I turned 47 this week.
Forty bloody seven.
Whilst I was fully aware my birthday was approaching, the fact that is was my 47th round of birthday cake seemed incredulous.
Odds are I’m over halfway through the movie of my life.
And life, in all its glorious wonder chose to remind me of this fact.
I’ve been peri-menopausal for years, in my opinion (not confined by a medic – but Davina McCall has heavily influenced).
My main symptom being a total inability to use the English language.
Life with me is like an elaborate game of Articulate where I describe every day objects that I no longer know the name for.
Last week the kids sniggered as I yelled out descriptive words and terms to relay my needs.
“It’s to hang the washing”
“I need lots”
“You know!”
“The things”
“Some are metal, some wooden, some plastic”
“They live in the wardrobe.”
“FFS, coathangers!”
I have recently forgotten what the kettle is called, the car, all the children, and cheese.
When does the menopause want me to avoid cheese?
But back to the birthday.
As said, I thought I was peri menopausal.
I thought I was symptomatic.
But on my 47th birthday – the menopause cracked me in the face with a wet kipper and gave me an indicator of what it’s really about.
I woke up at 2.30am for the usual third wee of the night. Turned to check the time and wished myself Happy Birthday.
And drifted back to sleep.
I dreamt I was drowning, in a tub of boiling water, and I woke to the same reality.
Every inch of me was coated in sweat, I was pinned to the sheets by my own bodily fluids. I was drowning in my own leakage.
And I was on fire.
Someone had clearly inserted hot coals up my rump whilst I slept, and my innards were enflamed.
Satan was making love to me and it burnt.
I turned my head, battling the heat and saw the menopause laughing from the edge of my quilt.
“Happy Birthday” she cackled as flames shot out of her head like a golden Medusa.
“It’s game on…”
And five minutes later my first period in 3 years arrived…..
Happy bloody birthday!