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Sparkle (1)
I have just strolled in the door from my blissfully serene Pilates class, and it sounds as if my 15-year-old daughter and 17-year-old son are rehearsing for some combative new reality show. Oh, God, what now? I think wearily. I drop my gym bag and walk into the family room to investigate.
When I get there the two of them are inches apart and my sweet little daughter is calling her big mean brother a not-very-nice word.
“You are SO F-ing selfish!”
Not to be outdone my verbally nimble son responds: “The two years before you were born were the best years of my life!”
During all this I repeatedly try to get in a word. What is going on? I say. What happened? I say. Calm down! I say.
But apparently they are too immersed in battle to hear. Finally my own bad biochemistry weighs in to the fray. Instead of rising above it all, instead of acting like the mature parent and rational adult, I find myself behaving exactly like my crazy adolescents.
Who came up with the brilliant idea of having kids in your late ‘30s? I’d really like to know because at this stage of the game it’s not turning out so swell. There are only so many hormonal changes in one household a multi-tasking woman can take. My daughter bristles at the slightest thing. Her brother is about as delightful to have around as Rahm Emanuel. Then there’s me, with my wildly fluctuating estrogen. One minute I feel as blissful as I did in my 20s during my brief foray as a jazz dancer. The next I feel like I'm channeling Nancy Grace.
Most of the time I just think I’m going nuts. Despite a regimen of exercise and vitamins, cutting down on the sugar, junk food and booze, I’m a mess. I cry at the absolute dumbest things. Last Sunday, during a performance of “The Wizard of Oz” at my daughter’s school, I started choking up when Dorothy began singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” I mean, the girl playing Dorothy had a lovely voice, but did it really merit a meltdown? I was appalled. Get a grip! I thought to myself.
I’m not sure what my mother’s experience was during menopause. Because of a brain tumor she was "not right," as they used to say. So it's not something we ever discussed. But there must be a genetic legacy. When I began feeling more moody than I normally do a few years ago, I turned to my wise and sympathetic ob-gyn Violet. The woman who had seen me through two life-threatening C-sections and a cancer scare. With a family history of breast cancer, I was wary of going on hormones. Not long before, the Women’s Health Initiative had released its terrifying study about a link between HRT and breast cancer. But I had already tried everything. I had tried pretending the symptoms didn't exist. I had tried putting ice packs down my shirt. I had tried black cohosh, St. John's Wort, soy, and other alternatives "I'll do whatever you want, hon," said Violet. So I went on the hormone patch.
I wish I could say menopause has been easy for me, as it has been for some of my women friends. A passage to freedom and a better place. But I'd be lying. Besides the mood swings, it appears I have every symptom in the book. My sex drive has gone south. I can’t concentrate for more than two minutes. Then there’s my failing memory. How am I supposed to function if I can’t even remember to slap on my estrogen patch?
Some other examples:
1) Two months ago I took some credit cards and my kids’ Social Security cards out of my wallet when I went on a trip. I still have no idea where I put them.
2) On Valentine’s Day my husband gave me a necklace. So it wouldn’t get stolen, I wrapped the necklace in some tissue paper, put the tissue paper in a bag, then “hid” the bag in a drawer. When I cleaned out my drawers
