So here I am, on a frigid January evening. Outside, there is a bitter wind chill of minus 10 degrees Celsius (or 14 degrees for you Fahrenheit folks), blowing directly off the North Atlantic just a few yards from our door. My husband is out playing floor hockey, so I’m alone, trying desperately to chill out. Not figuratively, mind you, but literally. There is no heat on in my house, simply because my body feels like a furnace turned up on bust.
This is a new and fresh hell for yours truly, only making itself known within the last couple of weeks. Somehow, I had let myself believe that I’d be lucky enough to escape the discomfort of “tropical moments” at this time of my life. How I used to chuckle when one of my friends or coworkers complained of a hot flash. Ha ha. The joke is now on me. And for the uninitiated, it doesn’t feel like an external heat that hits you; it is more of an internal combustion thing, where you think you just might suddenly burst into flames.
Stripped down to a tank top and appropriately, sweats, eating blueberries out of the freezer (still frozen), I’m trying to hold it together. I made the mistake of googling other menopause symptoms, and started ticking off some other ailments I’ve been experiencing. Brain fog? Check. Anxiety? Check. Night sweats? Check. Mood swings? Okay, that one is just me, can’t blame that on “The Change”. The website also warned that this change could take anywhere from two to eight years before it is done. That is just terrific. Think I’ll go out and stick my head in a snow bank.
And now Paul is home. “It’s freezing here!” he says. “Do you mind if I turn up some heat?”
“No,” I bark, fanning my face with a pillow. Then I realize something. In our house, PMS always stood for Paul Must Suffer. Well, the PMS might be coming to an end for me, but it won’t be ending for him any time soon. Check back in two to eight years.