This post is brought to you by Menopause, a Man, and a little Miss.
For the past two weeks my boobs have itched like motherfcukers. Turn away now. Nipples. Warned you. My nipples have been peeling and itchy, sensitive and weepy. Yes, sometimes I find a dried water leak, a crust of yellow and white skin. Beyond these farm-fresh details, the two of ‘em seem to be battling it out for the heavyweight title of Grand Boobah. They feel heavy, a mudslide along a peninsula. I’ve got Florida boobs.
I’m on hormone replacement therapy (HRT) for menopause. I’m 37 years old. My mother was 52 when she got all hot and flashy. For over a year I’ve had to regulate my hormones with a cocktail of treats: Androgel Testosterone Gel for Men, Estradiol, Prometrium. Oh, solo mio.
I feel like crying and withdrawing from the world, I’m not motivated to write or to go to the gym, no motivation to eat healthfully. I’m impatient, not myself. At the heart of it is this: I’ve been hiding from writing about a life that’s not doing much living.
Yes, I’ve done wonderful things, family barbecues, trips to Newport, new farm stands with the kids, Hamptons luncheons and sleepovers, new friend outings, old friend gatherings, art project afternoons and lessons about Mary Cassat, but that’s all what I’m doing, not what I’m living. Where have my real emotions gone?
Usually they come here, to the best blog ever, for a rest or rant, hoping to connect, to know I’m not alone, that it’s okay. I need someone to tell me it’s a hormone imbalance, they can fix it. Not to hear the other Google Search result answers and the surprisingly unknown symptoms of breast cancer (peeling nipples, heavy breasts, itching). Fcuk off.
My gut on this is that it’s a hormonal imbalance. Having to layer up on testosterone, estradiol (estrogen) and prometrium (progesterone) is not a hat trick. It’s a cranky mother who on top of all that doesn’t know a single girl assigned to my girl’s classroom.
Add to that Phil’s health
He’s been having more episodes of V-tak and A-Fib. And he’s tired a lot lately, the way he was when his ejection fraction dipped way down. He comes home, crawls into bed and takes a nap. We’re falling apart.
I end up going there. Playing the what if game of tomorrows that may never come, thinking, “Jesus, if Phil dies, who will walk Abigail down the aisle?” Then, I think, “Don’t worry, she doesn’t have any friends in her new class, no bridesmaids… no wedding.” I go on like this in an absurd, shortsighted circle, but at least it gets me to spin and twirl.
Calling the doctor tomorrow. Dreading that she requests that I drive into the city so she may have a meeting with my leaking Grands Biscuits. Can’t she just send me for a blood test somewhere? I hate this!
At least my mommy is here with me.
“Stephanie, stop flashing me your boobies, for goodness sake!”