S*#! Menopausal Women Say

I am going to kill him.

If I could just get some sleep, I’d have the energy to kill him.

What is this poofiness around my waist?

I’m going crazy.

Is it warm in here?

It’s so f-ing hot in here.

I am not crazy!

When did I grow these gigantic breasts?

Why are you looking at me?   

          

Where is my icepack?

What bullsh--!

I'm going completely drug-free through this hallowed passage. Wine, anyone?

What fresh hell is this?

When did I become invisible?

If I see one more article on vaginal dryness, someone’s gonna die.

Lovely. The vaginal gel company sent me a free sample? How did they know where I live?

Don’t Spanx come in heavy duty?

I just threw all my Spanx in the fire pit.

I dreamt that I held my boss under water until he drowned. No, it wasn't a nightmare.

I worked out every day this week, ate Paleo, and I gained two pounds.

Sometimes, I break china, just so I don’t kill anybody.

Why shouldn’t I wear shorts and a tank top to go ice skating on the pond?

I’m not crying. Have you got a tissue?

Sale on stretchy pants? I’m there.

Turn the f-ing heat down!

Turn the f-ing A/C up!

Don’t you dare touch the f-ing thermostat.

Moody? You think I’m moody?  

        

For lunch? I’ll have an HRT on Zoloft, hold the Zanax.

I need a new moisturizer.

I need a new drug.

I’m going to stop taking all my drugs.

Gotta go to the drugstore. My drugs are ready.

I don’t think the drugs are working!

If men got menopause, there’d be a drug for this.

Motherfu---! My sweater was on inside-out all day and no one said anything!

Stop scraping your spoon on that bowl!

Why are you breathing so loud?

I’m gonna save so much money on tampons and pregnancy tests.

If I don’t get some sleep, someone may have to die.

If men got night sweats, there’d be a cure for this.

Who invented magnifying mirrors? I'll strangle them with my bare hands.

The person who invented air conditioning? Should be made the saint of menopause.

Menstrual Math at Menopause

Officially in menopause as of October 2012, and now wondering why we don’t throw parties to mark this occasion, I’ve been doing some menstrual math.

The book, Riding Astride: The Frontier in Women’s History, by Patricia Riley Dunlap, inspired me to ponder some numbers associated with menstruation. Dunlap goes into detail explaining how women’s biology-- experiencing childbirth every two years, breastfeeding, child rearing, and menstruation-- often confined them to the home virtually until they died, most often by their forties.

Amazed that women ever had a spare minute to make the intriguing and important history that they have, and not having thought about women’s history in quite this way, I questioned the numbers related to the menstruation in my own life.

For me, my 12^th birthday was the never-to-be-forgotten day of my first period. Whoopee! Little did I know about the years ahead.

The years.

Age twelve from age fifty-five is dear Lord, 43 years! Of menstruation.

Let’s let that sink in. Forty-three. Years.

I menstruated for more years than most women used to live.

My average period was seven days. That’s 3,612 days of Aunt Thelma. Let’s say I used 6 sanitary products per day on average. Now we’re at 21,672 products. Since periods and cramps went hand-in-hand for me, let’s say I used 4 aspirin or later Acetaminophen or similar per day.

Suddenly I understand why there’s a CVS or Walgreen’s on every corner with me knocking the doors down to purchase 14,448 cramp-killer pills plus all those pads and tampons. That’s not counting the icepacks for headaches, the cola to settle my stomach, the pimple cream, the salty snacks, the sweet snacks.

No, I won’t do the calculations in dollar amounts. I'm just guessing the cash would pay for an extended luxury vacation in the Mediterranean or the South Pacific. With lots of fruity drinks and a massage therapist on staff. But I digress.

                                                                                         

What do all these numbers mean?

Derned if I know.

But hey, Menstruation—I don’t miss you. Not even a little.

My Voice is Here

After blogging for over two years, I left what felt like my first truly “negative” comment the other day. 

I’ve second guessed myself a lot since then. As both a blogger and an avid blog reader, I’d decided from the start that if I didn’t have anything positive to say, I would not say anything.

Knowing that it does take some effort, if not downright courage, to put oneself out there by publishing a post, I’d vowed to take the high road. I have tender feelings myself and want to show respect for other blogger’s work. After all, there are MANY people who are more than willing to express their criticisms, so my voice is not needed when I disagree with a blogger’s position, I felt.

Even if I differed vehemently with someone, I didn’t want to be part of the snarling pack. Acts of kindness, paying it forward, Little Miss Sunshine—that was me.  Not rocking the boat, damn it, being the nice girl. Argh. I can be such a wimp. But I’d rather err on the side of wimpy, than to hurt someone’s feelings or stifle someone’s right to express herself. That was my choice.

But a post by an “expert” on HuffPost50 got me riled up. Reading along, it was all good until about half-way through when the writer paused in her advice to midlife women about diet and exercise. She said something that made it all very personal to me. 

To paraphrase, she actually repeated that ancient and hard to dispel notion that anyone who is overweight or out of shape is … lazy, sluggish, unenlightened AND lacks the passion needed for healthy living. Find your passion, and the weight will fall off easily, she claimed.

She just said I lack passion.

LACK PASSION.

Whoa. Passion?

Calm down, I told myself. It’s just a blog post. Be kind. She’s misinformed, judgmental, holier-than-thou, yes, but let it go.

I tried to dismiss my outrage.

I failed.

I commented, as calmly as I could, in a few sentences, ending with the charge that she had just added one more voice to the chiding chorus, to those who wag fingers at midlife women struggling with their weight.

We hold down jobs that while perhaps aren't deeply fulfilling, keep the bills paid. Or, laid-off, are looking for employment in a workplace that openly discriminates based on our age and our looks. We may commute for hours, care for elders, children, spouses, homes. 

We’re trying to get another year out of a 15-year old car, or keep enough cash on hand for the bus. We do not need one more rebuke, one more expert telling us we are too stupid or too lacking in passion to be the same dress size we were 20 years ago. 

Because our clothing size is the only issue we have to worry about, right? I ended with note that she had “not advanced the dialogue on women’s health issues.”

Not particularly proud of my anger, fearing I was being a bit Joan of Arc, I hit “post” on my comment.

I don’t plan on making negative comments a habit, but maybe there is something to the notion that at menopause, some women find their voices (thank you, Magnolia Miller at The Perimenopause Blog). 

I think it’s happening to me. My voice. MY VOICE IS HERE.

It’s been a long time coming.

Me? Defending Prescription Drugs?

A dear friend, Caroline*, recently announced that she chooses to live her life without prescription drugs. A few years ago, her doctor told her she had high blood pressure, and advised her to begin a regimen of blood pressure medication. Caroline never went back to the doctor, and currently has no firm plans for a checkup. 

When I read this declaration on her popular blog, I was stunned and worried about this woman, a lady with an extraordinarily beautiful soul, who is as precious as a sister to me. Although I share some of Caroline’s views that prescription drugs can possibly cause harm and prolong life without maintaining an acceptable quality of life, I hope I can convince her to rethink her choice to avoid doctors and completely refuse any prescription medicine.

In her post, Caroline cites the experiences of her brother and father. Both men died too young. Her brother underwent a time of kidney dialysis, until his life was an endless round of visits to the dialysis center. His quality of life was miserable, and he finally chose to refuse treatment. Caroline’s father began his decline with the simple step of taking blood pressure medicine that led to more and more prescriptions, and death at 67. Knowing Caroline’s loving nature, watching these adored family members succumb to ill health was heartrending and hellish for her.

She has a valid point when she rebels against the idea that there is a pill for every minor-to- major blip on our health radar, and that sometimes the smart thing to do is to say no or at least get a second opinion before embarking on drug therapy. Our nation is awash in a sea of pills. With a Walgreens, a CVS, or a Rite Aid on nearly every corner, drug ads on prime time TV, and even children taking prescriptions in record numbers, we are over-medicated, as Caroline implies. Having had some unfortunate experiences with drugs, I can understand why she is wary of being made sick from prescription pills.

My own best example of prescription troubles started when I was in my late forties and was diagnosed with slightly elevated cholesterol. My doctor prescribed statins, and I remember being hopeful that these common drugs would lower my lipids. After all, many people take statins, they are considered safe overall, and some doctors believe so strongly in them that they propose adding them to the public water supply! At this time, I also got serious about my diet, added more exercise, and lost twenty pounds, bringing me into a healthy BMI. Proud of my lifestyle changes and sure that along with the statins, my cholesterol levels would be the envy of all, I had another blood test. My cholesterol had gone UP!

First, I was incredulous, then dismayed and discouraged. How was this possible? My physician, Dr. D., was unconcerned, and told me that some people had hereditary high levels that were stubborn to treat. Over the next eight years, she tried me on four different statins, and on increasingly higher doses. At the highest dose of the strongest statin, my back, wrists, and muscles began to ache. Brushing it aside as too much time spent commuting and working at the computer, eventually I complained to Dr. D. She advised me to stop the statins, and a scant week later my painful back, joint and muscle pains disappeared. 

The pain that I thought might be my lot to bear for the rest of my life—after all, old people have aches and pains, right?—had been caused by the pills that were supposed to make me “well.” The statins had caused me to ache all over, and had NOT reduced my cholesterol to “healthy” levels. This experience shook my faith in the marvels of supposedly safe modern drug therapies.

So I approach any prescription drug with caution, and with the thought that if the drug does not accomplish its stated goal within a reasonable amount of time and with a minimum of negative side effects, it’s time for a second opinion. But I feel bound to add that over-the-counter drugs, vitamins, and herbal supplements need much the same caution. Tylenol can be deadly to the liver, vitamins can be toxic at too high levels, and herbal supplements should be considered as potentially as powerful, and as prone to unpleasant side-effects or interactions as any prescription drug.

We can’t be passive consumers; we must do our research and due diligence. It exhausts me to put so much thought into health, but I haven’t found a shortcut around working with my doctor while also trying to stay reasonably well informed about any drugs she prescribes. Additionally, I attempt to keep up with ongoing research for my health conditions.  Alternative therapies can help in some cases—I also get therapeutic massage and I’ve tried acupuncture.

After my sobering experience with statins, one might expect that I am living a happy-go-lucky, drug-free life. I was, for about six months. Then some other conditions reared their ugly heads; I now take 3 prescription drugs on a daily basis. I’m not thrilled, but I have realized that my current prescriptions are necessary for me to function. The drugs keep me going; without them, I would not be able to work, to be here for my husband, or for my aging mother. 

I used to have concerns, as Caroline does, about “what if I have to stay on these drugs the rest of my life?” For me, and for many people, if prescription drugs are what it takes, so be it; we are resigned. Sometimes, we’re even grateful. At least these drugs are available, and the alternative for me is near complete disability. Without these drugs, there would be no “rest of my life” to worry about.

Further, I would tell Caroline that yes, she is her own woman and she has the right to refuse treatment. We have the freedom to choose how to live, and how to die. However, she is not an island. She has a loving husband, children, grandchildren, and many friends who all love her. We don’t want her to die too young. We don’t want her to suffer anything remotely near the fates of her father and brother. We do want her to consider finding a doctor she has can develop a trusting relationship with,  and who in turn answers her questions about high blood pressure, possible treatments, and recommended lifestyle changes.

We want this for her not because we are trying to tell her what to do or because we are trying to make her feel guilty, ashamed, or unreasonable for her choices. We want her to be WELL, to live a long time among us, and when the time comes, to be able to have a dignified, pain-free death.

Prescription drugs are not inherently good or evil. They are chemical compounds, as are OTC drugs, herbal supplements, and the food and drink we consume daily. Our own physical bodies, at the most basic level, are chemicals. Prescription drugs are sometimes useful chemical tools that can help to decrease or delay many diseases. Life expectancy was a bitterly short 47 years for an average American woman in 1900 (University of California, Berkeley, n.d.). The average woman today can expect to live 33 years longer, to over age 80. The CDC (2008) says Caroline, as a Hispanic woman, can expect 3 years more than that, on average, 83 years! 

Prescription drugs are certainly no guarantee of longer life. However, many people would agree that when used judiciously under the supervision of a knowledgeable, caring physician, drugs are an option we sometimes must consider.  Caroline—please make that doctor appointment soon. We love you and want you healthy, happy and with us for many, many years to come!

*not her real name

This blog is not intended as medical advice. Consult your own health care professionals for advice related to health and prescription drugs.

Staging My Comeback, Maybe?

I picked up a book by Christopher Hopkins the other day: Staging Your Comeback. His topic of midlife makeovers for the style-impaired tied in perfectly with a self-improvement project I’ve embarked upon. 

I’ve been on a mini-campaign of spending more time on myself. Trying to enhance my midlife health and self-esteem has me eating Greek yogurt, taking more walk-breaks than sit-breaks at work, getting deep tissue massages, doing a little yoga.

Most importantly, I’m trying to keep my self-talk as kind to ME as I would be to a FRIEND, instead of looking in the mirror with a sigh or a groan.

On Mr. Hopkins’ advice, I reviewed my wardrobe. I’d been following the folks over at The Great American Apparel Diet who vowed not to buy any new clothes for a year—surprisingly easy to do with my aversion to shopping and those badly lit, evil mummy-crypt dressing rooms in particular.

So my wardrobe was in a particularly grim condition. My knit shirts are pilled and droopy, or shrunken. My black slacks have been washed so often they’re dark gray. Don’t even ask about my undergarments—they aren’t even suitable for dust rags.

So I clicked the computer mouse a few times, the UPS man came, and I had a couple of new pairs of fun printed capris, knit sleeveless layering tops, and some ¾ sleeve open weave, tunic length cardigans that I was sure were all the rage.

Yay! I can totally have a comeback! The internet was built for GOOD, if it can make pretty capris show up on my front porch lickity-split.

I care about my appearance, even at 55! I’m going to stand up straight. Look out, world! I am sexy, I am a real woman, power to the feminine, this earth goddess has wings! And I’m out of breath!

Later that day, still basking in the new glow of my mid-life confidence, I accompanied my mother to church. A lovely, but quite elderly lady of 80+ years was walking with a cane in front of us as we went in. Her hair was as white and puffy as a dandelion ball. And she was wearing my butterfly print capris with a sweet crocheted sweater that bore a remarkable resemblance to the one Mr. UPS had delivered to my front porch.

I was the balloon, and she was the needle. Pop! Her comeback was going quite well, but mine was dealt a setback, let’s call it. I guess it’s better to be dressing too old for my age rather than too young. Bah.

So you don’t need to worry about me getting vain, peeps. My humility is intact. My comeback has been temporarily postponed.

But I did hear Kohl’s is having a BIG sale this coming weekend….

Say What? "American Voters Don't Like Older Women"

Why should I care?

Why am I letting it bother me that I heard yet another conversation telling me older women are distasteful and irrelevant?

The source of the specious judgment was a commentator I formerly admired, Melissa Harris-Perry, age 39, educated in my home state at venerable North Carolina colleges Wake Forest and Duke University. She’s a professor of political science at Tulane University in New Orleans.

Some Sunday mornings I watch Melissa Harris-Perry’s political talk show on MSNBC. Bright and savvy, she has guests who spark lively conversations. Related to their prospects of making presidential bids, a discussion of the age difference between Joe Biden, 69, and Paul Ryan, 42, came up, and segued to Hillary Clinton’s possible candidacy in 2016.

Melissa drew back in dismay at the mention of Mrs. Clinton’s name, pulling away as if burned. “No,” she said.

No? What does she mean, no? What is going on here? I wondered.

“American voters don’t like older women. We won’t even buy makeup from aging women…as an aging woman, Hillary Clinton becomes less and less appealing to American voters, not in a way that’s fair….”

One of her panel members, Republican strategist Robert Traynham, broke in, defending Hillary, proving once again that politics make strange bedfellows. A male Republican defending Clinton? Whoa.

Mr. Traynham wanted to argue that Harris-Perry’s concern about “aging women” didn’t apply to Mrs. Clinton for a number of reasons. Unfortunately, he was cut off by another commentator who took the conversation in a different direction.

I sat there in front of the TV, coffee cup in hand. Did I misunderstand, somehow?

Surely Melissa Harris-Perry was not dissing older women? I must have been mistaken.

So I’ve replayed the video several times since Sunday. Harris-Perry’s facial expressions, intakes of breath, and body language belied her attempts to temper her comments with “not in a way that’s fair,” and “no, she’s [Hillary Clinton] enormously popular right now.”

Harris-Perry even threw in a further tidbit: “it’s not hard to be popular,” dismissing all Clinton’s years of public service as a mere popularity contest which anyone could pull off.

It's not hard to be popular?

What?

Now, read my lips, my outrage is not so much for Hillary Clinton as an individual, as it is for all “aging women.” Hillary can take care of herself—she doesn’t need me to make her relevant or to tout her impressive resume.

My outrage is for how little attitudes have changed towards women at midlife and older. An enlightened woman like Harris-Perry taking such a dim view of older women is truly sad.

I would love to be around in 15 years, when Harris-Perry is 54, to replay this tape for her. I’d like to ask her then what she thinks of “aging women” and whether she thinks that whatever the “American people” think of older women means that we should dry up and blow away. We don’t need to consider running for president, because we offend the general public so much they won’t even buy makeup from us.

What will "older woman" Harris-Perry say then, do you suppose?

(The video is available at MSNBC’s website. The segment is called “Generation gap between vice-presidential candidates” on Melissa Harris-Perry’s Oct. 7^th show.)

Playing the Fool, Being Un-cool, Comma Splices, & Teddy Pendergrass

After nine years of commuting two hours daily began to get to me, I recently broke my resolution not to incur any more monthly expenses. The lure of endless oldies on satellite radio finally seduced me. I figured the monthly fee for Sirius would pay for itself if some jazzy radio tunes helped me hang on to a shred of my sanity.

 I got a satellite radio and installed it in the aging minivan all by myself(!), complete with a bird’s nest of dangling wires. A whole new world opened to me. Not to mention I’m sure I'll save money on various prescription mood altering pharmaceuticals.

That middle-aged woman you see singing and banging the steering wheel to the disco beat of The Seventies on Seven at Sirius? That would be me. I don’t even care if I look goofy as heck to observers at stop lights; I’m in another world as I get my groove on to Earth, Wind, and Fire. After all, I’m already driving the arguably most-uncool ride on the planet—a white minivan, complete with peeling paint. The “cool” bus had obviously left me behind some time ago.

One of the better aspects of coming to terms with midlife is finally not giving a …. hoot (keeping it clean, here)… about playing the fool. Life is too short to worry about people thinking I look silly. Beating on the steering wheel is just plain fun, and I think I’m actually releasing endorphins while thumping out the beat.

Today’s especially revelatory song was from 1979, Teddy Pendergrass laying down “Get Up, Get Down, Get Funky, Get Loose.” Dancing in my seat, I forgot how tired I was this morning and how far behind I am in grading dozens of papers. A little seed of an idea was planted in my mind, and when I got to campus, I checked out some clips on YouTube. Uh-huh. Just what I was looking for.

Slowly I walked the hall to room 103. The lesson plan for my 9:00 college composition class was the dreaded comma splice lecture. If you don’t know what comma splices are, count yourself lucky. I learned about them to my great and lasting sorrow, and now, sadly, I must bring the news of these evil saboteurs of college essays to my sweet and unsuspecting students.

I’ve been blessed with a great group of young people in this particular class—they actually listen and have motivation—amen, halleluiah. So it particularly pained me as I saw their previously eager eyes gloss over about ten minutes into the comma splice debacle. We continued on, as I gamely did my best with possibly the driest lecture I give over the course of a semester.

Finally, I gave the class a worksheet to test their comfort level with those devils, the comma splices. I could tell it was a relief to them that at least I had stopped talking! There’s an ego deflator for a teacher.

We checked over the answers to the worksheet together, and the punctuation gods were smiling at the class who were still engaged and trying their best to deal with the comma splice nemesis. I was proud of them. They got through an episode of what I think of as a necessary evil.

And wait—we had three minutes of class time left!

“I have something very important I want to show you before we go,” I said, deadpan.

The overhead projector popped up the Teddy Pendergrass “live” 1979 YouTube video of “Get Up, Get Down, Get Funky, Get Loose.” Teddy was in his glory: fit, handsome, in an all-white outfit, gold neck-chains shining, smiling and working it, man. He had the club patrons at the venue on their feet!

I was dancing and singing next to the classroom computer. Some students smiled, some gaped, some looked shocked, some rolled their eyes, some looked like they wished the floor would open up and swallow us all (or at least just me), some were swaying to the beat, clapping and snapping fingers.  One young man said, “That’s Teddy! Teddy Pendergrass!” I can only assume that his grandmother played the LPs to him in his cradle.

After Teddy sang the refrain several times, adding in “Whatcha come out here for?” I told the class that I saw this song as a metaphor for college. They laughed. No, I said, you took the trouble to get here to college, like Teddy took the trouble to get to the club, and by heck he’s going to get up, get down,  get funky, get loose,  now that he’s there. You’re here to make the most of college, I can tell.

As the class filed out, one smiling young lady said, “Mrs. Bruce, thanks to you, I’ll make it through my next class, ugh, Chemistry, with a smile on my face.”

Yes, my silly, foolish, un-cool, comma splice, Teddy Pendergrass, disco work here is done.

Thanks, Teddy. 

“I come out here to party / And party is what I’m gonna do / I done worked hard both night and day / And now it’s time for me to shake it loose / Took me an hour just to get here /
Do you think I’m going to stand up on the wall? / Gonna have myself a ball, do you hear me? / Have myself a ball, come on y’all.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cuIuLNvhkQQ