Hot and Bothered: What No One Tells You About Menopause and How to Feel Like Yourself Again - Hardcover

Dunn, Jancee

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0593542568 ISBN 13: 9780593542569

Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2023

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“Hot and Bothered removes the shame, disdain, and mystery that’s surrounded menopause….An informative, entertaining and desperately needed book.” —Jen Sincero, author of You Are a Badass

When Jancee Dunn hit her mid-forties, she was bombarded by seemingly random symptoms: rampant insomnia, spring-loaded nerves, weirdly dry mouth, and Rio Grande-level periods. After going to multiple doctors who ran test after fruitless test, she was surprised to finally discover the culprit—perimenopause. For more than two decades, Jancee had been reporting on mental and physical health. So if she was unprepared for this, what about all the women who don’t write about health for a living?

Hot and Bothered is the book she wishes existed as she was scrambling for information: an empowering, research-based guide on how women can tackle this new stage of life. Menopause isn’t a disease, but a natural, normal life transition. Why, then, are we still speaking in whispers about something that affects half the earth’s population?

Through in-depth interviews with renowned menopause experts and trusted authorities, Dunn peels back the layers on this still-mystifying topic with her trademark humor and unpacks the science on both hormonal and nonhormonal treatments. She provides actionable ways to improve sleep, sex, moods, mental clarity, and skin; details the latest treatments for hot flashes; and explores the best practices to stop “peezing” (that would be peeing when you sneeze, thanks to your new urinary issues). Dunn’s clear, easy-to-follow advice will help you reclaim yourself—and fully embrace life’s next chapter.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Jancee Dunn is the New York Times bestselling author of eight books, including How Not to hate Your Husband After Kids and her essay collection Why Is My Mother Getting a Tattoo?, a finalist for the Thurber Prize for American Humor. She is a frequent contributor to The New York Times, Vogue, O, The Oprah Magazine, and Parents. She lives in New Jersey with her husband, writer Tom Vanderbilt, and their daughter.

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CHAPTER 1
What to Expect When You’re No Longer Expecting

Menopause is a condition shared by half the population –
so why isn’t anyone sharing any information about it?


"In my adult life, I don’t recall one serious conversation
with another woman about what to expect."
—Oprah Winfrey[i]

"I’m hot, because I have a very rare medical condition called menopause. It’s only about one in one woman who experience it, so it’s a little bit under the radar at the moment. Nobody really knows anything about it, because it’s not something that happens to men, so there’s no data or research."
 —English comedian Bridget Christie[ii]


In the summer of my 45th year, I suddenly found myself lurching awake at 3 a.m. with the sort of instant alertness that meant hours of sleeplessness lay ahead. Staring into the darkness during what author Samantha Irby has called "menopause o’clock,"[iii] I would attempt all the soothing, borderline-monotonous mind tricks I’d recommended as a longtime health writer: progressive stretching exercises, reciting state capitals, planning weekly meals. None of these worked. In the daytime, I stumbled around, fuzzy and fatigued, trying to keep pace with my toddler.

One supposedly effective trick to bring on slumber is to take a mental tour of your childhood home. And so, on one sleepless night, I visited my former house in Pittsburgh, last seen in 1975. Here was the avocado-colored fridge in the kitchen, there was the brown plaid couch that sagged in the middle. By the couch sat a fake-wood side table, which contained an embedded metal ashtray. When my parents finished huffing a Kool, they could push a button on top of the ashtray, which spun the ashes and butts into a mottled collection bin below, where the smoky mulch remained for months.

Why didn’t my parents empty the reeking table ashtray? I wondered one night. Maybe they were comforted by the smell of old cigarette butts? The ashtrays in our Buick LeSabre were always filled to overflowing, too. When did cars start phasing out ashtrays and cigarette lighters?

My meandering thoughts were narcotizing enough, yet I still couldn’t drop off. What the hell was wrong with me? I had never had sleep problems in my life. I turned over, careful not wake my husband, or jostle my boobs, which had been sore lately.

I froze. My boobs, which had been sore lately.

Hold up. When was my last period? I calculated backwards. Two months. I had gone off the pill, but we practiced the horribly named "rhythm method," in which we avoided sex during my supposedly fertile times.

My blood chilled further as I realized I was bloated, too. "Tom," I whispered. It was nearly dawn, anyway, and our two-year-old daughter would be awake soon. He opened his eyes blearily; as I told him my suspicions, he abruptly sat up. We had always wanted one child, and we were happy with our choice. We had never even considered another. Nor was I young: I’d had Sylvie the week before my 43rd birthday, after a so-called "geriatric pregnancy." I did not envision myself as a 45 (soon to be 46) year old parent to another newborn. I had already developed lower back problems from lifting our kid.

Tom and I sat quietly on the bed, our heads whirling with the emotional, financial, and logistical complications of having another child.

Finally, he reached over and squeezed my hand. "If this turns out to be a pregnancy, well, then…" He broke off, then gathered himself. "Well, then, we’ll make it work."

I covered his hand with mine. "I was thinking the same thing," I said in a high, choked voice.

***

I wasn’t pregnant.

I had skipped my periods because I was perimenopausal.

I know this now, but I didn’t then. In my mid-40s, the idea of perimenopause — the term for the transition into menopause, "peri" meaning "around"—simply hadn’t occurred to me. I was taking my toddler to Elmo-themed birthday parties. Acne congregated on my chin. I still bought my pajamas from teen websites because they were cheaper (I just avoided the crop tops). I had a vague idea that menopause awaited, hazily, in the future—but that was still far off, when I’d start wearing visor hats and orthopedic food-service clogs. Wasn’t menopause for older ladies? It had always been an easy subject to stash away.

Soon after, my periods grew more erratic: a drought one month, the Rio Grande the next. Perimenopause lasts, on average, for four years but can stretch to eight, and symptoms can sneak up on you —and before you’re fully aware, they become your new normal.[iv] [v] My nails took on a flaky, baklava-like texture. My mouth became so dry that I began hacking like my hairball-prone cat.

One night, I woke up drenched from head to toe. Immediately, I assumed I had peed the bed—as a former bedwetter, you never quite outgrow that feeling of Oh Lord, I did it again. My last incident had been in high school, when I’d received a coveted invitation to a sleepover at Kim Kelly’s house. Every moment of that night is etched in my brain. First, we watched a Love Boat episode starring Sherman Hemsley and Jaclyn Smith while guzzling can after can of grape Shasta.[vi] When it was time for bed, Kim’s older brother Raymond commandeered their one bathroom for what seemed like hours. (What could he be doing in there? I remember thinking, naively.) Eventually, as I nervously waited in one of Kim’s twin beds for Raymond to leave, I fell asleep.

Later that night, I was horrified to discover that I had duly peed Kim’s bed. This would be all over the school Monday morning unless I acted quickly. While Kim slept, I stealthily removed the fitted sheet, fanned it up and down for an hour until it was dry, then, slowly and quietly, turned the mattress over and replaced the sheet.
Kim never knew.

I had the same feeling of dread as I lay, stuck to my sheets. Why did I guzzle so much lemonade last night? Did the pee reach my sleeping husband?

Tom heard me stirring, turned over, and stared, confused, at my wet hair, which was plastered to my head.

"Did you just work out?" he said, squinting at me. No, I told him. Nor, I eventually figured out, had I peed myself. It was night sweats.

Peeing myself was still ahead.

***

At my annual physical a few months later, I mentioned the night sweats to my doctor, who ran a battery of fruitless tests and concluded that it was probably “stress.” This conveniently vague quasi diagnosis was not exactly wrong—who doesn’t have stress?—but is used, research shows, more often on female patients  As the months rolled on and my symptoms piled up, I saw a dentist for my bleeding gums, a dermatologist for my crawlingly itchy skin, a cardiologist for my irregular heartbeat. After spending countless hours in doctors’ waiting rooms, I had caught up on all the latest issues of Reader’s Digest but was no closer to any sort of prognosis. Not one connected my symptoms to menopause. 

My experience was not exactly novel:  perimenopausal women can spend several years trying to get the right diagnosis and treatment. Medicine, of course, has a long history of telling women that their symptoms are all in their heads; it’s even more common, studies have found, for women of color and those of larger size.[vii] [viii]

When I finally figured out what was happening to my body and brain, I was floored. How could I have been so clueless? I’m a health writer, for God’s sake. For...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2023
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593542568
• ISBN 13: 9780593542569
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 304
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: preigu; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; 49078; Deutschland