Dolly's blog: Hot Flushes in a Heatwave

On the family summer holiday, I begun to realise I couldn’t go on.   By day we lounged like lizards, sedated by heat as temperatures nudged 40 and France burned.  At night I faced a more solitary challenge, consumed by peri-menopausal night sweats and increasingly desperate for sleep.

When, actually, had I last slept well? My brain was seizing up. Childhood passes at lightning speed, and this may have been the last holiday with all our ours, but I spent much of it struggling to keep up with conversations, feeling weirdly disconnected from my own family, flat and occasionally sad. 

Back home and back at work the symptoms got worse. Why couldn't I remember the word for... the thing? Why was I feeling a compulsion to lie down and not talk?  Why couldn't I construct a sentence, let alone solve a problem? It was like being underwater, combined with an irrational fear of losing my job. 

By this point even the simple act of booking a doctor’s appointment felt overwhelming.   But all would be well because I could access 20 minutes with the GP at work and get what I wanted (drugs!). 

Wrong. After 15 minutes describing the non-functioning zombie hell I had descended into, I was given an NHS sleep hygiene leaflet which told me I should sleep with the window open, avoid caffeine after midday and stay off my phone before bed. Hands up if there’s anyone who doesn’t already know that? Anyone?!  The whole point of seeking help, desperation etched on my face, was that I’d run out of road with DIY options and if I didn’t get some sleep I may actually kill someone. 

I left deflated, but also knowing I was due a full monty partners' medial where another doctor would of course give me what I actually needed. 

Wrong. I turned up to the medical and tried very hard to compose my face when I realised it was the same doctor.

HR suggested the menopause support that comes with our private health cover. Turns out that was more statement of the obvious guidance notes that anyone who’s listened to a menopause podcast already knows. Was it more paranoia or was there actually a medical conspiracy to stop or at least delay women getting HRT?  I could access five supportive chats with a nurse, but not one who could prescribe, so it was looking very much like five hours of “Have you tried sleeping with a window open?” before I could access what I actually needed. Drugs! Immediately!!!

There was nothing else for it. It was time to track down an old friend who has set up a specialist menopause clinic. It’s based in Ashford and isn't cheap, but by this point I would have crawled there on my knees and sold my children.  She also had a 3-month waiting list but mercifully squeezed me in cos we used to have a great time dancing in Crazy Larry’s back in the day. After a thorough one-hour consultation during which I learned that “your nipples will tell you” whether the oestrogen dose is right and that I was going to feel like a different person, I left with a paper bag full of hormones and hope. 

A week after seeing my drug dealer, I had a mini-break to Hungary and, praise be, no night sweats!   After two more nights of decent kip I realised I’d also gone a week without crying or wanting to hide under a duvet.  Not only that but I was starting to blast through domestic admin like the capable person I had once been. 

Marvelling at the turnaround and fervently hoping it would last, I found myself in a Budapest café called…brace yourself… Vaj.  And its strap line was “We butter you up” which very much reminded me of the topical oestrogen I would highly recommend.  Rediscovering the ability to laugh, I enjoyed the last of the summer heat and looked forward to getting my grr back. 

Topics:
• Mid-Life and Menopause
• Mental and Physical Health