kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Menopause

  • My Particular Brand of Menopause.

    I’m a bit under the weather today with what seems to be a fairly nasty head cold compounded by a lack of sleep caused by the cold.  It’s a two-fold cold:  that of being sick, and that which is caused by our window which has to be open lest one of us sweat to death in the night.  Being under said weather puts me in a less than joyful mood and left to consider all the more pleasant aspects of my life — like menopause.

    Just seeing the word on the page can cause a number of reactions depending on one’s particular set of circumstances:

    1. You’re female and under 30 so menopause can’t possibly have anything to do with you.  In fact, the concept of one grey hair or chin whisker may have recently sent you to near hysteria;
    2. You’re male, and anything having to do with the female body that isn’t about cleavage, thighs, or hot sex may as well be written in a language unknown to man.  That would be a male, and not mankind in general;
    3. You’re a menopausal woman and because you’re on a first name basis with menopause, reading about it most likely isn’t the first item of the day with your usual Venti Soy Decaf Latte, thank you very much; or
    4. You’re married to a menopausal woman and unlike awaiting the bouncing bundle of joy which is the result of a healthy pregnancy, you suspect absolutely nothing that cute could possibly come of this.

    From time to time, I Google menopause just to see what comes up and it’s dismal.  I suppose this behavior makes me Glutton for Punishment’s poster child, but it seems to be part of my two-year and counting adjustment to aging.  Most of the initial hits are for sites selling or promoting HRT drugs.  The others are large medical sites like the Mayo Clinic and WebMD and although basic information can be found on all of these sites, they essentially say the same thing:  hot flashes are normal; we’re at greater risk for joint pain and osteoporosis; our skin will become more dry and less elastic; our midsections will increase in size; our muscles begin to disappear, our hair will thin in some places and grow in others less desirable; we will have difficulty with our teeth and gums; and most importantly — we will be at far greater risk for heart disease.

    The good news is that regular exercise, improved diet, and reduced stress can lessen the effects of all of the above.  By all means, let the happy dancing begin.

    (more…)

  • Glucosamine, Progesterone & Bubble Baths

    Somehow, I never made it to Target yesterday. By the time I decided to leave the house, it was after 12. I shook my head at the traitorous clock chiding myself over my lack efficiency. I used to be so organized. Well, maybe I just thought that of myself, languishing in years of self-indulgent praise. After all, I was worth it, wasn’t I? What a load of crap.

    With some degree of resignation, I ventured down the hill to the drug store to peruse the section that might have glucosamine and chondroitin for my less than limber joints. Well, they’re still quite limber, they just hurt like a sonuvvahbitch. It wasn’t tough to find, there was so much of it. And just to keep me occupied, there were combinations of the two — how convenient. From what I’d read, both were necessary for my annoyingly persistent aches, so why not save having to choke down more than one horse-sized pill a couple of times a day.

    It’s just unbelievable how much this stuff costs. Talk about having us by the short hairs. Let’s see — ache until your eyeballs fall out, or shell out the 25 bucks for a month’s supply. How much can it cost to make the damn things, anyway? And what about the side effects? I deplore taking pills or caplets, or anything that is supposed to “fix me” for any reason. I’m highly suspicious of the conflicting reports the media spreads about the benefits or lack thereof that “dietary supplements” can have. In the case of glucosamine, it seems that to alleviate the achiness in my joints, I will only have to tolerate increased intestinal gas. Great.

    If it’s not one thing, it’s another. I’m so excited to be able to now understand why the loving endearment Old Fart exists and that I may soon be a card carrying member.

    I tentatively settled on a brand I easily recognized. But after picking up one container, holding on to it while I read a few more labels, then placing it back in its slot to retrieve another, and proceed to repeat the whole indecisive process, I had to wonder whether the druggist who was encased in his shop a few feet away thought I was a loon or not. I finally chose “Triple Flex.” All the ingredients and quantities checked out, and I allowed myself to be coerced by the image of a slick sports like body wrapped in a computer generated grid that appeared on the box. So, that wasn’t too bad.

    I, too, could possibly have a body with a grid wrapped around it. Perhaps be the next 6 Million Dollar Old Fart.

    On the other side of the aisle were products I’d seen before and dismissed back in February when I was of a mind to tough this surgically induced menopause bullshit out. Now that it’s seriously kicking me in the ass throughout every day, like I said yesterday, “I’ve been pinned,” so I better figure it out. But there’s just something bizarre about the whole hormone thing and I wander over to the section that has other “personal” products like condoms, personal lubricant, hot flash cold packs and what I was looking for — Progesterone & Phytoestrogen. It comes in a container that sort of looks like deoderant. I saw this product months ago and have kept it in mind, wondering if it would be better than the heinous HRT cellophane patches I wore on my abdomen for a month before rebelling and abandoning their use. Somehow this “measured dosage pump” of “purified water, aloe vera gel, sunflower seed oil, natural glycerine, shea butter, stearic acid, natural progesterone,” and a litany of other things that don’t exactly sound “natural” seems less threatening. Why not just try it? If I have hair growing on my palms after a month, I’ll rethink my strategy, right?

    Nearly 50 bucks poorer, I then made my way to the kitchen store in the same mall to purchase the juniper berries I knew they’d have for the beef daube I was making for dinner. Yes, juniper berries. And yes, they look just like the berries we’d pick off the junipers in front of our house and fire at one another. Who knew? So, I didn’t get to wander the aisles at Target, but this was better. I love the kitchen store. After staring at depressing supplements for a half hour, fondling brioche pans, salivating over imported balsamic vinegar, and lusting after a new rectangular fluted tart pan, I was more than fine. For a while.

    After catching up with the RT and his daily report on how the new school year is going and what kind of homework he has, I puttered around in the kitchen preparing dinner, expecting to be in better spirits. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. So I poured myself a glass of wine, grabbed my book and headed up to the bathtub for a soak. The phone rang on the way with the MoH calling to let me know how late he’d be. “How was your day?” he asked, not expecting my response. After all, how could one have a less than stellar day when nearly zero is required with respect to responsibility. “I’m not feeling all that hot, so I’m headed up to take a bath,” I explained. The few seconds of silence on the phone was expected as taking a bath is yet another thing that I just don’t do. And before dark? Unheard of. In five years, I’ve probably used my bathtub fewer than 10 times. But a cool bath just seemed to be the ticket to breaking the malaise that had been dragging me down all day. I told the MoH that it was no big deal. That I’d be fine by the time he got home.

    What About a Bath?I opened the window to let the wind in, poured in a ridiculous amount of something milky, bubbly and promising rejuvenation, made sure the water was luke warm, then settled in. Waiting until the water was a few inches from the top, I turned off the faucet. Waiting for the water to work its cool, soothing wonders. Feeling the gentle pushing of air against the blinds over the window. Listening to the rustle of the palms. Watching the golden glow of early evening sun against the chimney above the skylight. Melting.

    Maybe I’ve been wrong about baths all these years.

    I could get used to this.

    No problem.

    Maybe I should blow the dust off my Pilates book. That should be much easier on my joints instead of power intervals and walking lunges.

    But I’ll have to work out how to lay on the mat, keep my glasses on my face so I can read the directions, and do the routines.

    Hell, who said any of this ever was easy? Huh?

  • Achy Breaky Creaky Self

    Working From Home I’m alive and well after making much ado over my stint at the keyboard yesterday. But barely. I can honestly say that if I had been writing fiction, then I may have ended the day on a higher note, without the headache and stiff neck. Without barely being able to straighten myself and walk into the next room. I could have been writing a piece of fiction oozing with superfluous adjectives that make one wince in much the same way an extremely sweet piece of candy does. With a feisty character whose name is Alexandra or Fiona. Yes, perhaps something on the steamy side conjuring images of gazelle like bodies cavorting through the surf on a tropical island after an intense session of exertion — you know, at a spa. Uh, you weren’t thinking what I think you were thinking. Were you? Shame.

    But still. Entertaining.

    And after two very early mornings of strenuous walking — well, for me it’s strenuous — I could barely move after sitting here as long as I did. Tell me. Why is it that I can sit here and do what I want to do, and am not stiff and sore at all? Hmmmm…? Mind over matter, I’m sure. How pathetic. But I’m also exaggerating.

    So today, I’m not going to sit here any longer than necessary. I’ll actually get in my car for a reason other than to carpool kids to school. I’m going to Target — the land of uber cool advertising and chic but cheap stuff to purchase that I don’t really need. I wander up and down the aisles with absolutely no purpose on earth other than to look at countless items I won’t buy. Sure, I have a list of the usual “have tos” to purchase, but I wait until the end to pick up those items. After I’ve perused the book section longingly. After I’ve cruised through the plants. After I’ve looked at the cookware, the gadgets, and the stationery. The towels. Candles. Sportswear.

    I do need some sports wear. You know, for sports. Okay, so not sports. But exercise.

    Yes, I still exercise, but you should see what I exercise in. To convince you, I’d offer to let you smell it, since I wear it more than once a week, but I’m sure you’d politely decline. I need to get back into some kind of a routine. The ocean water was less than lovely when I last swam because of waves, low temperatures, tons of seaweed and tourists who just stand in the water. They do. Plus, we had begun to ramp up the intensity of our swim, so I’d end up with my tongue hanging down to my knees after I got home, already dreading the next time we’d go. Then, the humid weather seriously kicked my butt (I would so not be able to live on the Right Coast or in the South, weakling that I am…) and I’ve had some issues with my joints — especially my wrists. And no, it isn’t because I’m typing. One hurts more than the other, and the last time I checked, my right hand wasn’t hitting more keys than the other. Yes, the keyboard is level with my wrists. Yes, yes, yes. To be honest, the soreness is probably yet another change related to hormones. Do you know how annoying it is to have to say that? I hate saying it. It’s like calling “uncle” or whatever that is when someone has you pinned. I give up, okay? Except I can’t.

    I’ve been a bit resistant to finding out exactly why my body is feeling the way it does from one time to the next. I’ve never been one to dwell on aches and pains I may have except in the paragraph above… A headache rarely moves me to take an aspirin. I just grin and bear it, and always have. But I’ve also never had body parts removed, and it gives me the creeps to think about it — still. I’d rather ignore what I notice instead of acknowledging that concern hovers around in my mind with every change I notice. I’d rather not be reminded about how much in my body has been affected by the removal of those organs.

    I used to understand when I was exhausted after a long and busy day at work. Even then, I’d deal with it understanding that I could get in bed earlier, or pay attention to my diet, make sure I was exercising, or quit my job! But this is different. I’m exhausted today and I have no reason to explain it. Yes, I got up at 6:30. And I spent some time outside trimming bushes grown over during the summer. But that shouldn’t make me tired. I could take a nap right now, and I’ve never, ever been one who naps. Remember napping in Kindergarten? Sheesh. I could never go to sleep like the other kids. I’d lay there on my towel from home staring at the ceiling tiles and watching the kid next to me drool and twitch until the teacher told me to go to sleep. And then I’d shut my eyes and pretend.

    My knees feel better today than they did yesterday– but that’s because we didn’t do “intervals” during our walk yesterday morning, or the walking lunges that I know I will pay dearly for when I do them.  Ten of them.

    My VBF is just stronger than I am. Plain and simple. She does it all and just keeps on ticking. I, on the other hand, feel like I’m whining when I say that I’m sore, or that my arm is throbbing as I walk, forcing me to raise it over my head to relieve the pressure. But yesterday was the straw. I vaguely remember my doctor saying something about glucosamine…so I finally decided to see what I could find about why I’m feeling this way, and what I can do about it.

    It’s pretty depressing to read:

    “You may feel listless, depressed, isolated, indifferent, unenergetic, weak, unable to sleep, or anxious. You may lose emotional stability and contentment, becoming moody, hair-triggered, prone to fits of tears for little obvious reason, irrational, impatient, lacking any self-esteem. You may have trouble breathing, experience irregular heartbeats, or experience anxiety attacks.”

    Oh, and here’s a good one with respect to the effect of low estrogen on memory:

    ” You may know what you want to say, but the specific word just isn’t in your brain even though you know it’s one you know very well. You may forget or lose things, or you may get lost yourself, unable to remember how to travel a route with which you are familiar.”

    Hmmm…yes, I’ve noticed this. In fact, it’s a bit scary when I’m driving somewhere and I have to think about where I’m going because I’ll just drive on auto pilot. Yes, I’ve done this before, and do remember doing it when I was in my late teens and early 20’s. But now? Feh. It happens all the time. No, I do not have ADD.

    Ah-Ha! Look at this:

    “Both physical energy and joint inflamation seem to be related to estrogen levels. When they dip, we may become physically fatigued beyond whatever sleep we’re losing to insomnia. We may also develop creaky, aching joints, stiffness after being still, and actual symptoms or exacerbation of osteoarthritis, especially in the knees.”

    Ah, but validation is a double edged sword, isn’t it?

    I am seriously going to Target. Either that or bawl my head off. I’m not one to feel sorry for myself — ever. But this is ridiculous. When I find some energy, I’ll figure it all out. In the mean time, I guess I’ll just keep looking for answers, keep exercising, and try to understand it all.

    It’s not fair. I know. Life’s not fair. Hahahaha. Whatever.

  • Dooce to the Rescue

    I’m holding the baby. I’m holding the baby and there’s a rather large spider — a hairy tarantula ambling clumsily over the uneven terrain of the blanket I seem to be tangled in. Trying not to show my alarm with any recognizable display of emotion, I tell my mom to take the baby, my eyes not quite leaving the arachnid, wondering whether it will reach me before I can ease away from its path.

    Wait. Baby? What baby? Mom? What the hell is she doing here?

    The spider — where did it go? There. I can feel it inching over my hair…my heart is pounding, and I know I won’t be able to contain my scream, already imagining my flight from bed and into the center of the room where I’ll have to thrash and flap, slap and wave to get the ugly thing from my head…

    But there’s no spider either. There’s only the chill of the night air on my face and the film of moisture covering it. My scalp tingles, and my breathing settles as I orient myself to the now familiar surroundings. No spider, no baby, no mom. Just another hot flash. It’s only 3 am, so I lay very still, listening to the night sounds from outside, thinking about going back to sleep. Thinking about disconnected aspects of yesterday. Thinking about today. Thinking about closing my eyes.

    But no. I think instead about my banner. About photoshop. About why the hell I can’t figure out how to do what I am trying to do. And then an hour into my thinking and wondering, and never quite cooling down after what feels like an eternity, I remember. Dooce has a tutorial I read some time ago on how she does her mastheads.

    Eureka! I can’t lay around in bed now, waiting for sleep that will never come. It’s too hot, I’m drenched, and it’s only a matter of minutes before I begin to freeze. I don’t have to drive to my VBF’s house until 5:30 to walk, so I sneak out of bed, careful not to step on the Big who is snoring on her sad and stinky excuse for a pad, head downstairs to make coffee, and back up to the office to check out her — Dooce, not the Big — archives.  It’s 4:35.

    In less than a minute, I’m there. It’s in the Friday, March 2nd post of this year. Her tutorial. Yes! But before I reread what I know will help me through my photoshop agony, I catch up on her latest posts while slugging down my first cup of coffee — which isn’t doing anything to cool the raging inferno that used to be my body.

    So much for the crappy theory that exercise and alcohol deprivation helps reduce the intensity of hot flashes. Oh. I forgot. I’m supposed to give up coffee, too.

    Uh…when pigs fly.