Estrogen

Disclaimer: Many health care professionals and Wise Women advise: venting is good for the soul. My take is that venting (generally) keeps most murder sprees in check. I don’t have any hard evidence, I just happen to know a lot of people who repress. I can hypothesize what the results of this repression could be if it should explode out of them, rather than little leaks at a time. This post is merely a little leak. If you happen to work in law enforcement, I hope you know the difference between venting and actual plotting. If not, please look it up before you start arresting people. Thanks.

As most females and some males can attest, testosterone has nothing on estrogen when it’s not in balance. Mine is not in balance right now. As a woman who’s reached a certain age, my little bottle of little lilac hormone pills gets me through my day without experiencing what are referred to as “hot flashes.” Anyone who hasn’t experienced a “hot flash” has no idea how absofu*ckinglutely insane one makes you feel. One, people. And by the way, a woman doesn’t just have one in a day’s time. One, you could deal with and quite easily plan your day around.

“No, John, I can’t meet you in the board room at 2:00. I’m having my hot flash at that time and before you ask, no I can’t rearrange it. Believe me, you do not want me at that meeting during my hot flash. Oh, then you know what I’m talking about. I’m sorry to hear about your gardener. Your wife’s all right now? Good. And your gardener? No longer your gardener. Well, it sounds like everyone learned a valuable lesson that day. Will 2:15 work for you? Yes, a few minutes are all I need. So, 2:15? Good. See you then.”

We don’t just have one, though. There are several, and sometimes (whee!) many. Women are so damn lucky.

I can see my point just beyond the horizon, thither and yon. I’m getting to it. Now is not a good time to push me.

I went to the doctor’s three weeks ago and had some tests run on me. Don’t you just love how doctors get to experiment on you, you submit quite easily and hardly ever put up a fuss, and you pay them? Anyway, these tests came back saying that there is some kind of stress on my liver. Contrary to all the rumors, I’m not a heavy drinker. “I only wish I was,” she says in her best drawl, with a sigh and a flip of her hair. 

Because I’m not a heavy drinker, here’s where the experimenting begins. No more ibuprofen for me. That’s a bummer, because ibuprofen is my buddy. I like to take her with me everywhere. Just in case, I get a headache or exercise too hard or carry something I really shouldn’t etc etc. This all happens to me a lot, by the way. But okay, I’m willing to play along with the doctor and stop taking ibuprofen. Next? No drinking. Oh, water is okay. Soda, juice, blah, blah, blee, blee are all fine. But no alcohol. As I mentioned I’m not a heavy drinker; however, I do enjoy the occasional glass of pinot grigio. And if I’m not in the mood for wine, then there’s nothing like a glass (or pint, depending on my mood) of ice cold lager, is there?  So, no drinking. Okay, now I feel a bit as though I’ve been bad and my crayons have been taken away from me until I learn my lesson, but I’ll deal with it. Then, just as I’m on my way out the door,

                “Oh, and one more thing,” says the doctor evilly.

You can hear the evil, can’t you?

                “You’ll have to stop your estradiol, too.”

What?

                “What?” I ask. Maybe my hearing is going. Does a bum liver affect your hearing?

                “Estradiol can also be hard on your liver, so I need you stop taking it.”

What??

                “What??” I ask again. You know, hoping I might get a different answer. But I don’t. Crap.

For nearly three weeks, I’ve been living without my little lilac pill. It’s not just the hot flashes (by the way, my husband calls these power surges. Is that awesome, or what? It’s why I married him), it’s also the not sleeping. Flipping great, right? But no, it doesn't stop there. On top of the at-no-notice-I-want-to-rip-every-stitch-of-clothing-off-my-body-regardless-of-where-I-happen-to-be AND I’m beginning to feel empathy for zombies (they don’t get any sleep, either) now begins the [insert sinister music here] intense emotions. It’s sort of like PMS, only much worse. And patience? Where the f*ck did I put my patience?? So now I’m a pissed-off, hot-flashy/power surgey, sleep deprived woman with no patience.

All I can say (haven’t you already said way too much??) is that if I don’t get back on my little lilac pills soon, I’m going to have to kill someone. Perhaps many someones. And it won’t be pretty. This isn't going to be dropping an elegant spoonful of poison in someone’s porcelain teacup. It’s going to be bloody. Body parts will be flying. I’m talking axes, chainsaws, perhaps explosives of some kind. Who will it be? Does it really matter? Okay. Well, I’ll start with the doctor. From there, who knows? I have a lot of friends who have people they can do without. I’ll exercise my demons and help out some pals.

Gees. Hope I’ve not scared anyone. It’s a good thing I’m a writer and I can kill people off, without getting arrested (I think). I actually do feel better and much less inclined to take out my wrath on society at large. This venting thing really works. Huh.

There are more tests to deal with in the next few weeks. In the meantime, let’s just hope that no one tips the balance of this already imbalanced soul. More venting may follow…