Poor Helga Hanson is Dying

I was visiting with my friend, Helga Hanson, the other day when all of a sudden she burst into tears. Of course I became very concerned about her and asked her what in the world her problem was. After sniffing a bit and blowing her nose several times in her hankie she confessed to me that she just knew she was dying and was afraid to go to the doctor for fear that he would agree with her synopsis of her situation and give her just a few months to live. And she couldn’t imagine what her husband, Torvald, would do without her because he doesn’t have a clue how shop for groceries, do the laundry, clean the bathtub or balance the checkbook. She is sure that all his tidy whities will come out pink when he washes them with his red long-handles.

When I asked her what symptoms she had that made her come to this conclusion she gave me a long list of things and ended with the fact that she just knew she was slowly going crazy and losing her mind, let alone that she must have some horrible disease that was eating out her insides.

Her first clue was that frequently she would feel like she had a piece of burning charcoal embedded in her torso that was being fanned by a hurricane force wind to make it burn hotter and hotter. The heat would eventually migrate down her arms and legs and up to her head where her face would turn bright red to the point where it would glow in the dark. Then sweat would start rolling off her forehead and drip down the back of her neck. She had tried various things to cure this dilemma – like sticking her head and upper body into the freezer, stepping barefoot out into the snow in the winter, and putting ice cubes in her bath water. All to no avail – the charcoal ember would burn out when and if it chose to, and not before.

“Oh, Helga,” I said, as I slapped my knee. “You’re just having a hot flash. I get them all the time and use them to my advantage. I turn the thermostat down so I’m more comfortable, which saves on the heating bill in the winter. Poor Ole has to run around with his long-handles on, wear wool socks to keep his feet warm and has been known to sit at the kitchen table with his winter jacket on when he reads the newspaper at night.” Just an aside for those of you who don’t know, long-handles are another name for long underwear with the trap door in the back. Ole’s are red and he’s so cute in them (snicker).

“Oh, no,” she said. “That couldn’t be – I’m definitely not old enough to start that kind of crap.”

So I asked her what other symptoms she was having to make her think she was dying. “Well,” she said, “I think I’m losing my mind. I break into tears at the drop of a hat. All Torvald has to do is look at me and I cry. And then sometimes I get so angry with him just because he EXISTS! Then, to top that off, I can’t remember why I was mad at him in the first place. Then I can’t remember ANYTHING. I get the darndest brain fog you can imagine. I walk into a room and can’t remember why I’m there and sometimes can’t even remember WHERE I am. I’m losing it.”

“Yah,” I said. “That’s totally another symptom. The best thing that Torvald can do is just agree with everything you say and do everything you ask, just to keep the peace for the time. See, you can use that to your advantage too – even if you aren’t having a brain fog or a temper tantrum and there’s something you need to have done – get my drift?”

“Well,” Helga said, “How about the issue of the Depends?”

“WHAT?” I said. “What about Depends?”

“I was so embarrassed the other day when I went to Wal-mart and had to go through the cashier line with a box of Depends in my basket. When I sneeze or laugh real hard I lose it, if you get my meaning? And then there’s the issue of passing gas. Uff da – you know what I mean? It’s so embarrassing. The other Sunday I was in church and I just couldn’t help myself! The poor man sitting behind me had to get up and leave!”

“And the last straw was the day I looked in the mirror and I noticed of all things, not only the signs of a moustache, but I had dark hairs growing on my chin also!” More crying and sobbing into the other end of the telephone. More sniffing and blowing of the nose into the hankie.

“Now, Helga,” I said. “First of all you have to go see your doctor so he can tell you you’re definitely NOT dying, just starting your trip through menopause. These days are a lot different than when your mother went through it – there are things that can make you more comfortable and in many cases get rid of many of the symptoms you’re having. And then you also have to look at the advantages of reaching this point in your life. Remember, I said you could save on your heating bills. And Lord knows that with the prices of heating supplies this winter, that will be a real blessing. You don’t have to go to Wal-mart and by blush for your cheeks anymore because you have a natural glow now. There’s more money saved. And you and Torvald have been married how long now? 33 years? Maybe you’ll get a bit of special attention from that nervous Norwegian husband of yours because those men just don’t understand emotional things, you know. He might even take you out for breakfast after church on Sundays just to keep more of the heat out of the kitchen. And remember all those fancy hankies with the variegated crocheted edges that you received from the Sunday school kids that you taught? Well, now you’ve got an excuse to use them.”

Did you really think the days of pimples and zits ended when you left high school and the night of the prom behind? Well, let me assure you, those ugly little buggers are merely lying patiently, kind of like hungry alligators lurking in the Okefenokee Swamp. How did all this awful stuff happen anyway? Well, for one thing, people live longer than they used to. A hundred years ago a woman would more than likely be dead by the time menopause reared its unattractive, aging head. So consider the alternative, Ladies. Would you rather be six feet under? NOT! I’ll take the lowered thermostat, lack of having to apply blush and all the other “goodies” that go along with menopause. I’ve got too much to do yet in my life to give in now.

Speaking of which, I better get to some of that “too much to do” stuff.