The Dreadful Perry Mason

Peri-menopause has not been kind to me. Being in my late 40s (not an appealing word—“late”), this harrowing and unpleasant condition has dogged me for years. Far longer, according to my bemused and yet overly earnest doctor, than is typical.

What a thing to say to a woman who has suffered enough.

However, I should have known. I should have seen this coming. When I was pregnant (20 years ago), the fluctuations in my hormone levels were devastating for me, and resulted in constant nausea and vomiting.

Later, my hormones were on the march once again, wreaking havoc, and ruining my life.

My coworkers got to the point where they could take one look at my ravaged face and say, “Dealing with Perry Mason today?”

I could only laugh an anemic little laugh because even in the throes of my depleted mental and physical state, I found that funny. Perry Mason was (is) our code word. I can’t really go around the office announcing that I am struggling, yet again, with peri-menopause.

The list of symptoms that afflicts the peri-menopausal woman is, as far as I can tell, endless. Mood swings, hot flashes, depression, insomnia, digestive problems, irritability, bloating, high cholesterol (really??), irrationality, limp and lifeless hair, blotchy skin, and on and on.

And this goes on for years, though my male doctor stares at me incredulously when I assure him that this is the case.

Because what the hell is peri-menopause? What term could sound more innocuous? Peri-menopause could be a brand of particularly effective dental floss, or a newly discovered constellation in the night sky (one that flashes and dims erratically and is lactose intolerant).

I’m told that peri-menopause is the time period (unfortunate word) before a woman actually stops having periods. So although she is suffering in earnest, she is still having periods.

She won’t be “menopausal,” and with great relief drop the “peri,” until she has ceased having periods. In fact, medical professionals won’t let her drop the “peri” until she has not had periods for at least six months!

I guess they don’t want any premature celebrating going on.

I haven’t found a living soul who believes me, but I swear on my life that I experienced my first hot flash at the age of 36. The scene is etched in my mind, to be recalled at a moment’s notice.

We were standing in the foyer of a Black Angus restaurant, waiting to be seated. I was holding my six-year-old son, who was perhaps getting a little too big to be carried around by his exhausted mother.

Suddenly, I felt a little light headed and glanced around to see what could have caused this. Next, I felt a heavy layer of damp heat escape from my skin but hover close enough that I broke out into a sweat. Finally, I set my son down (to his displeasure) and placed one hand on my damp forehead.

Was I coming down with something? Oh yes—I was coming down with something, alright. My intimate and horrible relationship with Perry Mason had begun.

And he wreaked havoc with my adult life. For a woman who prided herself on her penchant for careful and rational thought, I too often found myself near tears because I couldn’t discern if I had actually been wronged, or if Perry Mason was twisting my perceptions beyond what I could safely decipher.

I hated that most of all—that I didn’t know when I had a right to be hurt or offended (culprits, potentially, could get away with anything).

What I called my “progressively bad” days were the worst. Something harsh was said to me in the morning, followed by some missed opportunity, an imagined slight, some other disappointment, usually followed by a minor error on my part (Did I take something out for dinner? Did I pay the cell phone bill?).

Those days were the worst, and sadly, not infrequent. They left me reeling and clutching at what was left of the person I used to recognize (and celebrate) as myself.

Years ago, I learned that there were days when all I could do for my own sanity and the continued well being of my family was to remove myself and retreat to my room. For dozens, hundreds, of evenings, I sat in a corner of my room, crocheting and watching basketball, willing myself into a state closer to stable.

With every stitch, I talked myself “off the cliff.” With every basket made during the game, I forced my heartbeat back to its normal rhythm. By the time I went to bed, I was calm but defeated.

Five years ago, I saw my OB-GYN, and she recommended a cart-full of herbal remedies, vitamin supplements, and lifestyle changes. I tried them all and actually felt a little worse. She ordered blood tests and announced that my hormone levels were “normal.” Science, in this case, was not on my side.

It is a terrible thing to be at war with your own body—to know it is working against you, against your peace of mind, against your happiness.

At 48, I returned to my bewildered doctor and demanded that he write me a prescription for a low-dose birth control pill. Maybe my hormone levels were just low enough that my body was thrown hopelessly off course.

It’s only been a month, but I feel better, more in control, more stable. I haven’t felt listless, weepy, depressed, or hopeless for one whole month. I take this as a good sign.

Perry Mason, seemingly, has stopped visiting me—did he figure out that he’s not welcome? He may be indignant because he has been my closest companion for more than ten years.

He will have to accept it. I want to break up.