lowered it still to 58 degrees and set the digital thermometer to
activate about 10 minutes before the husband's alarm. He didn't need the
alarm, as the sudden influx of heated air woke me so completely that I was up
scrambling for the fan remote. I totally did not understand the hysteria my
husband would awaken with every morning and start yelling before he uncovered
his nose, and thrust his big toe from beneath the behemoth of blankets he
insisted upon. I lay comfortably under my sheet and laughed at
the nonsense of his piled pillars of fleece and flannel.
The
room was barely tolerable and I kept a bottle nearly frozen water at the
bedside to help quench the fires of Hades that burned within
my skin. I had enough excess heat; we easily could have powered the homes
on our block and the ones beyond. Oh to harness the power of the
menopausal power surge.
These menopausal meltdowns come on so silently and sneakily you are always unprepared. You learn to make excuses for the perpetual red face....steroids...it's always a good answer. "Mrs. Blankenship are you okay? Your face is simply an intense shade of fire engine red, are you having an allergic reaction?" That was the most recent question posed to me. I answered her, "No darling, it's steroids." "Ahhh," this nurse answered, "That will do it." And yes it does, but the answer serves a second nefarious purpose. Those acquainted with red steroid face are also acquainted with 'roid rage. A friend's husband once told her menopause really meant MEANOpause. Close enough. Both mean....step away and no one gets hurt. It's hard to think clearly or kindly when in the midst of a full onslaught of nuclear, menopausal meltdown. The nurse took her leave and she did not bother me again until it was time for the doctor to arrive.
I have looked
lovingly at tile floors in the middle of malls, and wondered just how long I would
have to lie upon the floor to cool down to a reasonable 400 degrees. One
such occasion was about 3 weeks ago at the doctor's office.
Actually I had been through the waiting room experience and was now in
the TINY little waiting room, wishing once again they would not shut the door.
Seriously, I am there waiting for my plastic surgeon who is well aware
that I am now a blazing furnace of furious fire, awaiting fresh kindling to
ignite. All these lovely rooms about 6 x 6 in size have a huge sheet of fabric hanging in
front of the door. You could be butt naked on the other side and those
people in the hall would never know. So why, WHY do they feel the need to
close the door of a tiny room?
As you might
suspect, I was politely sitting there in a backless gown waiting for the first
parade of doctors to come through. It wasn't long before I smelled
"singed hair" and an ungodly heat envelope my face. Uh oh, I
thought. I'm about to set blaze. I dared not touch the fabric
curtain for fear of setting off the fire alarm. So
I fidgeted and fanned myself to no great avail. I longingly eyed
the floor, knowing that the thin nature of the gowns they provide would be able to access the blessed coolness of the tiles if I dared
climb down from the exam table. I had already run that scenario through
my mind. I got stopped at the question, "how will I get myself up
from the tile if I hear someone outside the door?"
Everyone is ever
so polite, they knock before barging in. They expect you to allow them
in, considering that you are there to see THEM. They see no need to wait
for permission to enter. My inner Diva - Rosey kept egging me on,
reminding me how blessedly cool the tiles would be in an air conditioned room.
But my practical side reminded myself, how many people come in and out
and how well do I believe the Janitor really cleaned these floors? I
opted out of the idea of rolling on the floor.
By this time, the
mascara had melted, the nose was runny, the eyes tearing from the volume of
sweat rolling into them. When a woman experiences a power surge, you
simply CANNOT wait it out. IT REQUIRES action. After ruling out the
rolling upon the floor, I headed for the little sink on the counter. I
grabbed a fistful of towels, and plugged the sink drain. Filling the sink, I leaned over and thrust my arms into
the chilled water and relaxed in the cooling effect. And in walks someone.
You would think
they would have seen other menopausal women having a literal melt down before.
The young man simply raised his dark eyebrows and I blurted out,
"Sorry. I was having a menopausal meltdown. It was either this
or rolling naked on your floor." He barked out a laugh and thanked
me for choosing the sink. He tore off a length of those waxed sheeting
they use on their beds and offered it to me to "dry up?" Who
raises these kids? The only thing that paper is good for is cooling off cookies.
I wiped up as much as possible and finished up with another fistful of
towels. I looked at the young man with suspicion as he choked through a
few questions about how my pucketts were doing.
They hurt. The Short answer. And then I asked him, "You're not going to tell everyone how you
found me plunged in your little office sink are you?" He grinned
unabashedly as he assured me he would not...until I had left the clinic.
THEN he would tell the rest of the office.
The
young resident wrote a post it note to put on my chart..."Patient states that while she is
forced to endure tiny exam rooms, please pull the curtain and leave her door
ajar." I told him, they were warned. I could not be held
responsible if they closed me up in a room and found me topless and flopping
around on the floor. He left the room chuckling and despite my
admonitions, he SHUT the door again.
Again,
I opened the door and scooted behind the curtain, only to have a nurse stop and
ask if I needed assistance. I replied that I did not, I was just hot.
Then SHE shut the door again. ACK. What was it going to take
to get them to respect a woman's need for air flow? I went to the
cabinets and started riffling through. There was a stack of gowns.
Maybe I could wet one and use it as a cold compress against my sizzling
skin. But then I still had to explain a wet gown, those possibilities were too embarrassing. I tossed aside
that idea and opened another drawer. Ohhhhh, this drawer had sample silicone
implants. I picked them up and they were cool to the touch. Oh the
blessed coolness of a foobie. And like a fool I placed each one against
the burning fiery flesh of my face.
Oh well, they have
already figured out that I'm a tad off the center beam. Some weeks back Dr.
Puckett walked in, looking absolutely whipped. I told him he looked he
exhausted and he told me he was. It had been a really busy clinic day.
I told him that I would hug him but for the fact I was sitting there
topless, it probably wasn't appropriate. He couldn't quite contain the yelp
of laughter before putting on his stern doctor face. But his eyes were
now twinkling when he agreed; it probably wouldn't be considered very
appropriate. Dr. Puckett's eyes remind me of my father.
The residents have
heard of my reputation. I share with ONE female resident how I offered
to bring lunch to my
radiation oncologist.... barbecued breasts...chicken breasts
that was. She reacted the same as my dear Dr. Beidermann...she busted out
laughing. She did not however slide
off her stool like Dr. B did. She asked what I planned to bring the plastic surgeon's staff.
I told her I have always wanted to make a boobie cake…. They knew
that I was the one who named my Tissue Expanders after the doctor who installed
them...Dr. Puckett meet the pucketts.
So I really
shouldn't have been surprised at what happened next. That courtesy knock
followed by the door thrust open with the doctor with a number of
students and residents in tow. Yes, there I stood holding silicone foobies
against the flesh of my burning cheeks...which had just hitched up in
temperatures that were certain to boil the silicone. I must have looked like a deer in
headlights, but the hysteria that emitted from the mouths of those residents was
certainly out of proportion to the situation. I think the first resident
had not waited before sharing his story of finding me nearly shoulder deep in
the wash sink. Never before had there been more than one
resident to meet me. I counted 3 standing shocked still beside him trying to stifle their mirth, and
I'm not counting the one that was still in the hallway bent over at the waist,
grabbing his stomach and hooting for all he was worth.
He bit
his lips, and reached over to take the foobies from my hand. Then he
looked at me with his twinkling eyes and grinned, "if that is how
high you want these implanted we have quite a bit of talking yet to do."
Yeah. Not
funny.
On the other hand, my plastic surgeon…
SURGEON cracked a joke. (You have heard
the story? no? How does God differ from a
surgeon? Answer: God knows he’s not a surgeon.) However, I also give praise that I believe
every doctor I have seen through my trip through breast cancer was handpicked
and anointed for ME personally. Each of my doctors has
been exactly the one I needed for who I am and what I needed. Every single one of them has listened to my concerns. They had provided superb compassionate and skilled care and still laughed at my antics. They were perfectly picked by God to fill ALL my needs.
That fill went well and nothing else happened out of the ordinary. I explained to the
residents that I was battling some powerful heat surges that some fool called
hot flashes. They were young. They were not yet aware how these
things were NUCLEAR hot... they all smiled politely, nodded and appeared to be choking
back their own giggles.
I got dressed and
gently moved down the hallway. I passed the nurse's station just in time to hear
the proclamation...."well when she's here, we can't claim it's been a
boring day!"
One final word. In the Wizard of Oz, that Wicked Witch of the West got a bum wrap. All she needed was a cold bucket of water to cool her off because she was "melting." The poor dear wasn't evil, she was just having a nuclear meltdown power infused hot flash!
