Hype Man

It’s no secret that I suffer from depression, like approximately 280 million of my fellow humans worldwide, but I have noticed that it gained a devoted accomplice in the last couple of years. I personally thought my depression played well enough as a solo act, but it elected to enlist a Hype Man to really execute a showstopping performance as it aged alongside me. The Hype Man assigned by the universe for this exercise in “how much neurosis can one woman take” tends to only grace the stage for a couple of key shows a month to spew as much hormone-filled rage as it can before retreating back into the wings, often leaving a very disoriented me and a very wounded husband in its wake. I didn’t even realize the Hype Man was there for a good while - just like a Lil’ John “Yeahh”, it blended into the act only occasionally bursting out to rachet up the overall intensity and get the crowd involved. I don’t remember now who provided the handle for my Hype Man, but somewhere during my unending quest of self-discovery I heard the word “perimenopause”.

Have you heard of perimenopause? Perhaps you have if you are a woman and you have arrived at a doctor’s office and told them that you are concerned at how much more frequently you are creating new expletives for people driving slowly in the left lane or that you fantasize about buying a one-way ticket to anywhere that your family isn’t once a month.

“Oh yes, that might be perimenopause. It can cause some significant hormonal shifts. Extreme irritability, irrational thoughts.”

I wonder how long I will be in perimenopause you may find yourself asking.

The answer would be A LONG FUCKING TIME. Like ten years.

Why did no one tell me that I might become a raging lunatic a few days a month for a decade in my late 30’s? I’ve been effectively dreading menopause with its hot flashes and evaporating collagen since my late teens, but I had no clue that I should have been fretting about the ten years of psychosis that functions as the really lame and I’m-totally-not-buying-the-CD-from-the-merch-table opening act.

My theory on why I’d never heard of this before it decided to crash my sad, but well-rehearsed, mental deficiency concert series is two-fold. The first is that there doesn’t appear to be a super effective treatment that Big Pharma (feel free to put on your tin foil hats with me) can make a bunch of money off of. The treatments I’ve heard so far are: anti-depressants, hormonal creams made of yams and various herbal supplements. I already take anti-depressants, Peri Meno (what I am calling the Hype Man) laughed at the audacity of a yam cream and, despite my love of herbal medicine I’m pretty sure I’d have to mainline chasteberry into my femoral artery to see an impact. The second leg of my conspiracy theory is that menopausal women - with their grown children and established careers - are dominating the narrative. All us ladies in Peri-Land are too distracted running carpool and begging for raises to notice specifically how we are being driven to madness.

Also, hot flashes and parched vaginas are undeniable. Most of the perimenopausal symptoms can be chalked up to us being a pain in the ass.

So when I arrived at my beloved gyno’s office recently complaining of a period so heavy that I needed to use a puppy pad in addition to an arsenal of feminine products to protect my sheets and clothing, Peri Meno was again discussed. After a thrilling internal ultrasound, there was talk of various squatters living off the remains of my uterus and the process for eviction. It all made me feel, well, old. I didn’t have much of a reaction to turning 40 - I’m still in decent shape and some of my hair remains brown - but removing an organ because it just can’t hang anymore was what got me feeling middle-aged for the first time. It’s not the worst, I mean a lot of women, including most of the ones in my family, have had to sayonara their baby box. But walking through a waiting room full of pregnant mamas with a diagnosis of “broken uterus” got to me. I’m not a public cryer. It’s my personal preference to reserve that emotional reaction for driving alone or sitting on the floor of a shower, but I wasn’t at home and my beloved Stacy was 300 yards away in the parking lot. Thankfully the receptionist responded exactly how I needed her to in this desperate moment - with annoyance-tinged indifference and an absolute refusal to make eye contact. I was half-expecting and fully dreading sympathy and a “Bless your heart” so her rudeness actually gave me a brief jolt of indignation, just enough fuel to dry my eyes, pay my co-pay and make it to Stacy where I could get in a proper sob.

Now that the initial shock has worn off, I am wondering what else Peri and his audacious troupe of fly dancers has in store for me. There is a weird vein protruding from my left leg. I get nauseous after most meals. I have a hernia. It appears that my eyelids are arguing with my forehead and now want to see if my cheekbones will take them in and let them live in the basement. I fear that I don’t have enough time, nor enough energy, to wade through the answering services at the various specialists that I should probably be scheduling with if I want to end up intact by the time the random sweating begins. I realize that I finally understand why “old people” are always talking about their various maladies because I am genuinely interested in a conversation about polyps.

I could do without the Hype Man and the distraction he brings to my hopefully slow march into agedness, but I suppose this is a new chapter that I will learn some important lesson from. For right now, I will simply preach the gospel of perimenopause to my small tribe of 40ish women.

Beware ladies, the Hype Man cometh.