I went through “pre-mature menopause.” At 44, my period just up and disappeared. When I saw my doctor and asked her to make it come back, she ordered a blood test and congratulated me. “You just had the easiest transition into menopause that I’ve seen. I have women sobbing over my desk. Consider yourself lucky.”
I did. Well, not so much as my face changed every day (See the post: Symptom # 36, Every Day You Get A New Face). But in general, I felt pretty good.
However, as I rounded the bend on year four of menopause, The Change began to look less like hormonal fluctuation and more like a Werewolf Walk-In. “Mood Swings”? PULL-EASE. I respect you too much not to use full disclosure. Symptom #4 is actually: Menopause- Induced Multiple Personality Disorder. An example:
Situation: I look into the refrigerator and realize we are out of the broccoli I was going to make for dinner.
Before Menopause: Order pizza.
Post Menopause: “My God, WE’RE GOING TO GET RICKETS. What kind of mother doesn’t have broccoli?”
Husband (soothingly): “I’ll order pizza.”
Menopausal me: “Are you out of your mind? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR TINY, PEA-SIZED MIND? (Symptom #5: “irritibility.” Riiiiight.) I swear to holy heaven, if you pick up that phone, we are THROUGH. (Searching refrigerator.) There’s got to be a vegetable in here. There’s got to be!”
Husband (fearfully): I could… run to the market?
Turning, my blue eyes glowing orange (he swears they did), I growl. No words, just a growl. Then I eat two ice cream sandwiches, find half a bag of frozen peas in the back of the freezer and burst into tears.
At first, I told myself I was just being seven. My DD has scenes like this occasionally. But after several such episodes and fearing imminent admission to a psych ward, I phoned my doctor. She gave me bio-identical hormones and said I should see some improvement in a couple of days. Two days later, I stopped crying–over EVERYTHING. I should add, she also gave me amino acids to deal with the attendant menopausal symptoms anxiety and depression. I feel like me again.
Now there is only one seven-year-old in the house. My husband is happier. We’re out of broccoli again, but Papa Murphy’s is only a mile up the road.