Periods. And the periodic table.

I need to set long term thinking aside for a while to deal with short term issues. At least I hope they are short term issues. The problem is I’ve been absolutely difficult lately, in emotional flux, riding some nasty mood altering roller coaster. I totally blame this on hormones, or lack of, or imbalance – whatever, but I need to get a handle on this. And this is not at all helped by my husband’s belief that women have a propensity to hit menopause and go crazy, ending long term relationships for some undefined better place. His opinion is based, of course, on well informed and insightful observations of more than a few breakups.


The stupid thing is that I have none of the “normal” signs of menopause. I’m 53 (there, I’ve said it), I had one hot flash about 4 years ago and I can still rely on the calendar. What I’m mostly dealing with is insomnia and anxiety. My new best friends are 2am, 3am, 4am and 5am. They greet me every night, twinkling at me from the clock. All I can do is pull the covers over my head and hope they will go away. I’ve resisted the urge to get out of bed and watch TV, bother Dan, shop on-line, or worse yet, post stupid insomniac status updates on Facebook.


Compounded by poor nightly sleep is an increased level of anxiety that I can’t seem to get control of.  Not that I haven’t tried. I started with my primary care physician.  From her I got the second best medical advice ever...”your symptoms will eventually go away”.  This $250 proclamation is only slightly less helpful than the advice I got from a previous primary care doc about a different issue. When I reported stabbing right shoulder pain while moving laundry from the washer to the dryer, he said…”use your left arm”. Really Sherlock, that’s the best you can do? 

Feeling far superior to the lame advice of over-educated medical practitioners, I began chatting with friends about symptoms and possible remedies.  After all, who knows better than peers who are in the battle, have survived it, or have thrown in the towel and now live alone? A friend described a peaceful office and a skilled practitioner, who combined listening to both the person and the body to define a balanced treatment plan. This led me to a chiropractor/nutritionist who specializes in health, energy, balance and natural remedies. Perfect. I’ll take it.


The doctor listened intently, completed an extensive physical examination using kinesiology, and read the entrails of a sheep to determine that I’m allergic to potatoes, tomatoes, mushrooms, and salt. She found my CVS multi-vitamins were causing more harm than good and the calcium supplements were hard for my body to digest.  A saliva test found levels of some adrenal something or other were off balance and contributing to my sleep issues. Three visits, and a $120 checkbook adjustment for the purchase of various cleansers and vitamins, found me at home with “the remedy.” Of course I’d have to go back for more adjustments, but my health insurance was covering the visits so this must be OK, right?


I had to stop with the supplements after three days because I got a nasty stomach bug. Everything I ate completed the incredible journey, very quickly and painfully.  Thankfully, that subsided within 24-hours and I added in the supplements to my nightly routine. Three days later I woke up needing to call in sick to work because I couldn’t be more than 3 feet and 2 seconds away from the bathroom. Stop everything again, except this time I had figured it out. Something in my diet was causing this, and the only thing new was the supplements. I was no better the next day and needed immediate relief – I had two weddings to attend, one that day and one the next. I wasn’t going to miss them. 


I took a chance that I could make it to the walk-in clinic 5-minutes from the house. After a bit of uncomfortable banter with another physician, as well as a detailed review of the ingredients on the bottles, I was informed that taken alone, none of the supplements was harmful. Combined, they created a mega-dose of magnesium with an explosive laxative effect. Some direction on appropriate over-the-counter remedies and I was patched up enough to attend both weddings. Unfortunately what I’m finding from October into December is the half life of magnesium must be 20 years or something like that. Unbelievable, because I never knew it was a radioactive substance. 


I’m going to get myself past the holidays, then re-engage the medical profession.  I’m zeroing in on someone who specializes in the care of “women of a certain age”. In the meantime, I resolve to count to 10, bite my tongue, keep my thoughts to myself, not go crazy, generally hold onto my opinion and try very hard to be easier to get along with. If I’m not, I’m absolutely giving those people that care permission to call me on it.

The trouble with normal

For years I’ve been listening to an insightful performer by the name of Bruce Cockburn. He’s got a lot of angry political songs on his playlist. From one of the songs I extracted a line because if felt like it applied in all situations - the trouble with normal is it always gets worse.

I’ve always thought about that phrase in the context of aging. I get older and the long term effects of gravity become more visible. I’ve aged into routine and uncomfortable preventive diagnostic protocols. My fertility wanes with unpleasant side effects. My parenting emphasis has shifted from babies to toddlers to young children to pre-teens to teenagers to young adults, and so on.

One of the things I fear about the idea of relocating is what that means in terms of a life milestone. When I think about moving south, I must admit, I think of a stereotype (bad, bad Paula). Old people, gray haired people, retired people, weak and wimpy people move to warm and sunny climates because they can’t handle the extremes in temperature, the snow shoveling, the leaf raking, mowing the lawn and tending the garden. I feel like the big move means giving up and getting old, because, as the song says, normal just gets worse.

In order to more fully explore this notion I sat down and completed a self-styled “is normal worse?” exercise to validate my perception – I used two points in time, 10 years apart, for comparison.  Suffice it to say that 20 years ago was not memorable.

PROOF POINT	10 Years ago	Today	Normal
Marriage	21+ years; a lot of “discussions”; intimacy - meh	31+ years; great communication;   intimacy - breathless	+  It just gets better!
Parenting	Teenagers; 16 & 14	Adult children in Philly and Chicago	+ Low key parenting stress
Work	Laid-off and between jobs collecting unemployment	Project manager with pension, 401k, health/life benefits, excellent salary	+ Improved
Health	30+ pounds overweight; pre-diabetic; high cholesterol	Would like to lose 10 pounds; normal blood sugar; improved cholesterol	+ Improved
Family	Parents, 4 brothers, 2 sisters	Parents, 3 brothers, 2 sisters	- Loss of 1 to Big C
Housing	Valued at high end of market	Lost value due to economy	- Same house, new roof, less equity
Fitness	Couch potato	Could complete a sprint triathlon tomorrow	+ Much improved
Hair color	Blonde	Blonde with reddish highlights	= No change in methodology

So, that’s 5 in the plus category, 2 in the minus and one unchanged. My take away? Life “gets different”, but it doesn’t have to “get worse”. I can’t stop aging, but I don’t have to be old. My hair color can continue to come from a bottle to match the current aesthetic. I don’t want to retire today, but no one is asking me to, and I certainly won’t want to work forever. Family dynamics inevitably change, so it’s best to concentrate on the quality of relationships. And I’m not wimpy or weak unless I choose to stop moving and go back to the couch.

I’ve decided to return those lyrics to the song, placing them back in their original context. With all the political nonsense and lack of civility it will be nice to move to the Conch Republic. After all, they seceded where others failed. That’s my kind of normal.

Music that resonates:

Bruce Cockburn -- The Trouble with Normal