My dad loved Norman Rockwell. In fact, Mr. Rockwell was probably the only artist he could name.
Was it Rockwell’s images of those perfect families trooping off to church or sharing a perfect dinner that did it?
Or was it simply the social notion that it was important everything ‘looked nice’ and it was really no one’s business about how things were in our home? Whatever it was, more than once I can recall my father coaching my mother before church, “You don’t have to tell anyone anything. Just say things are fine.”
I think that it was also very much a Mennonite thing. Silence on all things was best. Do not create conflict. Do not rock the boat. Do not stir the pot. Keep it to yourself. Pray.
Besides, we were to be a light unto the world. We were to be an example of upright living. We were the chosen ones.
This little light of mine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine…
Unfortunately for my dad, his daughters didn’t always comply with his vision and his wife suffered from anxiety and depression and, in spite of his admonitions, kept screwing up. Tears sliding down her face as she stood on the steps of the church, telling another friend to please pray for Rhonda. As I grew older, it would be my name Mom added to the telephone prayer chain.
Later, when Dad had his first nervous breakdown, his optimistic facade that had served him for so long, fell like a verboten deck of cards.
Like so many women of her day, my mother was helped along with a little blue pill called Valium. I remember her telling me that the doctor prescribed it for her constant back pain. I’m sure it helped, but now I wonder, was that really what the doctor told her? Was it really what she believed? Was it really what the doctor believed? Or did he recognize her years of constant crying as something deeper?
I do know that my mother had great faith in all the men in authority in her life, most especially preachers and doctors. When she was diagnosed with cancer at age 63, her doctor told her she had two months to live. She died exactly two months later.
As you do.
My father, who took pride in rarely taking even Aspirin, eventually was on handfuls of medications, including Effexor and other anti-depressants and anti-anxiety pills. And I have no idea what cocktail of prescription and other drugs Rhonda continues to ingest, but it has always been a rather exhaustive list.
Two weeks ago I went to my doctor to talk about my continual hot flashes. Ten years of this seemed like long enough. He told me I had a couple of options; HRT or a low dose of…drum roll, please…Effexor. I couldn’t quite believe it.
Given our Friesen genetic predisposition to broken hearts disguised as heart disease, and Mom’s side of wonky cancer-prone DNA, I was sure that HRT was not for me.
Ironically, that left Effexor.
I told him my fears of becoming like my mother and her Valium addiction (I didn’t tell him that my mother’s nickname had been Lead-Foot Mary for her wondrous ability to blast up and down the hills of Mission City. Nor did I tell him about the time when I was around fifteen when I looked up from the passenger seat to notice my mother was driving full-speed in the wrong side of the Lougheed Highway. My screams swerved us back into our lane).
No worries, he said, this is a very low dose and although we don’t really know why it works, it often seems to do the trick; half a pill for a week, then full dose after that. You might find you have a bit of a headache but it should eventually go away.
After the first day’s half dose, all my hot flashes stopped. Just. Like. That.
But the headaches were real. And every day I felt slightly tipsy, like I’d just had a martini or two. The bottle held a little red warning label cautioning me to “use care when operating a vehicle or vessel…”
Each day I woke feeling hungover, but strangely, a little bit lighter too, like things were slightly funnier than they had been. That was one aspect I liked. But I read up on the other side effects. They were worrying. Still, I worked my way up to the full dose, took it for two days and then, I thought some more about Mom, Rhonda and Dad.
Which is when I decided to break with tradition. I slowly broke the tablets into smaller and smaller pieces until I was no longer taking anything at all.
I’d rather sweat.
I don’t want to suggest that drugs do not provide a very real and necessary help to many. But I don’t think my own personal climate change warrants the same kind of arsenal.
There is part of me that is still hesitant about this kind of sharing. This is all still supposed to be a secret. My dad often referred to any form of disclosure as ‘airing dirty laundry’. But why is sharing stories about our very real struggles as human beings considered to be a bad idea? Isn’t this precisely why we watch all these Netflix series revealing the behind-the-scene true stories about people’s lives? Or why we read books and memoirs divulging all the inner bits about someone’s interior life?
Facebook and other social media has become our new Norman Rockwell-ized version of the world. Instagram feeds are filled with perfectly curated images of young women sucking in their sculpted stomachs while skipping on sunlit beaches, young men looking hipster-heroic perch atop cliff and in glowing tents, while stylized meals glisten and perfect drinks sparkle.
Meanwhile on Facebook, aside from those occasional double-dog dares to share mental health memes, our feeds stream with photos of perfect children and adorable kittens and puppies.
I’m not suggesting we share images of our grieving faces or screaming kids but I am suggesting that we push away from our screens, seek out a friend and talk, really talk, to each other. Hug. Connect.
Share some real time in real life. Perhaps you might even share a secret or two.
Let us embrace our humanity.
But most especially, let us embrace each other, even if that certain someone might feel a little too hot.
Wonderful and powerful post. Thanks for that. I think the hot flashes are part of the process of burning out all of the old unnecessary shit we carry around. I say rip off whatever you can and let ’em burn itself out. Then have a martini.
Mary. That is the coolest (or hottest?) metaphor that I’ve ever seen on this topic. I love imagining that I’m ‘burning out all of the old unnecessary shit’. No wonder I have so many hot flashes!
Good advice…especially about the martini.
Blessings!
Colleen…I blissfully survived my fifties without ANY hot flashes, thanks to a daily pill of GNC Dong Quoi herb. Other brands didn’t work as well, but unfortunately, last time I checked, they no longer carry it. Perhaps you could experiment with the current market brands, and find one that would work for you. Love your sharing. Please pray for this country with a selfish madman at the helm.
MJ xx00
MJ, thanks for the inspiration and the kind words. It’s nice to hear about your experience about a product that worked. Clearly I need to experiment a little. I’ve just been putting up with it as kind of inevitable which, in hindsight, seems a little too fatalistic. Time to get on top of this.
And as for the selfish madman, oh my, it all still feels so surreal. It can NOT be happening and yet it continues to unfold. The world must be on watch and vigilant. And yes, prayers and protest and the constant countering of hate must be our continued plan. Take good care.
I love the photo of Norman Rockwell – the ‘perfect family’ with smiling children faces – you can almost smell the gravy … Everything is perfect in a perfect world. But the reality is far from it, we all want to give others the impression that everything is perfect in our world. I believe that it is good to share our innermost struggles to people who listen to you and are sympathetic. We’re all humans.
Regarding hot flushes, I used to take black Cohosh for a while and it did help but I didn’t suffer too much. Have you thought of trying homeopathy? Perhaps it will help.
Good luck.
Catherine, I think you’re quite right about the aroma of the gravy in that picture. Everyone is scrubbed up and perfect.
But yes, I think we learn more from each other when we’re vulnerable than we’re busily presenting ‘perfection’.
As for Black Cohosh, it certainly seems to be the saviour for many women. I’ll definitely check it out. Thanks for the suggestion.
Wow! I did not know that about your parents. I always thought your Mom was uptight or wound up and critical of us sinners. Do you remember Sunday afternoon visits for “Faspa” (bread or zwiebeck & jam, baking always made fresh on Saturday)? Upon entering, she’d run her finger over window sills or furniture to show our Mom how much we’d missed. Then we’d catch it when you left. Probably why Dad bought a Filter Queen vacuum cleaner — cleanliness was next to Godliness — don’t ya know? As a teenager, I absolutely hated dusting in between the spokes of the chairs or getting down on my hands and knees to make sure every corner was clean, but now it’s ingrained and I can’t do it any other way. Go figure. But your Dad was always smiling and I know he enjoyed playing with us. I doubt we owned a baseball, but I remember playing catch and softball in the field next to the house. Hard to believe he was ever depressed or had a breakdown.
As for hot flashes, this too shall pass. For me, I hate to say, it was coffee or chocolate that sent my arms up in the air — almost instantly. At 72, I can now tolerate one cup of coffee but nothing more if I want to sleep. My doc recommended the Estrogen patch or gel, but I’ve still got the unopened pressurized can in the closet. I was too afraid of the big C. When your estrogen supply diminishes so do your hot flashes, but here’s the kicker: your skin starts to wrinkle and sag … can’t have your cake and eat it too!
Martha, no estrogen cake for me either. Bring on the wrinklage.
I had no idea my mother did that finger check but I don’t doubt the story for one minute. If the floor wasn’t done on your hands and knees, then it wasn’t done right. I know we were the only family on Cherry Street that had to wash the house from the gutters on down, every single year; wooden scrub brushes and buckets of sudsy cleaner. I hated how it trickled down my arm.
One of my favourite Mom stories…I think I was around nineteen and living on my own, when she showed up on my porch one Saturday morning. When I opened the door she thrust a used vacuum cleaner at me and said, “You owe me $40.00.”
I paid.
Apparently that was the period when I still fought my cleaning gene, but, like you, I am now the one who bleaches anything that doesn’t move.
Oh, you just cracked me up with the Mom story! I want to give Christine a Dyson V8 cordless vacuum cleaner as part of her Christmas gift. I know she’d prefer a Roomba — no manual labour involved — but it could get stuck under furniture and wouldn’t get into the corners … okay, I’m slapping myself now.
p.s. – go and kick start that air conditioner in the middle of winter
Ha! What I really need is some sort of instantly changeable environment so I could switch seamlessly from being chilled to feeling like I’m in a tropical heat wave. Though, right now (knock on wood), I am still relatively hot-flash free.
great article colleen. thanks for this.
Thanks Mary Lynne. I really appreciate your comment.
I love your blunt honest writing about life. It is human and real , true and refreshing. It is hard to talk bluntly about real life, especially your own family life. Bravo, I hope it feels as therapeutic as it sounds! As for the “power surges” as I call them, there are several herbal remedies that have good effects for some people. Sage and Vitex ( Chaste berry) are specifically good for the flashing. Go to the health food store, good on ya for skipping the nasty stuff. I am with you, I just stay on the bitchy psycho path drug free! ????
Kathy, thanks for checking in and for your awesome support.
I think I’ll join you on the bitchy psycho path drug free (more commonly known as BPPDF).
I had recently read something about brewing sage tea, so perhaps now that I’ve heard your endorsement, I’ll steep up a bucket of that to start. I’ll definitely check out the chaste berry even though it sounds suspiciously proper, puritanical and, suspiciously, chaste…
Happy to see you are doing it your way, Colleen! You know my scepticism about pharmaceuticals. The evidence is just not there. Keep your rooms cool enough to “hang meat” in them, and the hot flashes will moderate. Kevin will adjust! ????
A fine piece of writing!
Thanks for the wonderful comment Rhonda.
There has been more than one moment when I longed for your icy downstairs guest room. Of course than the heat wave passes and I’m left feeling like a semi-melted Popsicle.
I was definitely impressed with how quickly the drug worked but so not impressed by the cost to the rest of my health. So far, I haven’t heard of anyone spontaneously combusting from hot flashes so I’m thinking, that aside from having to do a lot of laundry, there is no other real health downside to just riding this thing out.
Giddyap!
Colleen, thank you for sharing this! And, I’m secretly glad you ditched the drugs and decided to sweat it out again. It sucks, for sure, but like you, I’m struggling with this very heated topic.
When we talk to each other, and share our stories, it makes it all just a wee bit better. Hot flashers unite! (And by this, I don’t in any way mean the kind of flashers who actually flash… ) Drugs or no drugs, whatever makes the most sense for you is what makes the most sense to do. I applaud you for knowing what that is.
Keep cool, baby!
It certainly is a heated topic eh? There are days when it just rolls on through from one tsunami to the next. I end up going outside with no coat because I can’t begin to fathom placing more on my body and then it ends and I’m outside and freezing…until the next one hits.
You’re right, that it is all so individual. What works for one, has no effect on the next woman and on it goes.
It really was miraculous how quickly this drug worked. Maybe it reset my thermostat? Here’s hoping…
Bravo Colleen!
Blessings Susie!
Yes! I forgo sugar, booze. gluten and whole wheat and no hot flashes. I think Black Cohosh is supposed to help. If I cheat, I wake up at 3 a.m. with a blood sugar dip. And a mild flash lets me know I need to get back on track. I, too, come from a repressed family of pill poppers. Mum had a tacklebox of pharma next to her chair. When mum died, I needed a Mexican market bag to drop off her stash. So hear, hear for full disclosure. Sounds like you have the makings of a memoir project. Great story. I want to read more! That new place must be igniting your Muse.
“A tacklebox of pharma…” I love it.
I’m not sure I’m willing to give up all those things on your list, though, at least you didn’t include coffee. That would have been over the top. Even so, it’s impressive and possibly beyond my abilities or ambition.
It’s all such a strange business, this internal thermostat thing. Crazy.
Thanks for the encouragement on the story. I’ve been noodling around with things and it’s nice to hear your feedback.