Menopausal Maniacal Me

They said the experimental medicine would remove all my gender
hormones, and slam me into menopause, and they couldn't treat it or it
would nullify the effects of the new treatments. I was ready to accept
this; it had to be better than what I'd been going through.
Right?

WRONG!

It took a few days before I noticed any changes, and even then it
wasn't anything noticeable. Unless you spoke to me. Or didn't speak to
me.

"Hi, Honey," my husband said, coming through the door with his hands
behind his back. He walked over and kissed my forehead, and handed me a
small bouquet of yellow roses he'd bought for me. "Surprise!" I looked
at the roses, then at him.

"That's nice," I said rather blandly, taking them from him. "Thanks." I
couldn't help it; my eyes filled with tears.

"What's the matter, Honey?" he asked in concern. He thought I'd be
happy.

"My favorite roses are white," I said. "It's no big deal, I just
thought that in fifteen years you'd know that by now." He looked at me
with utter confusion.

"Um... they didn't have white," he excused.

"Well it's not like I don't like them, I didn't say that!" I snapped,
shoving them into a vase.

"I didn't say you did," he said, heading out of the room. He changed
into work clothes and went out to mow the lawn while I made dinner. I
got quite irritated at finding that I would have to wash the frying pan
my daughter had left to soak, before I could use it. Not a terrible
crime, but I couldn't tolerate it.

"Nichole!" I bellered. "Ni-CHOLE!" She was upstairs in her room, and I
could hear her footsteps hurring down the steps. She peeked around the
corner at me.

"Yah, Mom?"

"Why isn't this pan clean for me to use?" I demanded. It had been her
turn to wash dishes.

"I cut my hand on a glass and it hurt when I put it in the dish-water.
I planned to wash it before you used it, I'm sorry, Mom."

"You cut your hand? Let me see. Why didn't you tell me?"

"You've had enough to worry about, Mom. It's just a little cut." I
looked at it, and it was no 'little' cut. Her finger was laid open,
though she'd cleaned it well and it had stopped bleeding.

"Oh my God, come into the bathroom," I said, pulling her with me as I
walked to the other room. I put a topical antibiotic and butterfly
closures on it and bandaged it for her. She thanked me and ran back up
to her room, and I washed the frying pan myself. While I swished the
soapy hot water around the pan with a sponge, I started thinking. What
a witch I must be, that my own children can't come to me with an
injury. I started to cry. The tears flowed like there was no end, and
soon I was blubbering.

My husband came into the house, who knows what for, and he saw me
standing at the sink crying as I washed the pan.

"What's the matter, Honey?"

"Nichole cut her hand," I cried.

"Is it bad?"

"No."

"Oh........ okay," he said, stopping for a moment to assess the
situation. He was starting to realize that it didn't matter if
something was worth crying about or not, I would over-react. He got
what he came in for and returned outside to the mower.

The meal was done, but he wasn't finished mowing yet. The yard was
quite large and usually took about two hours to finish. I walked out
onto the porch and waited for him to spot me and turn the mower
off.

"Dinner's done, do you want me to keep it warm for a while, or do you
want to stop and eat it now?" I yelled across the lawn. He was by no
means a pansy of a man, but he did try so hard to please me, especially
since I'd been sick. He didn't answer right away, but just looked at me
for a moment.

"Um.... what do you want me to do?" he asked, wiping sweat from his
forehead.

"Aw geez, can't you just make a decision?" Anger was building up in me
again. "Why can't YOU decide if you're hungry or not? Dinner will be on
the table, if you're hungry you'll come!" I turned back into the house
and slammed the screen door.

Sitting at the table eating, the telephone rang. Not a night went by
that the phone didn't ring during our meal, and I found it quite
irritating.

"Hello!" I answered, and not very nicely.

"Hi Satiety, it's Sandy Versai," the caller began. "I just thought I'd
let you know that Melissa had her baby, it's a girl and everything's
fine!" She happily gave me all the details, and again I puddled up.
This time with overwhelming joy; we'd known Melissa's baby was breach
for a couple of weeks, and I'd worried about her and the baby ever
since. I cried uncontrollably in my extreme happiness, feeling far more
joy than I had felt at giving birth to my own children.

That was the start of the next seven months of our life. It didn't
matter if the situation called for extreme emotion or not, I would cry
or scream at someone. Soon I learned to not react at all, if I could
help it; I didn't trust myself anymore. I'd usually realize later that
my intense emotion was not the proper response, and it embarrassed me
many times. Even when the neighbor's noisy, tire-biting dog that I
didn't even like had died, I sobbed for their loss.

When the treatments were successfully over, it still took about a month
before I could trust myself again, and even then I didn't know if it
was really okay or not. But life went back to normal as my hormones
replenished themselves. The doctor says I should have at least ten more
years before normal menopause hits me, and it won't be as harsh as what
I'd experienced so far.

But I'm not doing it. I refuse. And, I don't suppose anyone here will
dare to discuss it with me. :)