Hot
flashes.
Two words that can spark an animated
conversation among women “of a certain age.” I witnessed an outpouring of
sympathetic comments just the other day when a friend confided at the dinner
table that lately she woke up drenched. Did I suffer from the same female fate?
Another friend posted a status update with vivid descriptive details of her
soaking her sheets the night before. About five other women shared their
experiences, along with comments regarding menopause and hormone fluctuations.
How many times in the past did my
cheeks flame red while perspiration suddenly beaded along my upper lip or
formed a rivulet at my hairline? How often did I frantically kick aside covers,
desperate to get air on my legs, only to pull the blanket tightly around me a
few minutes later?
Should I admit to the days (weeks,
months, and—yes, years) that my temper flared as hot as my cheeks? Should I
reveal the twisted intensity of emotional upheaval that would temporarily
disintegrated my ability to reason? Should I confess that waves of hormonal
oscillation left me unpredictable, even to myself?
Fortunately, my spiral into midlife
happened relatively rapidly, although I’m certain my family would describe the
change as gruelingly slow. On the other side now, I rarely feel my temper
explode with unexpected fire. I don’t glance into the mirror to see cheeks slapped
red by middle age. Although I occasionally frantically fight against the covers
that entrap my legs and send my temperature soaring, I don’t flood my sheets
and nightgown.
Gratitude fills me that my suffering
proved milder and shorter-lived than many women’s torment. Comfortable in my
skin, now, I look forward to the next adventures of life and wonder what
forecasts lay ahead.
Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
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