Tuesday, August 12, 2014

And God said, "She shall have uncontrollable tear ducts and then I shall cut off her hormonal control."And it was so. It WAS NOT GOOD.

First off:


If you ARE NOT a Peri-menopausal Woman


If you have NEVER heard the word Peri-menopausal


If you are a male of ANY species

DO NOT read this post.

INSTEAD, click HERE for an appropriately MALE picture which should wipe out any possible memory of any unpleasant images the word Peri-menopausal has put into your brain.

There. Now that that's done.

I recently conversed with my GYN and it was decided that, perhaps, I should start tapering off on my hormone replacement patches. I have been on these patches for heading up on eight years, ever since one brisk November day when I walked into work so drenched in sweat that I had to change clothes. My GYN and weighed the pros and cons and determined the benefits out-weighed the risks.

One year ago, my sweet GYN suggested I try this weaning process. But she made the mistake of asking how things in my life were. Upon hearing about our oldest moving into his first grownup apartment and our youngest graduating college and moving home, We weighed the pros and cons. It was determined that 2013 was not the optimum time for decreasing my hormone stability.
2014 seemed to be much more conducive to a hormone vacation. Everyone in my little family unit is reasonably content. I have some fun plans throughout the year to look forward too and apparently I have 'amazingly firm' internal abdominal muscles. (As I have an extra twenty pounds camouflaging my external abs and this declaration was from my GYN doc, I will let you figure out how she came to this conclusion.)

So on Sunday, it was with NO very little trepidation, that I slapped on my half strength hormone patch. Sundays are such pleasant days. I spent the better part of this day on the deck, reading my stack of magazines. I told myself it is a good three months before they start playing those tear-jerking Hallmark and Folgers holiday commercials and the television gods haven't shown a clip of a newly shorn Anne Hathaway singing about the shambles that is her life in almost a year. It got a little dicey when the House Hunting couple had words over whether closer to city center was better than a large backyard, but all in all, Sunday was a good day.

And then the alarm clock went off to Monday.

My first thought: Bart seriously needs to step up his lottery ticket purchases.

This was followed by a entire fleet of thoughts flying around my head:

how cute the kids were on their first days of school

how sweet our first family dog was

how much I miss that sweet dog

which led to reminiscing about everyone I know who has passed away over the years

and how dangerous Bart's job once was

and what would I ever do without him...

By the time I got to work I was one dropped M&M away from a cry-fest.

But, I held it together.

Until I actually had to start working.

I should mention here that many of my patients receive extremely devastating news in the recovery room. And some receive extremely happy news. Either way, people start crying. I can usually maintain a quiet, supportive composure.

But not today. It went something like this:

Patient got good news.

Husband begins to cry with relief.

I hand him some tissues, offer a comforting hand on his shoulder.

I take the tissues away from him to blow MY nose, wipe my eyes and excuse myself to the bathroom.

At lunch I read a blog by one of my favorite writer/cooks.

It was about a wedding and how she began crying the minute the bride walked down the aisle.

I joined her in tears.

Sort of an emotional Band of Weeping Uteruses.

And so the day progressed.

I called Bart as I was walking to my car to give him a heads up that I was leaving work and was so relieved to hear his voice that I had to choke back a sob.

And for fun, I stepped on the bathroom scale. Because nothing says comfort like those enormous numbers which haven't budged in two months. (Unless you have been counting calories so long you sound like Rainman as you examine the cupboard for an evening snack.)

Now, it is 9:45pm.

As I sit here writing this post I have before me one half of a Figgy Piggy calzone, the last drops of Cabernet in the bottle which has been on the counter for a week and the last three hormone patches in the box.

Okay. It is an empty box.

I have weighed the pros and cons. 

Yes. Figgy Piggy. It is applewood bacon, figs and marscapone cheese wrapped in a delicious crust. Weird combo? No doubt. Delish? YES!  This delightful weirdness is from Sauce on the Side.

On a semi-related note: I have recently begun an association with two wonderful websites devoted to the journey that is Middle Age. Please take the time to check them out. They are only a click away! 
                                 Adventures of the Empty Nesters
                    (thanks for adding me to your contributors!)
                                       Midlife Boulevard
(and thank you for adding me to your on-line, facebook community!) 

I should also mention that NONE of the links or products or stores mentioned here are paid endorsements. But I will freely admit to liking them all.


  1. I don't know which is worse, the crying over everything, or the over-the-moon irritation that comes over me with no warning. Hang in there and keep the wine bottle handy.

    1. Oh lord - the RAGE! where does it come from??? Thankfully I seem to be subjected to it in micro-bursts which pass quickly with many evil thoughts but only a verbal Gaaaaaaa!!! I do find that a nice malbec helps!! ;)


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