"Laine," she'd say. "Go upstairs and turn down the thermostat, will you?"
Turning, I'd run and climb the stairs placing my palms down on the steps ahead of me, scrambling like a bear as fast as I could go. Atop the second staircase against the wall which lay ahead was an ivory trunk and above that, the thermostat. Placing my hands on the truck I'd jump up and scoot my knees beneath me. Standing tall, the thermostat was at eye level. "Just touch it 'til it turns on," I'd hear my mom's instructions in my head. Gently I'd nudge the lever and like an old engine uncertain of starting, I'd hear the air conditioner turning over.
When I was in my twenties and thirties, I used to live in Austin, TX where it is 100+ degrees in the summer. When the temperature drops down to 98 degrees in the shade, it feels downright lovely out, "cool" one might say. I played competitive tennis in that heat where my face grew red, not from sunburn. No, before each match, practice session or drill group I'd rummage through my tennis bag in search of my Coppertone Sport sunscreen. It had to be Coppertone Sport. I'd give it a good shake before squeezing its not too greasy contents onto my hand. Starting at my ankles I'd make my way upward, applying it at last upon my face. If I was to be out more than two hours, this ritual was to be repeated. My face did not grow pink from sunburn. It grew pink from the heat. During change overs I'd pull a rag from a thermos of ice water and place it on my face and neck while downing cold gatorade from another thermos, warding off heat stroke.
Today I live in the Seattle area where more often than not the temperature remains in the 40's or 50's and where I can be infrequently found on the tennis court yet frequently my face is red. When this happens, the last thing I want to do is exert myself and the only thing I can think of doing is removing my clothing and sticking my head in the freezer. Should an attack occur while in the car I roll down the window. Should passengers be on board I know what to expect, complaints, but I have a remedy. I turn to face them. The sight of my flushed face qwells their protests. If stopped at a light, I will stick my whole head out of the window. I don't care how it looks. In that moment all I care about is cooling the fuck down. Yes, physical pain and menopause, what do they have in common? They are two experiences which cause me to cuss like a sailor.
The first perimenopausal symptom I had, though you will not find it written as a symptom anywhere, were hot flashes of the ear, typically only one ear at a time. When this first began, I searched the internet looking for a cause. Was it related to niacin or some other dietary factor, I wondered? There were plenty of other people reporting this experience on the web and also searching for answers, but I found no definite known cause. I was okay with that and let it go. Sometime, many months down the road, this red hot ear syndrome extended to my whole face. It wasn't so bad, I thought. I rather liked the novelty of it and it was well worth not having to suffer through monthly periods. Then the hot flashes grew worse. They became hotter and they lasted longer. It wasn't long before the hot flashes spread down my body. My co-workers pointed out my flushing arms and my girlfriend pointed out that my back was wet with sweat. Soon it was not only my back but also my belly, neck, chest and legs. I might as well have been playing tennis on a hot summer day in Austin, TX. I was, however, strangely grateful. If I had to suffer through this experiece, at least there was an external manifestation of my inner discomfort, something others could at least see and sympathize with.
How different this is than suffering from depression where what people notice on the outside is only a hint of the suffering felt on the inside. It sheds light on the physical acts some will take when they do not have the words to express what they feel inside. Their acts become their words, their means of expression. A cut, a burn, a noose, what are these if not visible manifestations of an internal suffering which knows no other way to be pacified, let alone to be accepted?
The first perimenopausal symptom I had, though you will not find it written as a symptom anywhere, were hot flashes of the ear, typically only one ear at a time. When this first began, I searched the internet looking for a cause. Was it related to niacin or some other dietary factor, I wondered? There were plenty of other people reporting this experience on the web and also searching for answers, but I found no definite known cause. I was okay with that and let it go. Sometime, many months down the road, this red hot ear syndrome extended to my whole face. It wasn't so bad, I thought. I rather liked the novelty of it and it was well worth not having to suffer through monthly periods. Then the hot flashes grew worse. They became hotter and they lasted longer. It wasn't long before the hot flashes spread down my body. My co-workers pointed out my flushing arms and my girlfriend pointed out that my back was wet with sweat. Soon it was not only my back but also my belly, neck, chest and legs. I might as well have been playing tennis on a hot summer day in Austin, TX. I was, however, strangely grateful. If I had to suffer through this experiece, at least there was an external manifestation of my inner discomfort, something others could at least see and sympathize with.
How different this is than suffering from depression where what people notice on the outside is only a hint of the suffering felt on the inside. It sheds light on the physical acts some will take when they do not have the words to express what they feel inside. Their acts become their words, their means of expression. A cut, a burn, a noose, what are these if not visible manifestations of an internal suffering which knows no other way to be pacified, let alone to be accepted?
