The Senior Website

Women in my age group, which is late forties, early fifties, are an interesting group.  Quite often there will be several of them gathered around my patio table, drinking wine and discussing a myriad of things, such as who’s child asked them for most money this week; our jobs, which inevitably leads to money woes which in turn leads to the plight of the economy which then turns into a great round of government bashing.  After that has been exhausted we go into who is dating who, (most of them are single) which then leads into the trouble with finding a good man in Lake County (I keep my mouth shut during this aspect for fear of getting strangled as it seems I have one of the very few good men), which leads to the great debate on “would you get married again?”, which then leads to the virtues of co-habitation versus living alone (here’s where I chime back in), which somehow turns to pet ownership.  After that a number of things will come to the table – recent parties, News from Nobel’s, Moments at Mulligan’s, and light hearted gossip.  Weight and waistlines take over from there which then tones the entire conversation into body issues and health and bada-bing!  We arrive at the inevitable finish – good old Menopause.

While we are all in varying stages of this delightful process, one thing we all seem to be unilaterally opposed to is the Great American Female Past Time of Night Sweats.  For those of you who have not yet encountered this time in your life, let me tell you it really sucks.  I remember when they first hit me.  I was 38.  The sad thing about these babies is that while they are the front runner to the whole gamut, they can start a good ten years before you get any other symptoms.  I, in my usual paranoiac approach to self-diagnosis, really freaked out.  I hit the internet to aide me (never a good idea for the quasi-hypochondriac) and discovered that night sweats are symptomatic of nothing good.  Aids, for one.  So my first go round of these involved lots of worried nights and useless testing.  Finally I braved asking another woman who waved her hand at me dismissively, asked my age, and pronounced me “peri-menopausal”  (a term, by the way, which I have come to equal in uselessness to a “training bra”.)  While this became “good news” she immediately hit me with the “bad news” which was that they would last a couple years, go away, and then come back.  For my entire life.

For the unindoctrinated, night sweats are exactly like having a full blown fever of about 104 without actually having a fever.  Hot, cold, hot,cold, hot, cold.  Men, who are spared menopause (who came up with THAT?  I mean, seriously, childbirth and now this?  And they get what? A paunch? Sports car? Spare me.)  are seldom spared the experience of night sweats.  Any man who is with a woman who is going through these, also goes through these.  Here is how that works:  You begin to heat up, dramatically.  In the process you have just become a human furnace so the under-the-covers temperature is increasing exponentially.  You get too hot – so you then throw the covers off of you.  Not wanting to be rude and taking all the covers off the bed and throw them on the floor, rendering your mate cover-free, you opt for tossing them on top of your partner.  This means that your partner now has a double layer of covers as well as a furnace going on beside him.  So, while you cool down, your partner begins to sweat.  Therefore, about the time you are freezing and ready to re-claim your covers, your partner is in a full blown sweat and doing the same thing in reverse which only exacerbates your situation, consequently accelerating the process which goes on all night.

Another big thrill of menopause would be the delightful unpredictability.  Sometimes they are close together, which is downright crazy making as you never seemingly get a break and get the distinct impression that you should consider buying a roll of yellow tape that reads “caution” or at times “Crime scene, do not cross”.  And quite often, the crime scene description would be more apt and for reasons outside the obvious.  Crying.  Lots and lots of crying.  To the outsider this crying might appear to be the equivalent of the crying involved with a crime scene, but it’s not necessarily so.  Crying could be over things like pants that refuse to zip now, light bulbs that burn out, or more recently, the mere thought that Denzel Washington was going to be killed by John Travolta in the movie.  This brings me to the excessively emotional element which seems tied into this whole midlife process – in other words, no amount of pointing out to me that it is only a movie and that no producer in his right mind would have Denzel Washington die in a movie, is futile.   Unless, of course, you want to kick me straight into the irrational element of menopause which will be demonstrated by flatly refusing to watch the rest of the movie, sure that I am right, and storming, furious, into the bedroom to read, and subsequently cry over, my book.  Alone.

Can you say, “mood swings”?

The other delightful aspect of this process occurs when, as opposed to menstruating every hour on the hour, you get the big break.  This may sound wonderful – months without popping iron pills like candy and being tethered to the restroom, and at first it is.  Until it hits you:  When was the last time your period was late and what did you name it?  In my case, “it” was named Collin and the other “it” was named Brandon.  OMIGOD – is it menopause or is it pregnancy?  Then you switch from buying one type of product in mass to buying another product in mass, namely pregnancy tests.  Sadly, these now have to be bought over the counter, which brings forth many weird looks as you are 100 years old, and surely something is wrong with this picture.  No amount of diligent birth control will assuage this, either – the mere thought of having ANOTHER CHILD at the ripe old age of 49 is enough to scare the tar out of any woman.   Somehow this brings to light the terrible injustice of being a woman in the first place – now you are faced with the fact that we are not only required to deal with all the reproduction business, and then pay dearly for that right years later, but we have to live in fear of BOTH aspects simultaneously. Somehow this becomes your man’s fault and you get mad at him.  No logical reason, but hey – logic and rational behavior began to disintegrate with your very first night sweat and by now, you no longer feel obligated to apply either to anything ever.

So, when the women gathered around my table last night, and the subject moved to men, this time I spoke up.  When someone asked how to know if a man was right for you, I actually had the answer:  If they can love you through menopause, they will love you forever.

And no, I’m not pregnant.

The above article contributed by Sharon Dawson, published and (C) all rights reserved.