A day in the life of a menopausal woman

The crack of dawn isn't the only thing that's cracking

I wake up at the crack of dawn. Not because I have to, but because dawn isn't the only thing that's cracking: my aching back and the stabbing pain in my left hip make it impossible to sleep in.

Eyes still closed, I reach for my phone charging on the nightstand, knocking off the book (in case I can't sleep), pill bottle (painkiller), and reading glasses (middle-aged eyes) before I finally manage to grab the phone.

"Face Not Recognized" my phone informs me as I try to open in. "It's me, you stupid thing," I growl. I try to type in the passcode, but I can't remember it. How is that possible? I use it roughly 47 times every day. Frustrated, I throw the phone down and head to the bathroom to pee. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror I recoil in shock. The dishevelled woman blinking back at me is unrecognizable. Eyes crusty, face swollen, pillow creases competing with my wrinkles for facial real estate, my hair sticking up in all directions. No wonder my phone doesn't recognize me—I don't recognize myself either.

As I'm peeing, a sudden vicious pain grabs my lower belly. An iron grip takes hold of my uterus and squeezes, slowly turning it while squeezing ever tighter. I gasp in pain and shock, trying to breathe through it. I've never been in labour, but from the many descriptions I've heard I imagine that this is what it must feel like. Bloody hell, it hurts like crazy! At least the pain is the only bloody hell, since my IUD has blessedly taken care of the bloodbath that occurred monthly in the two years prior to its insertion. No more periods for me, thankfully, but the pain remains. I want to scream like labouring women do in the movies, but that seems overly dramatic at 6am in the morning, so I whimper instead. My dogs run into the bathroom to check if I'm okay, energetically licking my face and poking their noses into my crotch. We don't deserve dogs.

Peeing done, I limp into the kitchen to make myself coffee. Beautiful, delicious coffee is usually my main motivation to get up in the morning, and my mouth is watering in anticipation of that first, invigorating sip. While I wait, I cross my fingers and hope that my temperamental stomach will gracefully accept this elixir of the gods. Lately my morning cup of joe has turned into a game of Russian roulette: I never know if all will be calm, or if the first sip will set my insides on fire. Is decaf in my near future? I fear it might.

I win this round of Russian coffette, and my spirits lift. What to do with this wild and precious day?
Maintenance, that’s what. At forty-five, I have a long list of rituals I need to complete daily to make it through life without hurting myself or others, and if I don’t, you and I will be sorry. The thing about being in one’s forties is that we’ve basically run out of fucks to give, but saying what’s on your mind and calling out all the bullshit we encounter is still frowned upon in society.

To counteract the almost irresistible urge to call it how I see it, I have to do my rituals, like casting spells to make it through the day without losing my patience.
I have assembled a beautiful list of mindfulness practices that work like a hot damn to give me the tranquility to not react to the stupid people that are EVERYWHERE:

• Morning yoga

• Journaling

• Going for a long walk through the woods

• Doing a puzzle

• Meditating

• Reading an inspiring and uplifting tale with a happy ending that will restore my dwindling faith in humanity and make me feel hopeful in a hopeless world

• Not consuming media of any kind, social or regular, because of the guaranteed rise in blood pressure that will occur almost immediately upon reading the latest atrocities and cruelties bestowed upon my sex, and pretty much anyone who isn’t male, white, straight, and rich.

You may spot the problem: this list is a full-time job, and ain’t nobody got time fo’ dat. Even if I wouldn’t have a job, bills to pay and perimenopause to wrangle with, there is a bigger complication that throws a wrench in my self-care practice: lack of energy.

Just writing this list has tired me out. I’m ready for a nap, and it’s only 8am in the morning. Despite the three cups of coffee I could go for a snooze, because caffeine is no match for the perimenopausal, all-encompassing fatigue that has me in its grip all day every day. I have to choose which one of my spells I’m going to do today, and the three hyperactive dogs jumping all over me always win. Walk in the woods it is.

I throw a handful of pills in my mouth (antidepressant, Krill oil, magnesium, vitamin D, vitamins B6+B12) to prevent/slow down cognitive, mental, and physical decline, pack a baggie of raw almonds, and grab a banana on the way out. My hip, knowing what’s coming, is protesting the imminent exertion with a sharp pain as a reminder that it’s not on board with the idea, and my back is still aching to let me know that it’s highly affronted that it didn’t get its stretch today.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a terrible landlady,” I mutter under my breath, talking to my body parts as one does when she is always on the verge of becoming completely unhinged. “In a perfect world I would look better after you, but this is all I’ve got. You’ll just have to suck it up.” My previously unlimited amount of spoons (=energy) has sharply declined, and I need to preserve enough for work this afternoon. Depending on the day, the people, and my estrogen levels, some days threaten to deplete my spoons completely, and once that occurs, anything could happen. Best not to let it come to that.

Walking in the woods with the dogs is its own form of therapy. Aching hip be damned, I feel peace and tranquility descend upon me. After fifteen minutes, I enter a meditative state, forgetting my aches and worries, breathing the fresh air deeply into my lungs. Aaahhh. This is lovely.

“Stop bouncing so much!” My breasts interrupt my zen rudely. As per usual, I haven’t put on a bra, because as a lifelong member of the itty bitty titty committee, not needing a bra has always been one of its best perks.
”Itty bitty?” they cry in outrage. “Have you looked at us lately? We’re a B-cup bordering on a C, thankyouverymuch. We need support.”
My formerly unassuming, docile breasts have taken on quite the diva-like behaviour in their middle age, elbowing their way into the spotlight in a way that is new to me. Tender and sore, they make sure that I don’t forget about them like I used to, which is a nuisance.

Still, there’s nothing to be done about it now. I’m in the middle of the forest with no support in sight, so I’ll just have to put up with the pain in my tits. It nicely balances out the pain in my back, which is something. It’s all about balance in life.

Once I’m back home I need to get ready for work. First step: plucking my chin hair. I’m no stranger to the occasional stray chin hair, but perimenopause has multiplied it a thousandfold. My chin has transformed into a fertile breeding ground perfect for hair growth, and if I don’t stay on top of it, I’m sure I could sport an impressive beard in a fortnight. Not sure what the evolutionary purpose of chin hair is—keep the men away? If that’s the reason it’s overkill, since middle age is like putting on an invisibility cloak. Men cease to notice middle-aged women, which is one of its many blessings. I don’t miss the catcalls and unsolicited “smile, love” one bit.

Next step: getting dressed. Since turning forty, my body feels like an hourglass that’s been thoroughly shaken up. The amount of sand in it is still roughly the same, but it’s all settled in different spots. My hips and belly are rounder than before, my breasts fuller, my muscles have shrunken. Maintaining upper body strength is harder than before, as is doing my formerly athletic yoga routine. I’m much more about deep breathing and slower movement these days.

But scrubs are not for nothing the pyjamas of clothes, with elasticized waists and roomy tops, and I slip into them gratefully. My trusty Birkenstocks are waiting at work for me, completing the perfect outfit for the menopausal, bloated woman.

On the way to work I give myself a pep talk. “You can’t change people; let them be who they are. Accept them. Don’t get worked up over stuff you can’t change.”
The pep talk is only one of yet another arsenal of nifty survival tricks for the menopausal woman. Rage+low patience make for a dangerous mix that needs careful handling. Other items include:

• Emergency chocolate

• Deep breathing exercises

• Carefully regulated swearing (can’t do too much at work; can’t survive with too little)

• Tylenol, Advil, regular massages (pain makes us irritable)

• Regular cognitive behavioural therapy (people who need therapy but refuse to go are bad for our mental health)

• Working on stories in my head when I need a little escape from reality

• Humour

Humour is this season’s must-have accessory. Not taking things too seriously is the secret to life in general, and midlife in particular. Because how in the world are you supposed to make it through brain fog, joint pain, bone-deep exhaustion, hot flashes, periods rivalling the Texas chain saw massacre, abdominal pain, rage, depression, skin changes, weight changes, hair changes, headaches, and electric shocks, all on a poor night’s sleep and with the world making fun of us?

You’ve gotta laugh about it, or you’ll cry. But most likely you’ll do both, shortly followed by a burst of anger followed by a nap. This shit is exhausting.