I moved up to the mountains for one reason. I’ve heard about the long winters and believed living in this cooler climate would make my hot flashes feel marvelous, or extinguish my internal furnace quickly. One day my husband screamed, “Get inside, crazy woman!” during a blizzard when he caught me running outside wearing a bathing suit, still drenched in sweat. I realized menopause won that time and it’s not a competition I signed up for, but now that I’m in it, I want to get to the finish line first. Menopause is merely another race in my life.
When I yank covers off in the middle of the night garbed in a saturated nightshirt, rush over to a window and shove it open to hang my head outside attempting to beat the rising wave of heat, I consider myself a winner if I cool off before yanking my gown off and hanging my entire body outside. If I get arrested for indecent exposure, then menopause has won again.
Mood swings? Ask my husband how many personalities he’s seen over the past year. When he cautiously steps through the front door, he never knows who’ll greet him. Will he see the loving and considerate “Stepford Wife” who has cooked a four course dinner, attired only in a fur coat meant for entertainment later? Or will “Jack the Ripper” greet him at the door and hurl a butcher knife towards his head, barely missing his scalp? She’ll screech, “Go butcher your own bloody dinner. I had a bad day.” The front door still has a knife indentation in the wood as evidence of the later personality.
My system’s short-circuited; I’ve lost complete control over my emotions. For over twenty years, I’ve suffered through PMS, but it was only a relatively brief one-week period, once each month. Now menopause has me going around a series of constant mood changes. I could be calmly reading the newspaper having no concerns towards any of the gut wrenching articles, when all of a sudden a simple cartoon initiates a four-hour crying jag.
At age thirty-five, because of a medical condition, I was devastated, finding out I had to undergo a needed hysterectomy. My womb, my babies’ first home, was surgically removed from my body. During my recovery, my body was deviously occupied by an alien pod. An alien with a warped sense of humor, and one I’ve relied on as a coping mechanism.
I was much too vital to be converted into some shrieking shrew. The word “menopause” meant I was joining a club of old women locked in a nursing home, or being babbling idiots strapped in a rocking chair in their adult children’s spare bedroom. “Here’s Grandma, just ignore her blubbering.” Abrupt initiation into this club meant I couldn’t prevent my youthful body from changing into one of a senile old lady. My mother never sat me down to tell me about the birds and bees, and never spoke to me about going through menopause.
My once lustrous skin has cracked into itchy parchment paper, and no matter how much lotion I apply, nothing absorbs into my dry skin. There’s a vast lotion selection in my closet, because I bought every brand that promised twenty-four hour moisturizing. Beauty companies should be mandated to test products on miners working near blast furnaces or use their lotions on any menopausal woman.
My three children with their craziness have given me quite a few gray hairs, which I managed to pluck out, but menopause has reconstructed my glorious silk mane into a mass of coarse black and silver witch’s mane. Hair conditioning, along with hair dye, is now added to my beauty routine.
Not to get too graphic in description, but I rarely obsess on interests of a sexual nature because my body requires hours and hours of relaxation to even jumpstart my engine. Who has time for this, especially since my moods may switch in a moment’s time and I’ll completely forget what I was doing or who I was doing it with?
