Patched Up

I'm starting to look like a tree trunk, my abdomen is absorbing my ass at an alarming rate. What? How? I like trees, but I miss my cute pants and high heels, and I will surely miss having a butt.

In my 40’s I could cover the aging process with good posture, a little face powder, and some stretching. Now in my mid-50’s no one asks if I’d like a senior discount anymore, it is freely given. All of my shoes are comfortable, all of my fabrics are breathable, and the magnification of my glasses is ever-increasing. 

Once a casual enthusiast, I now harbor a love of sleep bordering on obsession. I talk to my bed when I make it in the morning, "I'll be back, Pillow. Stay cozy, Blankie - see you soon, dear friends!" Sleep has always been something to get, now it is a vacation destination, a blessed reprieve from gravity.

The American Medical Association just put out their not-at-all-funny top ten list of stuff that’ll kill you. Number one remains smoking - congratulations are in order to the tobacco industry for literally killing this category for decades. 

Number two is poor sleep quality. So if you’re not a smoker, then sleep - or lack thereof - is your numero uno murder weapon.“How’d you sleep?” is no longer a courtesy question, this is life and death.

A few years ago my sleep was assaulted by hot surges. Definitely not hot flashes, more of an oozing warmth that would rouse me out of sleep just in time for the sensation to ebb. I have friends who have legit hot flashes and I’ve watched them practically incinerate right in front of me. They say it's like slow lightening coursing through the subway lines of their nervous system until it breaks through the surface of every pore. There’s no escape, only best-intentioned prevention strategies and triage when a flash hits: ice, fan, wicking fabrics, a nearby refrigerator, anything cold anywhere anyhow.

My little surges were nothing compared to flashes, but losing sleep sucked. I lived with this disruption for a few months and finally copped to the fact that this was fixable. My doctor put me on a low-dose estrogen patch and a progesterone pill to take before bed, within 48 hours I was sleeping through the night. Game. Changer. 

Give me all the patches: stick-ums to hold up my boobs, nicotine for focus, maybe a little MDMA just for fun. I’d like a mosaic of patches, linked together like a belt to hold up my meno-belly. A ring of adhesive magic transmitting dermal messages of hope and healing. 

After decades of smoking weed I stopped abruptly a few months ago. I went through a significant break-up and decided that I needed to feel everything full-spectrum instead of living in the mid range emotive state that THC allows. This is usually how I quit things - sucking my thumb, boyfriends, books - one day I’m all in and the next day we’re done. I might be addicted to quitting.

I used to roll a morning blunt and continue smoking throughout the day. I leaned in to vaping for a minute the high wasn’t as good as flower. I’d always assumed that without the hazy marijuana high falling asleep would be near impossible, instead it’s easier. It’s cleaner, I’m more refreshed and hydrated, and I’m dreaming actual dreams. My subconscious is experiencing an ecstatic release and my sleep is enriched by messages from old lovers, cinematic renderings of unresolved problems, missed appointments, and suitcases full of nothing useful for whatever vacation I packed for. 

My anxiety level has dropped significantly without daily THC, I’m practically unruffleable. Give me a fresh estrogen patch, a little fresh air, and a good cup of coffee and I'm freakin' unstoppable in the most chill way.

I succumb. I will forevermore be glued together by estrogen patches, handfuls of daily supplements, text messages from my children, the love and loyalty of a number of wonderful women friends, and my integrity. Maybe romantic love will come back in my life, but only if it doesn’t disrupt my sleep.