My daughter has started a new school. This involves me in a drive across Selander Bridge to collect her. Mornings are fine as it is very early. Pick up at 2pm – a killer. At 35 degrees and in an old Toyota land cruiser with broken air con, I felt my hot flush starting in my toes and working its way slowly upwards. To add insult to injury, the windows are supposed to be kept shut in case someone grabs anything. “Bugger that”, I thought. “They can have the bloody shopping and the car seats covered in dog hair”.
There is always a traffic jam on the bridge – it is the only road in and out of the city. I didn’t have my sweat rag on me, so I had to wipe my face on my top; the collar to be precise. I know that is gross but my hands were dirty. I got to school and phoned my husband, to let him know that I had done I my blog piece in my head. “I don’t have a blog to put it into straight away”. Pause, “ah yes”, he says, “I said I would set it up for you”. “Yes”, I reply, “I have a HUGE need to rant about the menopause AND share it”.
Coming back over the bridge – the drips of sweat collected under my chin. I need to do something about this soon or I will pass out on one of these afternoon pick up runs. It is not even the hot season yet either.
I am trying to get sympathy. Frankly some of it is my own fault. The heat isn’t; but even the broken car is partly; I am unable to multi task anymore. I do try and get my husband to do everything with the car; he tries his best but with 2 old cars; it is a constant battle to have one working at any one time. I could have simply called the mechanic to collect the car and repair the air con. It sounds so easy, but if you read on, you will see how the simplest things TAKE ON a life of their own when you are peri-menopausal.
Back to why it is my fault? Well I stuffed up with the dosage of my HRT patch. I am on my THIRD type of HRT. THIRD. This one, which I recently got in July – is a drip feed of estrogen into my body to “smooth” out my moods. In other words to stop me being a complete cow, to anyone who was previously in my way at roughly 8am till 12 and from 5pm till 8pm. For the mornings I would call my husband and tell him who I needed to murder at that particular time and he would suggest I went to the gym first. My poor child got it every night at 5pm. The guinea-pigologist said, yes, children suffer when their mothers go through the menopause; AND that she would remember it. HRT is therefore not only for me, but for her and hubs, and the rest of the family and the world in general.
I am still digressing, it shows what a grasshopper mind I have. Anyway I didn’t bring enough evorel 25s back from the UK. I didn’t tell anyone because it is not the first time I have done this and I don’t know why I did/do it. I know the months of the year and the days in each month, but I seemingly can’t count; as well as the usual long list of symptoms of menopause; that are kept a closely guarded secret until you think you have alzheimers, arthritis and heart failure all at the same time.
I will never forget 4 years ago going to the doctor in dar here and nervously telling him I had chest pains and swollen legs and thought to self; that I was going to die; I stayed awake all night to make sure I didn’t die. How irrational is that? Staying awake wasn’t hard, insomnia is part of IT.
The doctor looked at me in a new light and said suddenly, “how old are you”? When he realized I was 51 he muttered, “I think you need to see our guinea-pigolosist” and ushered me out of his office as quickly as he could. I THINK I heard him say phew, but I can’t promise. I duly made an appointment to see this retired specialist.
He explained to me that I was in the peri-menopausal period of my life. I had never heard of it. I asked how long it would last, genuinely thinking he would say a couple of weeks now that I had found him and he would give me a tablet for all my symptoms. About 10 years he said. Imagine the following; I screamed and shouted and slid off my chair to the floor, yelling no, no, no it can’t be. I need to get some sleep in the next 10 years. How come I didn’t know about this, how come nobody told me.” Of course what I DID do was swallow hard and with a squeaky voice go, “ahh I see and why does it last so long”?
He explained in squiggly writing on a piece of paper I think I still have. I understood each sentence until it was replaced with another one.
By the end all I thought was holy fuck.
I was like a lamb to the slaughter, I had no idea that what he was about to give me, wouldn’t work, that he wouldn’t be available for follow up and that I was about to be in peri-menopausal hell for the next 4 years.
Back to today. Yes those patches. A lovely friend’s husband is bringing the correct patches from the UK. As well as the other HRT tablet I take orally, twice a day. I don’t in fact remember what the difference is between them. What I do know that if you change from 25 and 50 and your body rejects it – it is horrendous – with insomnia, pulsing of fingers and toes, bloating, constipation, exhaustion, gormlessness, inability to focus, waftiness; whatever you want to call it; probably shouldn’t be drivingness – whatever that condition is. So I tore the 50 off and felt better, BUT the 8-10 and 5-8 yelling was back.
What to do – oh yes reach for the anti anxiety tablets the other doctor gave me.
It is 11am, I can now phone my chum without stalking her, to see if her hubs got back safe and sound. And more importantly does he have my drugs? Currently last oral in my possession for 3pm today and worse now patchless. Oh no! he doesn’t arrive till late pm not early am.
I went to the gym. I love it so much, but I was so rubbish – I felt faint and dizzy and pathetic – didn’t I say that is another part of the waftiness of suddenly depriving your body of a much needed hormone – in the right quantity – of course. I couldn’t stop thinking of lying on the sofa.
Foolishly, after the gym I left for the shops. I hate shopping and never have the list, nor enough money nor sufficient brain power to do it properly. I was after toilet paper; emergency situation; capers, anchovies, parmesan and nutella. I should have just got the loo paper and left. Unfortunately I stayed and tried to find the capers. The fuckers had moved from the shelf they had been on the last time I was in the same supermarket. I saw them and thought capers, “I need those”. I had even said so to my daughter.