I went to the doctor yesterday. My gynecologist.
(Annoying Thing #457: I can't technically call him my obstetrician anymore. He shall hereinafter, forevermore, be called my gynecologist. I've aged out, shot that wad, sailed that ship.)
delivered our second-born, our Julia, 21+ years ago. Which means he and I have been 'carrying on' for about 45 minutes once a year ever since. For the last three or four years, he's assessed my situation carefully and has assured
me that I was still in the peri (not full-blown) phase of menopause. And he has repeatedly promised me cialis online that when the time comes: “Jodie, you will know” And then, he said, it would be time to seriously talk HRT. As in, hormone replacement therapy. As in, my body no longer produces estrogen. Zero. Zilch. Nada.
February of 2011, my last appointment: “Jodie, you will know.”
So after doing the “Gabby Douglas” — flipping, kicking, tossing and turning — at 12:43 a.m. and 3:19 a.m. nightly for the past four-plus months; after awakening from sweet, sweet slumber abruptly and cruelly every night, certain that I was going to spontaneously combust; after accusingly chastising one too many attorney way too many times of turning the heater up in the conference room during a deposition; after having innumerable bedtime, heated (pun intended) discussions with Chuck about the need to have the fan (yes, on high) aimed directly on me (yes, all night), I knew. I knew! I just knew.
So when Dr. H walked into Exam Room #4 yesterday, as I was scantily clad in those light blue crunchy-paper-towelesque drapes, after exchanging the requisite doctor-patient niceties, I said, “It's time. You told me I'd know. I know. It'
Time. For. Estrogen.
He then explained the three levels of hormones (I'm going to start on Level 2), how long this menopause thing can last (anywhere from one to five years. Yikes!), and the different ways to take it – patch, cream or pills (I'm doing the pills). All very informative, necessary stuff that I needed to know. But I now had some very important questions to ask of him.
“So will my mustache disappear?”
He peered over his glasses. I could tell by the look on his face he thought I was kidding. But I wasn't.
“Seriously. Will the mustache and the straw growing out of my chin go away?”
Still looking incredulous, wondering if I was for real, he said, “Ummm…no.”
“Will I be all dewy-faced again?” I was kinda kidding on that one.
“Yep. You'll look like a 14-year-old again.” He smiled. I tried to smile back.
“Okay. But I won't gain weight, right?”
“Well, about 10% of my patients do gain weight, Jodie.”
“Are you kidding me!!?? Even if they work out!?”
Again I asked, “Huh? Not if they work out every day, right?”
“Yes, even then, they can. It's just hard to tell. Everyone is different. We'll just have to wait and see.”
S&*%F%)@D*! Just what I want to do, wait (weight!) and see.
I rolled my eyes. I was frustrated. I was agitated. I was irritable.
Which reminded him to say, “But it will help your irritability. Have you noticed you've been a little more agitated, moody?”
“Yeah, I guess a little,” I replied.
“This will definitely help with that, Jodie.”
Oh, goody, I thought. Maybe my family will like me again.
So, yeah, I'm not thrilled to have lost all my beloved self-made estrogen. But I can't wait to pick up that prescription and begin the process of calming down and cooling off this too-often hot-to-the-touch, explosive incendiary device that I am…
Wish me luck.