They have started again. The hot flashes. I thought I was done with them. I woke up at 3AM in a pool of perspiration a week ago and it has been the same every morning since. Fitful sleep, blebs instead of eyelids, depression, irritation, no ankles at all, oily skin and acne. A complete hormonal insurrection.
My nearest and dearest noticed "some thing was wrong" on Sunday as I was swearing about my eyelids and three pound weight gain. (Why oh why are all my faults magnified on Sunday mornings?) "What is a bleb," he ventured? It is the fluid in my eyelids which is at this moment obstructing my vision I hollered. "Oh" he says and vanishes. Can't really blame him.
Alright we are in the car on the way to church. It is fifteen miles so we have some time to kill. Husband, who is unflappable and unfailingly cheerful begins to whistle. Why the heck are you whistling I snarl? I've written a song for you he says. It's called "Come Back Bill Hormone." He then begins to sing. Four verses there were, with a chorus. All my hormonal troubles laid bare to the tune of "Come Back Bill Bailey." I laughed so hard tears ran out from under my blebs. He then pulls to the side of the road and stops the car. "I am now going to pray for you," he says. Whereupon he clamps his hands on my still hysterical head and begins to intone. At this point I have to stop and say I was raised in a very fundamentalist Christian tradition. A tradition which Mark and I occasionally make gentle sport of. As a frozen Presbyterian Mark seldom got to pray in what he has dubbed the Apocalyptic style. This mode of prayer so common to hell fire and brimstone churches seems to fascinate him. He longs to stand in a pulpit and with thunderous phrasing call down God's wrath on puny mankind. (I think this is why he became a prosecutor.) Anyway he has me pinioned to the seat and begins to pray, "Oh God of all power and might we ask you this day to look down on this weak and hormonally challenged woman. Help her in this her time of trial. God we ask that she be awash in the glory of hormonal balance. Give her back her estrogen. Lord fill her with hormonal rhapsody. In your great and glorious name, Amen. "
I wet my pants. Another challenge of the menopause. We drove back home and I changed clothes. We made it back in time for the last half of the sermon. I believe in miracles. I am not yet awash in hormonal rhapsody, but I am ever hopeful.
Take care of yourself,