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Photo by Addy Spartacus on Unsplash
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There are certain things one carries on all hiking trips
for the just-in-case situation: whistle, foil blankets,
spare laces, torch and sticky blue tape for blisters.
Tonight I found a new use for said tape. It is holding my
HRT patch in place across my right arse cheek.
J'arrive!
It is Friday. It's been on since Wednesday. It is
already pissing me off.
It has had to cope with one sweaty run and several outfit
changes. The barely-hanging-on patch feels like a metaphor
for women's neurological and hormonal health: a
half-arsed attempt, built for women who were probably
never consulted.
The pink box (PINK!!! REALLY!!!) has sat in my bathroom
cabinet since January. My disdain growing week by week as
they confront me. I can trace this back to my experience
at the GP's.
I sat in the plastic chair at the side of the table, not
across from her. Black cheap leggings, bad shoes. Her. Not
me.
"How can I help? You have 8 mins," she asked,
and something in me just went — grief, hormones, whether
this would help or make things worse, all of it, out in
one breath.
"You're 47," she said, "so it's
guaranteed hormones."
She asked a few questions on family health and steered me
to the blood pressure machine in the hallway.
That was the whole conversation.
No leaflet on starting HRT or where to go next for advice.
Sitting at home sometime later I pull out the HRT leaflet
from the box. It's as long as the Bayeux Tapestry.
Blood clots. Breast cancer. Stroke and heart disease.
Migraines. Liver issues.
I feel terrified and decide to leave this decision until I
feel I really need it.
Throughout the summer months I find I am crying,
rage-filled and dealing with brain fog. This time the rage
feels different to my usual spirited Irish self. The
moment that felt different was leaving the beach due to
people being really annoying, stupid, loud and tending to
their yappy mutts. I had to leave as the urge to fuck
someone out of it was strong.
For months I've been wading through a cognitive fog.
Grief changes you neurologically, so that's to be
expected. Add to that midlife hormonal changes and the
fact that this year has been like no other, workwise.
Since the beginning of the year I have applied AI for lots
of deep analysis work. In truth, it's felt like the
most energizing work in some time. In between the five
heatwaves and insufferable heat I find myself sitting on
the sofa pushing the button until late in the evening.
Uncharacteristically like me.
These days I sit, pushing the button, and I'm not
even engaging with it. It has a certain addictiveness not
unlike infinite swiping on a dating app. This time will be
different. Sigh. Motivation is low, optimism is low and
I'm feeling low-grade depression.
A trip home to Ireland in August saw me get ill, tearful,
stressed out and unable to cope with the myriad of mini
dramas that occurred that week. These included my
mother's newly erected headstone, a 4.5 hr delay to
my flight back to the UK, a flat tire going to the
airport, sacking off the flight after 4.5 hrs, forgetting
to check in for the new flight home the following day,
almost missing it AGAIN and forking out an additional £300
quid.
It is a Wednesday evening and I sit on the living room
floor and pop my laptop on my coffee table. I like to sit
cross-legged, leaning against my long L-shaped sofa. This
helps me feel grounded and it's often where I write
these blogs from. It is an evening for researching all
things menopause. My ambivalent brain seeking some
clarity.
I listened attentively to a neuroscientist, with
experience in Alzheimer's, dementia and menopause, on
Diary of a CEO. I immediately slapped on my first patch
once I finished listening to Dr. Lisa Mosconi articulate
the neurological transition that I am now embarking on.
Finally, I felt someone spoke to my fears of dementia.
I'm not someone who is fearful of getting older. In
fact I relish burying my last fuck on many things.
I'm looking forward to pirouetting into this
transformation a la Diane Carter in Wonder Woman.
Let the transformation begin.
Post #4/100DaysToOffload
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