The most honest account you will ever read about the onset of the menopause

Menopause is a phase — not the end, but the beginning of a new, liberating chapter, writes Aileen C. O’Reilly.

This is probably the most honest account you will ever read about the onset of the menopause so either grab a coffee (wine) and sling your feet up or shove the page to the bottom of your “must read someday never” pile.

To be perfectly honest, prior to this experience I couldn’t have cared less myself about mad middle-aged women sweating and collectively cooling their jets in the frozen food aisle at the supermarket.

If anyone had told pre-menopausal me I’d gratefully hand over the guts of €40 to stick a sparkly purple magnet in my knickers I’d have laughed out loud and checked the label on whatever it was they were drinking.

Let me just start by saying I never wanted babies — the Maternal App was seriously not enabled, therefore from the age of 12 my “monthlies” were a crampy, messy imposition on both my mood and wardrobe choices, not to mention my visual sense of self which became a waterlogged blimp, crammed like cookie dough into jeans that were normally loose.

“Bring on the menopause! I cannot wait!”, I cursed/hissed regularly under my breath as my abdomen felt like it was, yet again, housing a covert re-run of Muhammad Ali’s ‘Thrilla in Manila’.

And then at the age of 46, after nearly a year free of periods and seriously enjoying my carefree, white-jeans existence, I was finally granted my wish… the menopause decided to properly rear its crazy, screaming, sweaty head.

Medusa, in all her serpent-tressed glory, had nothing on me. Hissing became my chosen form of communication when I wasn’t reduced to tears by a sad song on the radio.

Initially,it was night sweats that sent me running for cold showers at 3am, after which I would feverishly Google “symptoms which indicate you are about to spontaneously combust”.

I panicked about being found as a scorched mass in my bed, but reckoned the high levels of sweat would quickly poach me before any flames took hold.

Aaaahh but the mental impact was the real clincher — buses and trains full of innocent commuters had no idea the sighing stripper who glowed in their midst was a potential serial killer who had mentally clubbed each of them to death several times over, long before we reached our destination.

When I wasn’t busy visualising the massacre and dismemberment of anyone who coughed, sneezed, or breathed, my brain became a waterlogged sponge cake incapable of holding on to a coherent thought without it totally disintegrating.

Had I locked up the house? Where was I going? What day was it? Why did I have the unassailable desire to scream all the time?

I wondered about a career change and Googled the wanted ads for “part-time assassin” before quickly clearing my cookies stash and praying a Garda SWAT team wouldn’t descend on my doorstep as I was having one of my stupid o’clock showers.

It was around this time my washing machine spontaneously started shrinking my clothes — my jeans in particular…

My body shape was morphing into that waterlogged blimp that I’d only had to tolerate for three or four days every month. I stepped in front of the full-length mirror to assess the damage… and cried.

My white jeans laughed at me.

Luckily, a good friend of mine is a pharmacist and I paid her a covert visit at a very quiet part of the day in a haze of desperation and sweat.

Her options were limited — as I’d had cancer, HRT was about as likely an option as Sharon Stone in a knickers commercial.

She instantly recommended a high-strength soya supplement which had morning and nighttime tablets. I sighed looking at the wind-blown flower on the packaging and told her I’d return in four weeks to let her know if it was helping, knowing my face looked as optimistic as a snowman diving headlong into a pot of boiling water.

“You’ll know in two days” she winked as she sent me on my way. I was sure I was reeking and cast around for some industrial strength deodorant as I slunk out the door.

To this day, she tells me I was a different woman when I bounced (yes, she used the word “bounced”) back into her pharmacy two days later, calm, fragrant, and gloriously freezing in chunky jumpers and a coat!!

“It’s working!!” I beamed, suddenly understanding the true meaning of the Holy Grail.

“Interpol WILL be pleased” she grinned as she scuttled off behind the counter “let me just ring them and let them know they can stand down”.

All this happened last October and since then I’ve never felt better. I’ve buckets of energy, no hot flushes and mercifully no homicides either (although I allow myself the occasional mental one if I get stuck in traffic).

And yes, just in case you’re interested, I’m still wearing my sparkly purple magnet… and I’m back into my white jeans.

On the plus side…

You can look forward to:

Increased sex drive, Sex without the fear of pregnancy, No more periods, No more hormonal headaches, No more PMS, Greater self-assurance, Time to take stock and enjoy new challenges.