Health

Original parts

Final Goodbyes

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

Although how we say goodbye to the dead has evolved and varies from culture to culture, the need is as old as time, as is the belief that there is an afterlife.  Even Neanderthals placed flowers in the hands of the dead before they sealed the bodies in caves 300,000 years ago.  Memories rush in, clouded by love and grief, and although it is past too late, we appreciate them more when they are out of our reach forever.  Honoring the ones we’ve lost cauterizes our wound, and we accept that the ceremony is for us, the living.  It sets us on the path to healing, our cries resembling a release valve on an overflowing well of hurt.  Living there for a few hours reminds us that death is the great equalizer and for a time we hold our living loves closer, sometimes afraid of the randomness of death, oftentimes aware of how brief even a long life is.

The days of public displays of the dead are waning, thank God, replaced by memorial services and “celebrations of life”.  We turn to God, even if it is the only time we do so, for comfort and hope that our loved ones live on.  You may shy away from reading this, grief being among the hardest emotions and certainly one we want to avoid.  It is also common ground for every person that was ever born.  January is to me what April was to T.S. Elliot.  Time dulls the edges, but I hold tight to my deepest grief because it is all I have left of my son.  It is mine and this public declaration is unusual to say the least.  I know death makes people uncomfortable and talk of it is to be avoided, especially when we are years away from a tragedy.  One of the changes I’ve experienced in this decade is that I am becoming increasingly transparent and immune to other’s expectations.

We attended a memorial service last week for Dale, an uncommon character and dear friend of my parents’.  I was moved when the preacher said that Dale loved to tease, or as his wife Sue put it, “agitate”.  It seems more respectful to remember him as he was.  Dale’s agitation came with rewards, however, such as his outlandish stories about inventing the computer, the internet, and a multitude of other modern conveniences.  He was a Navy Seal deep diver (for real) when decompression was unheard of and his heart paid the price.  Only Dale would consider his chainsaw as a remedy for the dozens of  situations he employed it for.  He made us laugh and was an overly generous man.  We received a thank-you card from his wife yesterday that asked us to remember our good times with Dale.  We will.

Winter’s Gifts

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

Typically more than 30 inches of snow has fallen in the Great Lakes by mid-January and most of the  lakes have accumulated enough ice to hold crowds of fishermen and ice hockey leagues.  Usually there are ice bridges on the Great Lakes so snow mobiles can travel to and from the islands.  Normally I am bemoaning the frigid temperatures and tell anyone who will listen that January is really the cruelest month.  But, due to this year’s weirdly mild temps I feel the awe and excitement brought on by our first cumulative snowfall…in January.  It is the epitome of wanting what you cannot have and absence making the heart grow fonder.  I was getting a bit disgusted as I watched the mildew patches in my garden widen every week and the spring bulbs sprouting.  Although we saved a bit on our heating bill and did not have to shovel the driveway, snowmen were absent, holiday lights were not as splendid as when they reflect off the snow, and when I took my nieces to the park across the road during Christmas break they got muddy.  

Snow is caught on every branch and a cotton-like puffy blanket covers our village.  Finally, my garden is tucked in and the ground is freezing.  People are skiing and sledding for the first time this season and the die-hard haters have begun their “I hate winter” chants in the shops and online forums.  This feels familiar and right.  What is the point of having four-wheel drive without an icy, snowy winter?  State funds for dredging have almost dried up, so what is the point of having a boat if the water is too low to put it in?  What is the point of my husband’s ice auger if there isn’t any lake ice to drill through?  The companions to an essential Great Lakes winter have arrived and given me hope, just in the nick of time.  Funny how hope does that.

Goals trounce resolutions

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

The statistics kings, or as I refer to them- “they”, say that we break 65% of new year’s resolutions.  New Year’s resolutions are designed to be broken, which is why I did not make any.  I can experience failure any time I want, sometimes several times within a day, so I’ll be damned if I am going to court it.  I was not always this way.  I spent much of my 20’s and all of my 30’s on one self-help road or another striving to be better.  Better than what?  Better than me.  It took me 43 years to accept my successes, my mistakes, and the whole package that makes up who I am, taking into account how much I have learned and grown.  With my thirst for learning and new experiences why would I not continue to grow ?  I now revel in some of my imperfections, such as a raunchy sense of humor and blunt honesty.  The world does not have a surplus of those two attributes, so I feel I add something worthwhile to the mix, just as you and your imperfections do.

Year-long promises that usually involve abstaining from a desire/addiction or performing acts that we think are good for us but do not really want to do are set-ups for failure.  One slip and I get to feel like I broke a promise to myself.  No thank you.  I prefer denying myself unhealthy habits and working toward my dreams in bite-sized increments so I can savor each daily, weekly, or even hourly victory.  I was the kid that easily made a candy bar last all day because it made for a better day.  I am not going to wait all year to pat myself on the back for going to the gym 3 times this week.  I see the calorie counter on the treadmill and I earned a candy bar or even a dish of ice cream.  This strategy makes it much more likely that I will return to the gym next week.  If I bury myself in a novel in front of the fireplace instead of going to the gym, I do not let myself off the hook for the rest of the year because I failed.  My discipline frequently lags, but not living up to a goal breeds vigilance the next day.

Another reason resolutions fail is because willpower cannot fix every problem.  Trying harder often equates to increasing frustration as I try to fix things out of my control or slap a band-aid on a problem that needs a tourniquet.  If I concentrate on the short-term goals on the branches of my big dream tree, I can appreciate how all things work together.  If I go to the gym I have more energy and sleep better, improving my cognition so that I work smarter.  Also, my jiggly parts are more perky, gaining me extra spousal squeezes and increased confidence, which ultimately leads to a better love life.  When I eat greens and lean protein I feel lighter and not a bit guilty when I indulge my love of chocolate.  I proved this to myself once again over the holidays because there weren’t any Christmas salads, but there were plenty of desserts.  When I write daily I am a happier person (so my husband says), which makes me more successful in my relationships.  When I read literature, non-fiction, or contemporary fiction, it makes me a better writer.  When I perform detailed research on career options I often discover aspects I was previously oblivious to and it motivates me to spend more time writing and constructing a virtual assistant business.  If I volunteer to work with disabled veterans, I feel better about not contributing to my community with a paying job and exposure to veteran perspectives and characters enhance my writing.  If I meditate and journal today the unemployment blues abate somewhat, which makes it easier for me to take action rather than spending the day on the couch unshowered thinking of how unfair this situation is while the TV drones in the background.  It all works together.  I am not the only one thinking this way, as evidenced by an app at iTunes called Resolutions 2012 which deconstructs resolutions into bite-sized, realistic goals that encourage a person to think about what it will take to meet a wide-sweeping resolution like losing 20 pounds or quitting smoking.  I think the best resolution all of us can strive for is doing something nice for someone else every day.  If that took off I would not need to challenge myself with meditation as often, but wishing for something hardly ever makes it so.

The American lives even more for his goals, for the future, than the European. Life for him is always becoming, never being. 
-Albert Einstein

New Traditions for a New Year

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

This year I felt enhancements to our New Year traditions were in order.  Our ritualistic purging is commonplace; out with the old dust bunnies and unworn clothing, make room for the new year’s new dirt, new ideas, and new fashion.  2011 was anything but commonplace in the Schultz household, and I have a strong feeling that 2012 will be chocked full of more surprising, yet positive, change.  While I did not want to give up our tried and true merrymaking recipe,  I did want to add more symbolism to the mix following a more dramatic purging than in past years.

Every time I clean out the closets I spy my wedding dress languishing in plastic and think what a waste it is to have such an exquisite gown that I just cannot bring myself to use as a  zombie bride costume.  Our daughter married in 2011, giving us a new appreciation for the cost of a wedding.  So, this year my dress is in the donation pile hoping to be worn again by a happy bride on a budget.

Not purposely, I purged my job, and more importantly my paycheck in 2011.  I naïvely asserted my rights under the American with Disabilities Act, urged onward by the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission who assured me that it really was the right thing to do.  Not the practical thing, but the right thing.  I think some of the dressy items I wore to work will be appreciated by a woman who does not have associated bad memories attached to these blouses and jackets.  My next job is still unknown, but surely it will require a new-to-me wardrobe.  In the meantime, I received comfy clothing for Christmas that better fits my current writing persona and requires the space taken by old items reserved for annual events I will no longer attend.  Out with old, out with the old, this year’s purging may take a couple of weeks.

After cleaning and organizing much of our nest, I turned to my right-hand-man (Google) for symbolic new year traditions practiced around the world.  There is a Scottish custom called “first-footing” whereby after the stroke of midnight a young, handsome, dark-haired man brings coal, money, bread, salt, and whiskey to your door for good luck, wealth, and good cheer.  We could not adopt this tradition because good-looking dark-headed gentlemen are hard to find, while blondes and red-heads are plentiful around here, but are considered bad luck in this Scottish tradition.  As the only handsome dark-haired guy in the neighborhood, I couldn’t have my husband visiting our neighbors all evening giving away our whiskey.  The Ecuadorian tradition of burning things that you do not want in the new year sounded more promising as long as we subtracted jumping over the fire and courting an emergency room visit.  I put out the call to my Mom to print pictures of unwanted 2011 ideals and absurdities.  Throwing joblessness, disease, food lines, and fat cats in the fire pit was as cathartic and celebratory as I hoped.  If we do not wrestle with those problems in 2012 it will be even better.  A new year is a time for new hopes.  In that spirit, I alerted my family and friends to the South American tradition of wearing brightly colored underwear for good luck; red for love, and yellow for money.  Everyone agreed that if they could not find red and yellow underwear they would settle for yellow, perhaps because we are already blessed with love and those that are single figure they can easily find romance once they have loads of dough.  I anticipate how lovely it will be when all of us receive a windfall in 2012 and will let you know when the cash starts rolling in so you too, can wear yellow underwear next year.

Our older traditions of drinking, feasting, and kissing excessively were still loyally held to, a sign that not all old things need to be purged, perhaps just embellished a bit.  I hope that your 2012 is filled with new possibilities and stripped of the 2011 things you no longer want or need.  Happy New Year!

Power on a chain

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

I instantly wanted my own pistol necklace when I spied Whitney Cummings’ version on TV.  My husband, amused by my Christmas wish, warned me that I would not always want a pistol necklace, meaning that I would not always feel a deep need for justice like I do today. But, the necklace is not a symbol of justice or vengeance, but one of power.  If you have ever felt the frustrating impotence of victimization I highly recommend target shooting.  It is cathartic to load, aim, and shoot a gun, more so when I hit the intended target.  Just so we are clear here: I am not referring to a psychotic break during which I shoot people who have done me wrong.  The calculated process involved in successfully hitting my target requires concentration and discipline, attributes that madmen typically lack.  My mind cannot be sullied with bastards and bitches while focusing on my stance, breathing, grip, sighting alignment, and follow-through.  The experience is all about me and I do not think of anything else while shooting.

To my delight I received a pistol pendant necklace, a sure sign that I was on the nice list despite opposing opinions and that my husband supports me even when he thinks I am a bit crazy.  The pistol pendant symbolizes my approach to 2012.  I began taking a beta-blocker to calm those pesky tremors I had since I was twelve, finally accepting that impressions form other’s reactions to me and my tremor was similar to blood in the water for sharks.  My aim has improved, along with my blood pressure.  Back to the bastards and bitches now; in order to hit my target I must focus on aligning the sights rather than the looking at the target.  What is my goal/bull’s-eye?  If I focus on the bastards and bitches rather than bull’s-eye justice, my accuracy will suffer, not to mention my mood.  Good shooting is firmly methodical rather than knee-jerk emotional and not to be rushed.  My pistol pendant symbolizes a disciplined approach and personal power, but the look of confusion on people’s faces when they notice it will be wildly entertaining, too.  I may not wear it to job interviews, though.

40-Something Silver Linings

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

Recent silver lining searches have been tough, which for me means that it is more important than ever to ferret out positive bits in order to not be overwhelmed by uncontrollable change.  During my latest attempt to shift my attitude toward gratitude it occurred to me that the existence of more clouds equal more silver linings for discovery and focus as this crazy world increases its attempt to spin me off.  Digging through unrealistic cultural expectations and layers of personal emotions I finally unearthed these tidbits:

  • The older I get the better I am at trivia, especially ancient history (1960-1990 trivia).  My daughter has never even heard of the Double-Mint twins.
  • Since I now frequent pubs rather than dance clubs, I no longer have to buy sexy club clothing and can drink a pint in the comfort of jeans and a warm sweater.
  • Sex is better than ever because my husband and I have been together for a long time so we know every erogenous nook and cranny.  For me the most effective aphrodisiac is the intimacy and trust we share.
  • I do not have any credit card debt after learning the lessons of spending tomorrow’s money in my 20’s and 30’s.  I accept that I lack discipline in this area and choose to not tempt fate by adopting a cash-only policy.
  • I am a better cook due to years of culinary missteps.
  • My spiritual life is richer and more satisfying than ever because I do not allow myself to be confused by other’s beliefs, opinions, or hypocritical behaviors.  My relationship with God is as personal and exclusive as my marriage.
  • My pharmacist knows me by name.
  • I travel the well-worn path of foot-to-mouth less frequently and hurt people less often with sarcasm and dry wit.
  • As a remedy for dry hair my stylist advised that I wash my hair less frequently, so I spend less on shampoo washing my hair every other day, which is good because I spend more on lotions.
  • I am not objectified by men often and on those rare occasions that I am, I do not feel an ounce of indignation.
  • My slower pace means I do not sport the bruises so prevalent in my younger years.
  • A cold toilet seat feels heavenly during a hot flash.
  • I get what I need more often because I ask for it.
  • I have no qualms about wearing sweatpants during long car rides, which means my underwear do not become uncomfortably wedged.

They may seem like silly little things to be happy about, but I am willing to take even tiny bits of cheer to offset the inevitable reality of getting older.  Try making your own list and see what a difference it makes in your mood.  It should at least be good for a laugh.

Another day, another doctor

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

As diverse as Christmas cookies and pills, doctors come in all shapes, sizes, and specialties.  Dr. P. is my chocolate chip cookie, my stand-by-your-woman constant family doctor for almost 20 years.  He owns his practice (almost unheard of today), has a common-sense approach, doles out prescription drugs only when essential (downside there), and teaches me about my health because he knows I like to be involved.  Unassuming and humble, Dr. P. tells me that the most important part of his job is knowing what he does not know.  I worked with both fledgling and veteran physicians over the past ten years and can attest that he is rare.  The few that entertain the concept that their knowledge of the universe is incomplete are better doctors.

The fifth decade has graced me with a need for specialized medicine doled out by special doctors who are experts in their fields.  I have admiration and respect for doctors who sacrifice a dozen years or more to learn their craft and sympathize with the bureaucracy which hinders their ability to give quality patient care, but I do wish I could simply go to Dr. P. for everything.  It is difficult to have an exchange or establish rapport with a specialist because he or she does not typically know what they do not know, such as how I feel about risk/benefit analysis.  They do not know, nor believe, that I have never had an illness that presented classically, which would make their diagnosis something I could have done myself with Web MD’s assistance.  Is it a side-effect of getting older to have less faith in doctors now than in my younger years?  Perhaps it is simply a realization that they really are practicing medicine, and on me.  In the age of cost-effective health care, residing outside of the statistical majority is to a patient’s disadvantage.  Popularity contests have never gone well for me and in proper order I seem to have been taking a medication for the past three years that is effective for only 15% of patients.  So the new specialist would like me to use a better medication, a chemotherapy drug that will give me the side effects you think of when you hear “chemotherapy”.  He even gave me a nifty decision-making brochure chocked full of fun statistics and possible life-threatening side effects that increase in likelihood over time.  He involved me in the decision and told me that patients who feel like they have some control over their treatment usually have better outcomes.  I hope he keeps that positive attitude when I deliver my decision in a few weeks.  I need this guy on my side.

In the meantime I’ll tell Dr. P. about it tomorrow when I see him to discuss hormones and this ever-widening spot on my back.  He spends about a half hour with each patient even though he only allows twenty minutes in the schedule.  I have waited for over an hour too many times to count, but it doesn’t irritate me because I always get my turn.  Tomorrow I have his second appointment of the day.  So exciting!

Chasing Z’s

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

Sleep is an elusive and unpredictable bitch that switches up the timing of her escape between very late at night and much too early in the morning.  She requires that I court her all day long in order to gain a slim possibility of a rare eight-hour stretch that will leave me feeling like I won the lottery.  At least once a week I see or hear the sleep courtship rules that we have all memorized by now.  The advice to not drink caffeine or exercise late in the evening is like receiving instructions on how to tie my shoes at this point.  The only reason I continue to tune in is my hope for a new fix, just as I continue to read money-saving articles in hopes of something other than the advice to skip $5 lattes.  Note Starbucks’ success and the public’s tendency to follow that advice.

The number of adults that report trouble falling and staying asleep is on the rise, with approximately 17% reporting severe insomnia.  Ironically, as we become increasingly stimulated we are getting less rest.  The primary cause, however, is that the hypothalamus gland begins decreasing production of the human growth hormone associated with deep sleep in one’s early 30’s.  Peak production in the teenage years was responsible for those dreamy days of sleeping well into the afternoon (sigh).  I wonder if it is our body’s way of telling us that the older we get the less time we have to waste.I would love to wage an argument, but have learned that my body does not alter its’ course no matter how valid my debate is. A new study states that 80% of women report feeling too stressed or worried to fall asleep and 30% are now taking sleep aids.  According to IMS Health, a pharmaceutical intelligence agency, nearly double the number of women aged 40 to 59 were prescribed sleep medications than men in the same age group.  Perhaps this “intelligence agency” is somehow sabotaging our hypothalamus so that women do not take over the world…probably not, but that term makes me paranoid nonetheless.  The most prescribed sleep aid is Ambien.  I took Ambien for a year and it was very effective; knocked me out within 5 minutes.  The only side effect I experienced was sleep walking and eating snacks.  Potato chips were my sleep eating choice, but because I loved the deep Ambien slumber I ignored the chip evidence until I was busted.  During a visit my daughter and son-in-law witnessed me walk to the cabinet, grab the chips, and munch away on the couch with my eyes closed.  Of course they were laughing and asking me questions, but it seems my sleeping self was very focused on the chips.  Lucky for all of us, I had heard about the possibility of sleep walking, eating, and even driving, and always slept in pajamas.  I became afraid of what else I may be doing while asleep and night sweats began to make pajamas unbearable, so I weaned myself off Ambien with the help of Benadryl.  My doctor preferred that I try Trazadone over the Benadryl and although it is not nearly as effective as Ambien, it does make me drowsy enough to fall asleep by midnight most nights.  D.H. Lawrence expertly and lovingly described a night-long sleep:  And if tonight my soul may find her peace in sleep, and sink in good oblivion, and in the morning wake like a new-opened flower then I have been dipped again in God, and new-created.  Good night.

Forget about it

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

Coupled with my Monet-like vision, my hit-and-miss memory makes finding my glasses a frustratingly blind scavenger hunt.  I have adjusted to allow for memory lapses because that is what we humans do.  We work with what we have.  So, I have a designated finder pair of glasses that reside on my dresser.  Sometimes I just have to wear the finder pair if I left my others in an especially well-hidden spot.  In perimenopause an addled thought process is sometimes what we have to work with as waxing and waning estrogen levels that are essential to neurotransmitter and oxygen levels in the brain fluctuate.  Some days I am sharp and can remember and carry out a multitude of detailed tasks that leave me feeling damn good about myself and rather smart.  Other days I am scattered, have to wear my finder glasses, and return to the grocery store for the detergent that I left in the cart.  Adding to my brain drain is the shame of not being on top of my game which is stress-producing for my Wonder Woman alter ego.  Stress, or the inevitable cortisol dump that accompanies it, actually shuts down learning and negatively affects the hippocampus, the memory center.

When my Grandma began showing signs of dementia a couple of years before she died I researched what we could do to make her life less frustrating.  I never thought I would soon employ some of those strategies in order to fake out Wonder Woman fans.  I also use the strategies I learned when placed under increasing pressure to do more and more at work, a common theme in today’s workplace.  I completed a Franklin Covey course titled “FOCUS, Achieving Your Highest Priorities” that seemed tailor-made for my planning/controlling nature.  There is truth to the adage that writing something down gives it POWER and planning requires writing it down.  Working in medical education I became addicted to studies.  Prove it to me; give me some stats or metrics.  Smooth Operators no longer hold sway here in the 5th decade.  So naturally I believe the hundreds of studies that show that multitasking is an inefficient illusion which makes for costly and time-consuming mistakes.  We all know someone who moves at break-neck speed and radiates anxiety, but is not very effective.  I am the friend that has no problem saying, “slow the hell down and identify what is crucial for you to accomplish today”.  The downside is that people get pissed when they are running around while I am calmly asking for identification of priorities.  My satisfaction is that I never spent an hour hunting for pencils the morning of a national inservice exam.  Wonder Woman always keeps her pencils in the same spot because it is a stupid thing to spend time on.  “A place for everything and everything in its place” may seem contradictory for a creative person, but if I spent my time hunting for tools I would have little time to create.

Here are a few other strategies that maximize my unreliable memory and help me focus:

  • Identify the most important goals for a month and work backwards in weekly, and then daily increments and make to-do lists.  Do not forget relationships on these lists.  Just don’t let your husband see that you penciled him in on Wednesday evening.
  • If something unexpected comes up (and when doesn’t it), think about what day’s list it can go on.  Someone freaking out does not necessarily mean it becomes your priority.  Sick kids trump everything, though.  Don’t sweat it.  Rework your lists and try to delegate where possible.
  • Never go to the grocery store without a list that was generated from a menu.  Poll the family while you are making the grocery list and only go off the list if it involves chocolate.
  • Pay with cash.  Not only will you spend less, but you do not have to keep track of several debits, just one withdrawal.
  • Do one thing at a time.  A person who works sequentially is 50% more productive and makes 50% fewer mistakes.  Time is a commodity!
  • Take a five-minute break once per hour to stretch, move about, or talk to someone you like.  Movement sends more oxygen to the brain and restarts the recall center.  You get a good feeling when interacting with someone you like because the brain is dumping those enjoyable hormones like serotonin and dopamine.

Interestingly, Our Bodies Ourselves, the book that granted us the power of knowing where our clitoris resides, just celebrated its 40th anniversary.  This monumental book granted women permission to discuss the taboo subjects of our sexuality by giving us the power of knowledge.  While young women today are prepared for menstruation and openly discuss sex and birth control with their mothers, we still have a long way to go on ridding ourselves of the taboo associated with mid-life female changes.  We have seen the effect of open dialogue and being able to call a vagina a vagina.  In that vein, I welcome you to share some of your strategies for adjusting or minimizing the changes before and during menopause.  If you find yourself trying to put it in what you think of as acceptable terms, just say out loud, “clitoris, vagina, penis, orgasm”.

Night sweating the bed

Posted on by K.S. Schultz

Jolting awake in the middle of the night sopping wet and chilled is an uncomfortably shameful situation that I thought was buried in my childhood.  I stopped peeing in the bed when I was six, so what the hell was this all about?  The hormonal changes during the fifth decade often cause flashbacks to my childhood, with night sweats at the top of the retro playlist.  Initially I was confused, not attributing my drenched t-shirts, pillows, and sheets to hot flashes because I was not hot, but wet and cold when I awoke.  The same friend that taught me how to use a
tampon 3 decades ago filled me in on the hot flashes that are termed “night sweats”, and occur when I am asleep.  I would be a bumbling idiot of a woman if not for my girlfriends and my Mom.

I did not make a doctor’s appointment to discuss this new development due to totally illogical embarrassment, perhaps a leftover from my peeing in the bed years.  I felt lucky that I was not “flashing” during the day, a perfect term for turning as red as a tomato and pouring sweat in front of witnesses that do not love you.  You may as well be wearing a sign that says, “Menopause, or close to it.  BEWARE!!!” in flashing
lights.  If I begin to have hot flashes that are anything like night sweats I will need to secure a towel to my belt so as not to leave a trail.  The closest I came to needing a towel was at a national conference where I was speaking.  Anxiety was clearly a trigger, and luckily I could run up to my room to change shirts periodically.  I woke every night that week cursing the luxurious down comforter that had lulled me to sleep.  Those few nights were the only times I woke up on fire because the flashes were prolonged.
When estrogen decreases, the hypothalamus steps up production of norepinephrine, a stress hormone that acts directly on the thermo-regulatory center of the brain.  Studies have shown that internal stress, an individual’s perception of life, and external stress
such as overwork and insufficient sleep, exacerbate hot flashes.

The altering effect of meditative relaxation and physical exercise on brain chemistry becomes more essential the further I journey into the 5th decade.  Between the mindfulness exercises that I learned at Mary Free Bed Pain Center and Belleruth Naparstek’s guided imagery exercises I can boost my DHEA (dehydroepiandrosterone) level and counter the increase of stress hormones.  I have focused on stress reduction techniques because anxiety is my most influential trigger for perimenopause symptoms.  The adrenal glands produce DHEA which can be promoted by “learning to think with your heart.”  It is similar to redirecting a toddler’s focus when they want something they cannot have.  Through practice I have learned to acknowledge what I feel anxious about, whether I have any control over the situation (usually not, hence the anxiety), and then refocus on something good in my life such as my family or a good memory.  It seems to put my life in a more balanced perspective and typically reminds me of what I deem important and what I do not.  One of the rewards of this practice is
witnessing the frustration of someone who is deliberately trying to provoke a stress response; it sort of freaks them out.  But, reduced night sweats and serenity must fall under the “living well” category in the common quote about revenge and are even better payoffs.  Other strategies to alleviate night sweats that have worked for me are: avoiding coffee after Noon, reducing alcohol consumption (drunk = guaranteed night sweats), eating fresh food and protein, and getting eight hours of sleep.  Interestingly, fasting and cleansing programs can weaken your adrenal system, which lowers hormone production.

I have discussed my night sweats and other perimenopause symptoms with my doctor who has offered to test  my hormone levels after I attempt to boost production with lifestyle changes.  He assures me that women today do not have to endure this decade in misery, and that in itself changes negative feelings that are woven into my understanding of hormonal changes during this time of life.  By paying attention (mindfullness) to what I consume and how I think I can lessen the impact of decreasing hormones, but it is comforting to know that my doc has a backup plan.  And comfort is the key.