My Journey: Surviving Perimenopause with Ice Packs, Eye Rolls, and a Sense of Humor

So here I am — the youngest of three girls.

You’d think that meant everyone else got to experience life’s milestones before me, right? You know — built-in life manuals from my sisters like “Don’t do that, it hurts” or “Try this, it works.”

Well… wrong. Dead wrong.

I’m currently a ripe age of 46 or 47 — honestly, I can’t remember, and I try not to. I like to think of it as “somewhere between youthful denial and early bird specials.”

I’m a pediatric long-term care nurse, which means my days are full of love, laughter, and feeding pump alarms that go off more than my iPhone. But when it comes to my own body? Let’s just say it’s been a wild, unsupervised clinical trial.

When Science Wasn’t Exactly Science Yet

When I was young, getting pregnant was the easy part — staying pregnant, not so much.

I could never carry a baby full term, and at that age, I didn’t know why. Back then, science wasn’t what it is today — and honestly, when you’re under eighteen, you’re not exactly out there demanding answers. You just keep going, hoping life knows what it’s doing.

So I learned about birth control — the shot, specifically. My trusty sidekick for years. Then one day, the news started warning everyone that you shouldn’t stay on it too long.

Cute. That message came about four years too late for me.

Then came the big plot twist: cervical cancer.

My doctor actually said, “That’s strange — you’ve got the kind of cancer older women get.”

I was twenty-three. Fantastic. Nothing like being told your body’s filing for early retirement before you’ve even figured out your 401(k).

He suggested a hysterectomy but paused and asked, “Do you want kids?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” he said, “but I can’t guarantee you’ll be able to have them.”

At twenty-three, I nodded like I understood. I didn’t. I barely understood taxes.

So instead of the full hysterectomy, we decided on a cone biopsy — basically, they remove a cone-shaped section of the cervix to try to get all the abnormal cells. It worked, thankfully, and left me with my uterus and the tiniest glimmer of hope for the future.

Marriage, Infertility, and Hormone Chaos

At twenty-six, I got married and had the talk: “I don’t know if I can have kids.”

Two years later, we started trying. Nothing. So began my adventures in infertility — and by “adventures,” I mean an emotional demolition derby with syringes.

Test after test, hormone injection after hormone injection. Four rounds of IUI, Intrauterine insemination. Nothing.

It’s hard to feel romantic when your schedule revolves around ovulation charts and your mother-in-law keeps asking, “So… any news?”

And those hormone shots? Whew. One minute I was furious at everything, the next I was sobbing because the dishwasher made a weird noise. Sometimes both in the same sixty seconds.

There were dark days — moments when I hated everything, including my own reflection. But eventually, my marriage ended, and so did the pressure. And strangely, that’s when peace started to tiptoe back in.

The Hot Flash Era

Fast forward a few years.

I’m single, happy, working with amazing kids, and my thermostat has become my biggest frenemy.

Everyone else in the unit is bundled up in sweaters, and I’m over here with ice packs tucked into my scrubs. I used to keep my house at a cozy 68 degrees. Now it’s set to 58, and even that feels spicy.

If you ever travel with me, pack layers. Because I’m the one who walks into a hotel room, cranks the AC to “polar vortex,” and sighs, “Ahh… home.”

Perimenopause isn’t subtle. One minute you’re fine, the next your body’s reenacting a volcano documentary. I keep telling people I could save hospitals millions if they’d just hook me up to the HVAC system — I am the heating system.

The Great Cycle Circus

And then there’s my cycle — or as I call it, the menstrual roulette wheel.

Sometimes it’s every two weeks, sometimes 40 or 50 days apart.

I joke that my uterus hears the word “vacation” and yells, “PARTY TIME!”

A few years ago, it decided to make a surprise appearance during a vacation. The gift shop was closed. I had one — one — tampon.

Cue flashbacks to high school emergency toilet-paper origami.

I actually considered asking random strangers, but there’s only so many ways you can approach someone with, “Hey, by any chance…?”

Eventually, the shop opened, but let’s just say that trip had more drama than a season of The Bachelor: Hormone Edition.

Finding My Chill — Literally

I’ve survived miscarriages, infertility, cancer, heartbreak, and now perimenopause.

My body’s been through the wringer and somehow still shows up — to work, to love, to laugh, to live.

So yeah, I might be a walking furnace with a side of mood swings, but I’m also proof that you can survive the storm and still crack jokes about it afterward.

If this is the next chapter, I’ll meet it with caffeine, sarcasm, and a well-stocked freezer of ice packs.

Because hormones may be unpredictable, but my sense of humor? Rock solid.

Yours in sweat and solidarity,

Mandy