Menopause was a drive by for me at age 47. I was just cluing into the fact that it might be happening when it was over. One minute, regular as rain, the next, finished. I suppose this is good news, as I avoided many of the issues my peers (typically older than 47) are going through. My hot spells were more like warm spells. And since they occurred during the polar vortex, I actually enjoyed them. No other real symptoms to speak of, aside from the obvious.
I was dating a younger man at the time, and he wanted more kids. Made that clear on our first date. And while it was unlikely it would happen with me at my age, I was open to the possibility should God choose to bestow a minor miracle on us. It was shortly after this conversation that God, in his wicked sharp humor, decided to bless me with the big M. I was having the best sex of my life, and already felt insecure about the age difference between me and my man, so I kept the secret for about 6 months before I simply ended the affair.
Timing was pretty good I guess. My brother’s health was tanking and his prognosis grim, so I let myself go. Eating, drinking… depressed. Couldn’t concentrate so I barely worked. Gaining weight. No one looking at me naked anyway, and I can work it off again before swimsuit season. Or so I thought.
Menopause, it turns out, is a great big “fuck you” from mother nature. Her way of saying, “Your time on this earth as a healthy, desirable woman is over now. Prepare to die.” Ravenously hungry but never satisfied, fat, lethargic, mind of mush, depressed. And this was all “normal”. It wasn’t just grief. My first plea for help went out to my 30-some year-old primary care physician who promptly referred me to my OBGYN. My OB was a cheery messenger who basically informed me that, A: Menopause sucks, and B: There is NOTHING that the medical community really has to offer on the subject. She added that she, herself, was going through it, and if I did find anything that worked, to please be in touch.
I joined a gym and began working out relentlessly. I ate practically nothing. I was miserable. I crawled in bed at night barely able to move from sore muscles and aging joints that no longer had any business doing impact aerobics. I had dreams about food and began scheduling things to do that would put me away from it during the day. (Hard to do when you work from home and your own Kitchen is calling you all day long.) I even (gasp!) cut down on drinking, which only served to make me want to hang myself even more. And every day when I pulled my stiff body out of bed for my morning gut inspection, I was horrified to learn I had actually gotten fatter.
Another doctor put me on antidepressants. The only real pharmaceutical recommendation made by the “authorities” for post-menopausal women, The American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists (ACOG). I hated it and stopped after three grueling weeks of feeling considerably worse.
Then one day, a happy accident occurred. My cat bit me and caused an infection.
12 days of antibiotics began three days after getting my prescription. This due to post-menopausal mind mush. (It’s a real thing, altho I think the medical community uses a different word for it.) Finally on the third day, somewhere around getting school lunches together, it occurred to me I better take a pill now while I still remembered. Reached into my purse, popped the bottle open, swallowed, and went on with my day.
It was about mid morning when I noticed I was ON FIRE. Burning through the deadlines, uncomplicating the complicated, oozing charm with ease and vigor. I was even horny again. At about lunchtime when I realized I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet and still wasn’t very hungry, I knew something was up. I thought about it, I checked my purse, and sure enough, there were TWO prescription bottles in it. My antibiotics, still unopened, and my daughter’s ADHD meds. Oops.
I rode the wave of productivity for the rest of the day, chalking the matter up to a mind-mush related accident. I cleaned, cooked, ate (eventually), worked out, and knocked out 5 deadlines. At the end of the day, I looked back on all I accomplished and smiled. The next day I awoke and was back to my old, hungry, lethargic, foggy self.
I remained in my previous state of self loathing for the next several weeks as my gut got bigger. Then one day, due to a necessary change in my daughter’s medication, I began to hear the remaining contents of that old ADHD prescription bottle calling me. Was I really going to do this? The first time was an accident. The second time, I would be THAT person. You know, the one you see on t.v., like on an old episode of Desperate Housewives. The one that abuses their kids ADHD meds. I struggled with that for a few days. Then I took another pill.
BOOM! Back to supermom! OK, I am clearly on to something here. This was no fluke, and as instructed, I decided to share it with my OB.
Her response couldn’t have been more judgmental.
I won’t get into the entire contents of the conversation, but she called it “speed”, and likened the drug I give my kids every day to heroin. WTF! Hopes and dreams of getting my formal life back drained into the abyss. While she did admit she could understand completely why I would feel so much better, she couldn’t support a drug not recommended by the ACOG for menopause. “The pharmaceutical industry are run by men,” she said, “and they just don’t care about menopausal women”.
It’s not just me that has discovered this secret. Many studies that indicate some ADHD meds can help with menopause, and American Psychiatric Association has announced the findings, giving some creditability to it. But not the ACOG. They have no need to pour time and resources into unfuckable women. So while understanding perfectly how this drug might help me—a drug no one hesitates to prescribe to my 80 pound kids—my OB will not offer same drug in the same dose to help a 150 pound woman get a glimpse of her former self back. That’s HORSE SHIT!
She suggested I go to my primary care physician (the 30-some year old manchild), and lie about having ADHD. The medical community is just not ready to be upfront and back aging women in this way with anything other than antidepressants or hormone therapy. One with side effects that include lethargy and feelings of suicide, the other, cancer.
So I am riding out the remainder of the kids old prescription and feeling pretty good these days. Happy, calm, focused, energized and randy. Appetite in check. I haven’t decided what to do when it runs out. It’s ridiculous in my mind to go into a doctors office and lie about having ADHD when we should all be encouraging safer, healthier, and more effective alternatives to treating women with menopause. But I love feeling younger, healthier, sharper, fitter, and fuckable. And I’m not quite ready to go gently into that goodnight.