Monday, September 18, 2017

PMS Institute

PMS can mean many things, but in this case, it means Peri-Menopause.

After this past two weeks I realized something. There needs to be a mental institute for peri-menopausal women. 

I'm generally a nice person- really, I am! But during this past month, the grasp on my emotions has been getting steadily worse, and I think it all started two to three years ago, when the peri-menopausal monster decided to rear its over-estrogenated, roller-coaster-emotioned head.

As of this weekend, I lost my grip entirely.

I was crying for no reason. Anything brought me to near-crying! The pastors' sermon was uplifting, but my eyes acted like it was an eulogy. He could have said the word 'the' and my eyes would blur with unreleased tears.

But that wasn't all folks- oh no! I went from an understanding, loving person to unreasonable shrew in less than 1.2 seconds- and all it took was a loving smile from my hard-working husband. 

He doesn't deserve that. My worst enemy doesn't deserve that! But on I spewed, ranting and raving about all the wrong in my life and the world, volcanic words erupting from my mouth and throwing ash all over the living room carpets.

When I was by myself, I cried that no one cared. When I was with people at church, I wanted to be alone. Does that sound like a sane person?

Well, this wasn't the first time this happened (though I admit it was one of the worst hormonal episodes), so I decided to get checked out. I'm still not sure if that was the right decision or not, because they found something.

Atypical cells.

So instead of an institute, I'm going to the hospital for an outpatient procedure called a D&C. Apparently I have a few layers that decided to stay put and they have to go in and do a little wallpaper removal. They have to check my innards to make sure those atypical cells were possibly an organic typo, or if I need to get some parts removed. The doc told me my estrogen levels were through the roof- and that was probably why I was a peri-menopausal psychopath, and that I was also a high, pre-cancer risk. 

Oh Joy and Rapture.

I go in for the surgery Wednesday. If things turn out to be atypical (or even cancerous), I will be having a hysterectomy. In my case, it will be a hystericalectomy. I'm not crazy about having my parts removed, but I'm also not crazy about being hormonally crazy either. 

(Wolfburgers, anyone? Been there, almost done that!)

After talking to a few of my 'ectomy' friends, it seems the hormonal roller coaster rides will stop, and the estrogen levels will level off, because I won't be producing it anymore. Since estrogen is stored in the fat cells (according to the doc), I'll get some of the estrogen back when I start losing weight, but eventually I'll have to start taking supplements. 

Eventually. Like when I'm eighty.

So the trade off is a calmer, happier and possibly thinner me (or at least thinning), no chance of having to support kids in college in my seventies, and no more monthly (or quarterly) mattresses in exchange for one uterus and a couple of over-active ovaries. 

I think I can handle that- at least until the next hormonal surge happens. Then I'll be in the bedroom drowning myself in my tear-soaked pillow. Sigh.

In the mean time I would ask for your prayers and positive thoughts as I go under the whatever-it-is they use for the D&C- and don't tell me, I really don't want to know. 
Just so long as I'm in a medical institution for less than a day and not a mental one for the rest of my hot-flashing, teeth-grinding life, I believe God's got this- but a lot of prayers sure don't hurt matters...right?

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Tis The Sneezon



Ah, Spring and Autumn, you delight me with your bright regalia of color, your special sweet smells of growth and defoliation, with your wild creatures running amok to either celebrate the end of winter, or scurrying to find food for their secret winter stashes. 

But your pollen laden air can go take a long hiketh off of a short cliffeth.

Those itchy eyes, that red and swollen nose is oh-so-attractive to my slumbering mate as he is startled awake by the thundering moose-like bellow of the wild that is the blowing of my very stuffed, yet runny nose. To this day it amazes me just how much can be forcibly propelled out of one's nostrils; so much so that I imagine there is some sort of miraculous measurement written in the vast pages of Guinness Book of World Records. 
Go back to sleep my love I gently croon in a very unromantic babbling cant (for one cannot utter certain letters when ones nose is so stuffed) , praying he will be in deep slumber before my next allergenic eruption.

Sometimes I manage to hold back the explosive utterances, only to find myself questing with quavering fingers through the darkened recesses of the bedding for my eyeballs. On occasion, I manage to sleep.

The morning alarm sounds, bringing me into a new day- or at least that is what I assume, since my eyelids are cemented shut. Nocturnal tears wept to relieve the itchiness apparently hardens overnight into an almost impenetrable crust, for which I need a minuscule hammer and chisel to remove the stubborn ocular barnacles so I can at last see the light of pre-dawn.

Mornings are fraught with frantic searching for fresh hankies as I sense the pre-sneeze tickling in the vast depths of my nasal cavity, often ending with a hasty toilet paper substitute when the needed eco-friendly solution to my carbon footprint can't be found; but when that swatch of soft washable nose gear is located, a cry of triumph and the thrill of glorious celebratory glee courses through my very being when said hankie is conscripted in time for the gust that even the Big Bad Wolf would envy.

Or should I say series of gusts, for you see, my body, having lain dormant for more than a few hours, makes up for time by sending me into convulsive, multiple sneezing fits that more than one hankie is required. This is especially appreciated when engaged in conversation or if consuming the morning repast.

If it weren't for the hankies, many, many forests would suffer decimation from my spring and autumn pollen perturbed proboscis. There aren't enough tissues in the universe to save my poor nose, not to mention we'd either be bereft of funds from the expense, or the earth would suffocate from the overfilling of our toxic waste dumps from my allergenic leavings.

Another happenstance that fills me with joyful exuberance is the unexpected spritzing of a non-incontinent yet neither leak-proof bladder. When in mid-sneeze, one has no control over ones intense muscular contractions of  the solar plexus, henceforth no command over the drips, drops, or complete loss of control concerning urinary release. This makes any outing delightfully more adventurous, even when one is wearing a washcloth, or mini mattress made for other womanly functions. 
Trips are planned carefully, in accordance to the location of bathrooms, or within a three foot vicinity of the domicile in case a sneeze occurs.

As for allergy alleviation, One can either be drowsy and muddle-headed all day, or choose the path of the overnight medication that would send one into an almost coma-like stupor; though either will send your body into a severe mode of dehydration, sending any and all fluids to the finite depths of ones bladder. As long as no fluids are consumed, all seems well- but the moment liquid touches ones lips, all symptoms come rushing back with an epic vengeance, bringing forth tear-blinded eyes and fits of sneezing that will alleviate the hydration-bloated urine-filled water balloon that ones so desperately tries not to loosen, because a lavatory is not within waddling distance.

But I digress. I neither wish to be in a stupor nor venture out into the wilderness that is my city with a trunk of clean clothing 'just in case' some allergens befall my sensitive senses.

So here I sit, in the safety of my enclosed writing sanctuary, grateful for windows that close and a place to hold two formidable stacks of hankies; Nary daring to open the door even to feline yowlings or family encouragers, content to be a hermit until the winter snows arrive, ensconced in an atmosphere gloriously pollen-free. 

At least until dinnertime. Sigh.

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Self(ish) Sufficiency

Self- Sufficiency. 

It's the ultimate goal for most of us. In fact, the world commends someone who is self-sufficient; this is a person that doesn't need to rely on anyone else to do what he has to get done- he does it all on his own.

I was taught from a young age to be self-sufficient. But my self-sufficiency was based all on me- not others. Doing it on my own meant that I was not only competent (which gave my confidence a boost), but the job would be done right.

Asking for help was a no-no. 

Sufficient means adequate or enough. Self-sufficient means I'm enough. I'm adequate. All I need is me to do what I need to do. But many, many times I find myself overwhelmed by life and drowning in chaos! 

Am I enough? Nope. not by a longshot. Anyone would consider a man a fool if he was drowning and didn't ask for help...right? So why do I pride myself on getting out of the chaos on my own? 

It's definitely selfish-sufficiency. 

I need friends. I need family. And most important, I need God. Only God can give me the strength to call out for help, and provide that help when I ask for it!

When I'm down, I talk to my cheerleaders. And they do the same with me. I am supported, and I in turn support others. I'm spiritually fed, and I spiritually feed others. And everyone is stronger for it.

Sometimes I feel like I shouldn't ask for help. Sometimes I feel like I'm whining- and to be honest, sometimes I am. But I'm blessed enough to have friends willing to tell me when I'm getting to that point, and they in turn appreciate that I don't pull punches either. 

Truth can sting, but it's better to rid yourself of those splinters of trouble before they fester and infect your entire being.

As for my gentler, less blunt friends, they are my comforters when I feel like the world is full of thorns. God has blessed me with an entire garden of different blooms to go to when I need help.

But I have to be willing to walk into the garden!



On occasion I still suffer from selfish-efficiency. But God reminds me that I wasn't meant to do everything on my own. And sometimes He has me remind others as well!

It's good to find more than one friend to tell your troubles to and share your concerns and sorrows. I'm lucky enough- blessed enough- to have a small group I can confide in for the harder issues. Some are sounding boards for ideas (in fact, I might have to stop telling her ideas because we are both creatives and we give each other even more ideas! :) ), and some are great for those ups and downs when I enter a new stage of life.

One thing I've learned was to give as well as receive. That was the hardest lesson!

I had to remember to listen as well as speak. To learn as well as teach. To follow as well as lead. And for this very stubborn, hard-headed woman, God had His hands full!

He still does.

Don't be afraid to find your own blossoms in your garden of friends. You might even be surprised when you find them! And don't forget to also talk to your Best Friend Ever...God!