I’ll call her Menerva—that sounds like an appropriate witch’s name. But she goes by the name menopause, people. She is the devil! Technically speaking, I’m in what doctors call peri-menopause—meaning I’m too young for them to believe I’m all the way into the real thing, but I get to taste many of her bitter fruits, until things get worse, and she’s done having her way with me. God, please let this go fast. Who needs insides anyway? They can have mine. Take them out!
This morning as I waited my turn at the doctor’s office, I decided to chronicle my experiences as sort of a public service announcement. I mean, the women in my family don’t exactly go around talking about their physical situations or sex or anything potentially damning or embarrassing, so I figure I’ll go first. Somebody out there needs to know she is not possessed, and she is not alone.
Like me, perhaps you do research online about what’s going on in your body. I’m sure you’ve gotten many different interpretations from those sites about the actual symptoms and duration of your particular brand of illness too. I’m sure that like me, you too have become frustrated because you feel something or see something in your situation that wasn’t listed; thus making this monster seem even scarier than you knew. Hey, it’s as complicated as the women affected by it. The people who publish those sites don’t know; they just take pieces of what each person says and add the symptoms that don’t overlap throughout the questionnaires and interviews. Hundreds of symptoms, one bitch of a disorder.
Perhaps this blog entry will even come up on a search engine for some woman who is desperately seeking a real person to tell her how it is. Let me draw you a picture of a day in my life, and how Menerva has had her way with me. Now I know some of you will be turning your noses up at me, as usual, and you’ll surely have a better or more proper way to do this. Feel free to start your own journal or blog or something so your people can be educated.
So anyway, I’ll share with you what I can remember. See, Menerva has her way with your brain; did you know your brain is the center of all activity in your body? Nothing works without it, and everything is affected when it’s not at 100%. I know; right?! Yeah, the forgetfulness monster has taken root in my brain. Simple things like how to spell little words, which word I want to say, numbers, dates, times, and my children’s names elude me at times. Then how many times have I called EJ Kyle, and vice versa? I won’t even tell you the things I’ve almost called Ari. But back to that later.
I can’t drive like I used to; I’m so easily distracted, it’s crazy. I pray every time I get behind the wheel. And it’s not like really obvious; I could hear a little voice in the car say, “Ma, look at the police car,” or “Ma, is that EJ’s school bus?” And I’ll just forget to make my turn, miss my exit, or neglect to stop at a store that’s clearly in my path and was on the agenda five minutes before. How many gas stations do I have to pass before I remember to stop? Really?!
I used to be really good at math too; today not so much. I can’t really see the problems in my mind like I used to, and I have to redo it like sixteen times before I eventually write it down. Just now I had a train of thought I was on, but I can’t remember where I was going. Maybe it’ll come back later. Whatever it was made me turn my head toward the TV, but when I turned back it was gone.Then I noticed how lovely this pen feels in my hand, and … well that sort of thing happens all the time now. I guess attention span is another thing affected by Menerva.
I went to the doctor’s office this morning for my semi-annual mammogram–an ordeal once they think they’ve seen something and have to keep smashing you to confirm or deny. That’s another thing my “maturity” has brought upon me. So there was this irritating lady interrogating the guy at the counter about barium and some drink and some x-ray or something, and I remembered another area affected by Menerva—temperament.
Now let me just say that I have never been the most pleasant, personable, mild, or accommodating person I know, and I never really liked people much; however, I have worked really hard over the last 20+ years to be less angry, less arrogant, less sarcastic, and more spiritual, sensitive, empathetic, forgiving, and aware of the human condition. I have worked tirelessly at being “nicer” because I wanted to be. Today I can honestly and without pause tell you that I no longer give a damn about that.
If I feel like cussing, I do. If I feel like yelling, I do. Whether I feel like crying or not, I do. If I think of some mean thing to do or say, I do. Mood swings? I laugh at mood swings. I often feel like I’m possessed; I can’t tell where I end and the hormonal rage begins. I don’t have that air I worked so hard to build around myself that protects people from my outbursts. I don’t have that self-control gauge that beeps when it gets into the red zone. It’s shorted out, and it’s more like a light switch—easily flipped. I don’t know if the fact that I tried so hard for so long will be enough, but I’m praying on that. I’m praying on this whole thing real hard, all the time. God help us all.
I just looked down at the white hairs on my pants and remembered that I wanna beat EJ’s back off. The bamma left for school today and didn’t let the dog out. I went into the basement to leave and he brushed against me, in my all-black attire. I was rushing for the doctor’s office, so I kind of didn’t have time to go to the school and shake-slap him. I wanted to real bad though; you have no idea. How in the hell do you forget to do something you do every freaking day of your life? How? For a while I was sure he had done it on purpose to spite me. I let the dog out and fed him and went on my way though. Fuming, I went. But wait til he gets home—if I remember then.
I’m thinking about Kyle and how he talks to me along the ride to his job daily. He’s always talking actually. Then too when I hear someone say, “Mommy, …” my response is always “WHAT?!” It’s like I’m waiting for the shoe to drop, the beg to come, or the question to follow. Or maybe it’s just in the way they say it that makes me wanna tell them to shut up. Maybe. Kyle has picked up on this I think; he doesn’t call me like the others do. His beckon is more like “MOMMY!” It’s loud, and almost accusatory when he says it. I may be responsible for that. Suffice it to say—wait, I done forgot what I was gonna say. Scratch that thought.
As far as the physical issues go, well, I debated whether or not I should go here. Then I remembered I’m doing something like a service, and my whole purpose for writing anything is so somebody can use it when they need it. So as embarrassing and uncomfortable as it may be, I have to tell you about the way my body hates me. I wake up and shower, then by the time I’m fully dressed, I want to change from all the sweating I did from scalp to toe nails.
That little boy had the nerve to tell me to close the window as we drove to work today, talking about “Ma, roll my window. My hands cold.” I tossed him a jacket to cover them because there was no way I could close every window. It was so hot! This hot is not like the kind a breeze will help; it’s like an internal combustion that builds from my core and radiates out through my hair and shortens my breath. I swear some days I feel like something is sitting on my chest, and no air is coming through. Then sometimes I feel severely anemic. I’m freezing. Can you say jacked up? I’m an extremist—this or that; hot or cold, no in-between.
When I’m having a cycle, it’s the worst, most disgusting one I’ve ever had (each seeming worse than the last). When I was 22, I could pop a pill for cramps, drink some tea, and go on about my business. I could do practically anything I wanted to do. At 42, new ballgame. I haven’t had cramps since 1993, but so what! They’re the least of my troubles; the way this thing is going, I’d prefer never to leave the house until it’s over. I’m fatigued all the time; if I lie down, it’s a wrap. When I get sleepy, there’s no negotiating anything; I’m going out. I find myself blinking in and out sometimes, and I’ll see or hear something. Then if I’m conscious enough, I pray the kids don’t kill each other, the back door is locked, and that EJ let the dog in and set the alarm. When I’m not having a cycle, It’s like having PMS every day—no ease, no break, no down time. I’m either on, or feeling like I will be tomorrow. I feel bloated, my back hurts, my breasts hurt like it’s time to nurse, I’d swear my breasts are actually growing at age 42, and I need to pee every five minutes. A lot of times I wonder if I’m even gonna make it.
Okay, about that—I was talking to some friends one day, and they were recommending pee pads to each other like it was a normal thing to talk about. I’m sitting there like “what in the hell …?” So there’s a pee epidemic among women in their 40’s? Aw hell nah; I’m gonna have to request a procedure if it gets there. I’m already researching the bladder suspension, because that’s not sexy, and I haven’t found Mr. Right yet. I refuse to go down without a fight. Then I started thinking back to a few times when um—I can think of a few times, from certain angles and positions, where I could now wonder exactly what kinds of fluids made that spot …. Mercy! Now I have to worry about THAT when I’m doing IT?! God help me!!!!!
Now speaking of the Lord, I know he’s real in my life because I haven’t crashed, killed anyone, slapped anyone, stabbed anyone, run anyone down with my car, or hurt myself—yet. I’m not gonna stop praying for obvious reasons. As for what I can do to help my symptoms ease up a little, or a lot, I’ve been researching stuff. Supposedly diet has a lot to do with easing Menerva, so eating right, getting enough rest, and vitamins can help soothe some of the beast within. It’s worth a try. I don’t know who I am some days. I want me back. I really do. I just hope you got some laughs from this, and will take your own health very seriously and question things that don’t seem right. Then get up and do something about it. You don’t have to accept everything age throws at you; there are options to help us through. Here’s wishing for good health and great sex for all who want it. Oooh, mercy! Down with Menerva.
From the Mind of:
Tonya D. Floyd, Author/Owner
Versatili-T Creations LLC
www.Versatili-T.com