Much has been written about women of a certain age and hot flashes, but not as much attention has been expended on the spouses of these women.
This is odd because “menopause” has the word “men” right there up front. Somebody, somewhere, must have recognized our plight.
One month ago, I wouldn’t have given a hoot about this topic. But this was before I was awakened several times each night, buried under a mountain of covers that my wife throws on top of me as she self-immolates, and later freezing when she yanks the same covers away.
This stunt, however, is nothing compared to the ceiling-fan trick. At various times during the night, the blades will whirl faster than a Boeing AH-64 Apache helicopter. My wife increases the speed from “tropical breeze” to “tsunami” during a hot flash, but then steals the aforementioned covers when her temperature returns to something less than the red-hot heart of a burning sun. Leaving me to long for the relative warmth of a polar vortex. Or a walk-in freezer.
Did I mention this happens several times a night? Because it does. Several times. Each night.
“The Exorcist” was a light domestic comedy compared to the thrashing in this bedtime ritual. Paging Max von Sydow, stat.
Not that the days are much better. We often carpool to work together, which in the past has been economical and fun, a chance to talk about the day to come or vent about the one just past.
This is before the grim specter of Menopause.
Now, the windows go up and down, the heater goes on and off, and the air conditioning is pressed into service, all in the course of a three-mile ride. I don’t know whether to wear my winter coat or a tank-top.
If you think this complaining is insensitive, it’s not. Well, OK, maybe a little. The problems of a few little men don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy life change, he said in his best Humphrey Bogart voice.
After all, I’m not stuck in a body with a temporarily malfunctioning thermostat, beset upon by hormones stepping out for one last crazy road trip. And I appreciate that my spouse can laugh about the whole affair, up to and including giving me her blessing to write about it, and even contributing a line or two. (Credit her for the ones you laugh at. Blame me for the ones you don’t.)
I’m trying to be sympathetic and helpful. I googled “how to support a partner through menopause” and found some good tips. Not to get all serious, but I really do understand that it’s not all about me. Or even a little bit about me, freezing coverless nights to the contrary.
A WebMD page advises me to “know what to expect,” “be empathetic,” “talk about it,” and “be patient.” Check. Check. Check. And check.
The page also says that symptoms could last for years. Cue the shocked emoji with the big eyes. That’s a long time to go without sleep. For both of us.
No matter how hard I search online, however, I don’t see more radical solutions, like connecting the refrigerator’s ice dispenser to a Nerf gun. Or replacing the bed with a Slip N Slide.
All I know is that we’ll both be ready to compete on “Survivor” when this is over. Three days in a sweat lodge? No sweat.
Reach Chris at chris.schillig@yahoo.com. On Twitter: @cschillig
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