“Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, hey mom, mom, mom,” she kept on.
“Whaaaa…t…tss..hh.,” I muttered back, my eyelashes stuck together. I have to remember to remove my mascara at night. My eyes cracked through the Fort Knox of Maybelline.
“Oh, you’re awake. Cool,” she said. “What do you think of my outfit?”
I reached out, my fingers splayed to make up for the fact that I couldn’t open my eyes to see, and banged the nightstand in search of my phone. “6:03am.”
“It’s 6:03am, Jada. What do you want?” I was not happy.
“I just want to know if you think I should wear this blue dress as a dress or as a skirt. I’m thinking skirt, but I wanted to know what you thought,” she said excitedly, as if she drank the 3 cups of coffee I had automatically brewed for the morning. The coffee which wouldn’t even start dripping for another 27 minutes.
“Whaaaaatever, Jada. Just, whatever.”
I was already feeling it coming on, and it was barely morning.
deep breath. deep breath.
I spend most of my time lowering the rage-o-meter. I find myself pausing more between sentences, though my mind is racing with words of anger. It’s not real, I keep repeating. It’s not real. You aren’t really angry. This is not actually upsetting.
it’s just the hormones….
It’s just the hormones….
On January 17, 2014, I had an oophorectomy — a surgical procedure to remove my ovaries. And, with that came surgical menopause and a complete destruction of the hormones that regulate my body, my moods, my thoughts, and my weight. I’m fatigued. I’m irritable. I’m angry. I’m in desperate need for some alone time.
All of those things: Impossible.
With three energetic young children, a full time job, a full time doctoral program, a looming dissertation and multiple research projects, I just can’t. I just can’t.
I admit, I even mildly experimented with some of my hormones, which, yea, that was not a good idea. (note to others: do not experiment with your hormones…baaaad. baaaad idea.)
So, I’m heading to the doctor. I’m heading to the doctor to figure out what’s “normal” and what’s “hormonal”.
Or, what’s hor-normal.
For all you “hor-normal sisters”, I’m right there with you. I’m putting on a good show when I’m out of the house, but collapse into a mess as soon as I walk in the door. I’m on the verge of crying nearly all the time. I use up all my energy to just get out the door and make it back in one piece. My body aches from the rapid weight gain that seems to just keep piling on no matter how many bare-dressed salads I eat and how many measured steps I take on my pedometer (which aren’t many because I’m so fatigued).
You’re not alone. And, I know I’m not either.
But, I’m hoping that the doctors can help me figure out what I can do, and that I can accept the changes that are simply the new
Peace, love, and remembering to breathe,