P*be Face

If you have only been reading my blog for a little while, may I refer you to a post from quite some time (i.e., 4 years) ago, entitled 'Nose Hair' and one called 'Attack of the Killer Eyebrows'?

OK, got the picture? Let's move on - this one, I think, will have to be called 'Pube Face'.

OMG OMG OMG! Menopause is such a wonderfully liberating time for an old chook now that the hot flushes have stopped - not only am I liberated from praying my 'cycle' (how coy and euphemistic is that?) doesn't coincide with the ride to Phillip Island and the annual PI motoGP, I'm also liberated from (blokey types may tune out now if you like!) cramps, PMS bloating & mood-swings and ghastly & expensive 'feminine hygiene products'. But wait, there's more! I've also noticed my hair (on my head) doesn't get as oily and I don't need to shave my legs very often. OK, I didn't ever shave them very often anyway, it's true - but now I don't look like I'm wearing ugg-boots, ha ha (too much information? Only the menopausal/perimenopausal or menopause-curious need continue reading). Same with my armpits - wow, it's great!

Of course, the downside is that I'm growing pubes on my face.

Whoooooa! What did you say, ol' girl?

Ok, it seems that the hormonal maelstrom that is menopause somehow causes your pubes to lose their sense of direction, and they start sprouting from your face. All that desperate and endangered oestrogen gets into a bit of a menopausal tizz and has an uber-girly "Eeeeek, I-can't-read-a-map" moment, and your pubes take a wrong turn somehow. I've done the same thing myself when faced with a left- or right-hand turn, or, god-forbid, a roundabout with more than two exits. So anyway, that's the only explanation I can come up with for the appearance of wiry, crinkly hairs sprouting from my eyebrows and (eek) my chin!

I guess there's always a trade-off, right?  Many famous people have been known to say 'There's no such thing as a free lunch.' Interestingly, from my 3-minute google search, they've all been men. So in the interests of gender equality I'd like to give an older woman's perspective on that, and say 'There's no such thing as a hair-free menopause'.

My mother used to tell me horror stories about 'The Change' but they always involved going mad or unexpectedly getting pregnant. She didn't say anything about growing pubes from your eyebrows.  Or weight gain.

Still, I think I can cope. Pass the tweezers please. Oh, and Jenny Craig? I'll be in touch.

An Adventure I Could've Done Without - an Evening in Accident & Emergency

I'm 50 years old. I'm a robust and reasonably active 50, and I misbehave as often as I can, so I haven't turned into an old chook yet, despite the nose hair, old-chook eyebrows, a few grey hairs and hot flushes.

I am, however, aware that 50 means I'm no longer a spring chicken. I'm sort of on the downhill run, I suppose, which is a horrible thought. So when, on Friday, I started having chest pains at work, I took them seriously. Seriously enough to clock off early and call into Calvary Hospital on my way home.

They were great. Within about 10 minutes I was in a bed in Emergency, covered in those sticky ECG dots and hooked up to a machine that goes beep.

They kept me there till almost midnight, gave me three ECGs, two lots of blood tests, several different drugs and a hot dinner!

The verdict? The pressure in my chest, and pain through to my back, shortness of breath and light-headedness may be all about menopause. Bloody hell! Martin, the doctor who looked after me, said that as they had discounted the 'worst case scenario' – a heart attack – it was more than likely an anxiety attack (anxiety is sometimes a feature of menopause, and as I already suffer from anxiety disorder (froot loop that I am) I suppose it was to be expected.

I felt like a right twit – clogging up a bed for hours – but the staff were terrific. 'You did the right thing to come in', they said. 'You can't muck about with chest pain. Better to be sure than sorry – or dead'. True.

I discovered, when I had a second 'episode' in Emergency, that I am allergic to morphine. That was interesting! Useful to know for future reference!

I also discovered that Accident and Emergency on a Friday night is a rather interesting place. The patient in the bed next to me was an OD. There was also someone who sounded like an elephant trumpeting, except he was actually screeching obscenities. Then there was the drunk who kept abusing the staff in the foulest language imaginable, until the police took him away. I can see why staff might get a bit cynical now and then...

Boomerang Boy was terrific. I'd phoned him to let him know where I was and why, and that I was ok, and to ask him to bring me a clear visor for when I was allowed to go home (can't ride in the dark with a tinted one). He appeared at my bedside at around 6, and didn't leave till I did, at almost midnight. I taught him how to do cryptic crosswords – and, strangely enough, we had a 'nice' time, considering where I was and why!