It's my favorite day
I've come down off my high. Like all the way down. Knuckles dragging on the ground. Bottom-feeder for the win, down.
I'm at the end of my hormone replacement therapy cycle, which means I'm exhausted, scattered, old. But my high is back in sight. Today is the day.
Every three months, I'm at my gynecologist propped up on a table with a hip in the air. She politely shoves one needle of Lidocaine in, we chit chat, she makes a tiny incision, and then she loads me up with little grains of magical estradiol and tasty testosterone. And today is the day. Beam me up, Scotty.
Da hell you say?
"Pellets went up $30 on June 1," apologizes the tech at the front desk. "Don't care, put them in," I reply.
"That's now $300," she says. "Sold," I proclaim as I slap down my card.
"You're going to feel some discomfort," warns my doctor with a needle in her hand. "Stick it in," I say with a smile.
Earlier this week, I wanted to sit down in the middle of a workout and wait out class. Last night it took all my concentration to drive home. This morning I zombied out of bed. I thought about crying in the car. My sentences are incomplete. I'm pretty sure I'm depressed.
Why is menopause a mystery? Seriously.
It's common knowledge that hormones are important. They regulate a lot of what our bodies do–from sex drive, to temperature, to metabolism, to muscle tone. They help us sleep, tell us when to eat, and keep our skin and hair from turning to dust. Since my hysterectomy immediately put me into menopause, I no longer produce estrogen or testosterone, and I miss these friends.
Every day 6,000 American women hit the menopause lottery. That's more than 2 million women a year. Yet, most of our insurance companies don't cover the cost of HRT, or any replacement therapy, for that matter. It's considered "elective." Elective, my ass. You can shove that in your hip.
And I guess we millions aren't meant to enjoy less fatigue and depression symptoms, or an increased sex drive and improved mood, as our FDA won't approve testosterone therapy for women. It's commonplace (for the LAST 60 YEARS) in countries like Australia and the UK, but here we're left bartering on the black market for one of the 30+ FDA-approved male testosterone therapies. (Kidding. Sort of. I don't actually buy my T in an alley, but it is not FDA-approved, and less progressive doctors will not provide it. So, I think of Dr. Allen as a hot, young, educated dealer.)
Could I live without HRT? Sure. But why? I've nary a hot flash, I have all my hair, I crave my #hothusband, and my only night sweats occur when three corgis sleep against me. Sure, those last 3 weeks at the end of an HRT cycle are low, LOW, LOW, but I can't imagine living with the flatline.
And my delicious E&T cocktail? All the blessings to you few scientists and doctors who care what aging actually does to women. In mere days my energy will return, my head will be clear, and I'll be slamming that slam ball rather than curled up around it. Here's to three more months of me and my menopause.
xoxo
In October 2021, I had a total hysterectomy with bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy (removal of the uterus, cervix, fallopian tubes, and both ovaries) after decades of painful fibroids and endometriosis. Since then, I've obsessively thought about the impact of the hysterectomy and subsequent menopause on my health and my life. I've read much and often feel like I've learned little.
There have been many unappreciated things –some expected and some surprises. But my only regret is not having pushed back harder, accepted less, and had the hysterectomy sooner. My quality of life is inarguably better without a uterus.
Hopefully, I can help others ask more questions, question things louder, and seek different care when their practitioner doesn't listen. As always, my experiences are mine, and my menopause may not be your menopause. #whitepantsparty
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