I’m hormonal as hell.  Menopause sucks scissors.

I’m hot flashing and night sweating and crying and bitching and yelling and blaming and wanting to kill something.

I’m fat and bloated and hot and cold and horny and you better not touch me and then I’m happy and sorry and apologizing and crying and eating all the chocolate and drinking all the beer and wine and crying more.

I want your attention and you better give it to me but you better leave me the hell alone if you know what’s good for you after you give me more chocolate and wine and tell me that I don’t look fat and that’s an order.

I love you all.

He came to the nurse’s desk and demanded to know, “How many people have put their fingers on my clothes since I came to the hospital?!  Cops, doctors, nurses…I demand an answer!”

Disheveled and unkempt, hair cut in an unusual fashion and sporting a strong body odor, Bradley Coffey did his delusional best to get the attention of the nurses on Sunday morning.

“Brad, we’re washing your clothes for you.  They were soaked and growing mold.  We’ll give back whatever you can have after they’re dry,” I informed him.

“They’re my special uniform!” he bellowed.  He now had the attention of a combination of about eight other patients and staff members.  “The Legion demands that no one touch the uniform!!  They’re special to me!  I paid for them with money I actually earned!”

From the report we heard about him from his admission on the previous night shift, and the condition of his belongings, it was obvious that he’d been off of his meds and living on the streets for some time.  The clothes were all he could relate to that he knew were absolutely his, and gave him some small measure of control.  They helped to feed into his delusion of his own importance as a ranking official in some imaginary military.  He’d already approached us several times in the previous hour with requests regarding his clothes.  His behavior had escalated enough that the secretary knew to immediately call security and we locked the outside doors to the nurse’s station.  He wasn’t my patient, but his nurse wasn’t around when this started, so we did what we do up there when that happens; we take over in their absence.

I asked, “Brad, do you want some medicine to help you settle down?”  He was less than enthusiastic about my offer.  I then offered him a choice between taking pills or getting a shot.  His resounding F*BOMB!! echoed off of the walls and gave me, and the floors both above below us, the answer I needed.  I went into the med room to draw up the injections.  I opted to use two of them together, as I know deep psychosis when I see it, and this guy was a powder keg.  The more meds, the merrier.

Security arrived and tried to deescalate Brad, verbally.  I knew it wasn’t going to work, because he was so sick and focused on his tiny bit of control that they were going to set him off even worse by trying to reason with him.  Since I was his current target, due to the fact that I was holding two syringes, I kept telling the guards that his argument was over.  Take him to his room.  Go to 264.  Now.  They kept trying to talk him down and he started edging ever-closer to me around the nurse’s station. I kept backing a few more feet away, every twenty seconds or so.  I got firm with Security and directed them to do it now. I’m a veteran up there.  I knew this situation wasn’t going to get any prettier, but it had the potential to get even worse.

As they started moving him to his room, Brad pivoted around, saluted, clicked his heels, and in front of the entire nurse’s station and several patients, declared, “I am Major Benjamin Forthnicker and my serial number is 8736595!  You can only inject me if you outrank me!”  At this point, our secretary blurted out, “She’s a general.”  Bradley then spewed many epithets at me and my “generalness” as he turned and went to his room, followed by security, three other nurses and myself, armed with syringes and alcohol swabs.

He got the injections, but not without much spewing of venom, a bit of wrestling and more than a few threats on myself.  I gave him a time-out, (Yes, we actually use time-outs on adults up there.) but he remained challenging with security, long after I left the room.  They hung around until the meds started kicking in, then left.  He slept for the rest of the shift.  That always makes me happy, because I know that the meds are working and he’s getting some relief.  (Not to mention that I know I won’t get my ass kicked.)

The situation was deescalated before his nurse got back from dealing with her other patient.  I was given the name of “General” for a minute, until I informed them that I needed to be sure no one ever out-ranked me again on the unit, for safety’s sake.

I’m now known as the General Admiral CEO Diva of the psych unit.  The delusions of the mentally unstable ain’t got nothin’ on me!

Bite me.  Now, there’s a phrase for you.  A lot of people say it.  It’s usually said as a way to tell someone to “go to hell” or some such commentary.  I’m very fond of saying it, myself.  I’ve often wondered why I use it, because it seems I am obviously asking for harm to befall me.  Last night’s menopausically challenged sleep cycle left me with a few hours to contemplate my navel, the meaning of life and the phrase “bite me”.

I imagined myself to be the recipient of this offer, rather than the giver.  I pictured someone I potentially didn’t like telling me to do this.  I tried to imagine going up to said person and chomping down on their arm.  I couldn’t do it.  The thought of putting my mouth on any part of a person I hated wasn’t going to happen.  I then realized the phrase could be used as a challenge.

Next, I imagined the most innocuous biter I could think of: the mosquito.  I pictured a mosquito landing on my arm and dipping into the lusciousness of me and what would then happen to it.  Of course, I smashed the little bastard to death and flicked his flattened ass to the gutter.

But that wasn’t enough.  I let my imagination go to another level.  I pictured someone I didn’t like, say, my boss.  I imagined her doing any number of the things that she does to annoy me, and me giving her my standard response to “bite me”.  I then saw her lunge forward and sink her teeth into my arm.  That’s when I imagined punching the living hell out of the side of her head.  I’m pretty sure one punch would be all it would take to make her let go, too.  So, there we have the challenge, again.  Go ahead.  Bite me and give me a reason to finally knock you senseless, you ignorant bitch.

I then took the imaginary biting to the next level.  Let’s say I offered this challenge to a Doberman.  Of course, if I was dumb enough to offer myself to this dog to begin with, I would have a weapon nearby.  Since this is my imagination, I can have any weapon I want.  While there was some joy in picturing a .357 Magnum in my hand at the appropriate moment, I felt I would get more satisfaction out of a steel shovel.  So, the dog has angered me to the point where I offer the challenge.  “Bite me,” I encourage.  It goes for my leg and begins a vicious assault.  I grab my shovel and begin to beat it into oblivion.  When it has let go, I continue to beat it, just because it really pissed me off and I can.

So, what I have deduced is that when one tells someone to bite them, it’s like a double dog dare.  The phrase has taken on new meaning for me.  I’m going to enjoy using it even more.

So, come on.  Bite me.

(Disclaimer:  The above mentioned Doberman is an imaginary dog.  An imaginary and vicious dog.  Possibly rabid.  Definitely an ugly dog before I ever had anything to do with it.  It probably has cooties, too.  Please don’t call the ASPCA on me.  I really love dogs.  I have a dog.  Really.)

I made a quick (OK, maybe not so quick) stop at Kohl’s today.  I needed more fat girls’ clothes and a few decorative odds and ends.

I went to the check out, where the adorably cute little cashier asked me, “Are you eligible for today’s senior citizen special?”  I stopped cold and dead in my tracks.  No one has ever asked me that before.  In fact, before I gained this blasted weight, no one could ever believe I was as old as I am.  I asked her how old one had to be to qualify (hey…it’s a discount, right?), and she admitted she didn’t know.  I was fairly certain that fifty-three wouldn’t qualify and let it slide at that.

I fretted this fact on the twenty minute drive home.  It was like the first time someone addressed you as “ma’am”.  The first time you were the only one in your party to not get carded or when the neighborhood kids start calling you Mrs. T.  No, that was my mother, not me.

I pulled into the local drug store to pick up bottled water, toilet bowl cleaner and tampons.  Yes, tampons.  The Goddess of Menopause still taunts me with her teasing ways.  “Hey!  You’re over it!  No period in four months!  You know it’s gone!” Then she hits me with a two week bleed.  Then, it’s “I promise, no more monthlies!” And I get slammed again.  Granted, the slams these days are much less than the bleeds of younger years, yet they’re here and annoying as hell.

So, I bought my first box of tampons in the past year, and while I was standing in the check out line paying for what I fervently hoped would be my last purchase of tampons in my life, I thought of being offered my very first senior citizen special on the very same day.

Too young for the discount and not quite old enough to be rid of the plague.  Just shoot me

Exercise.  There’s a word I abhor.

When I think of that word, I’m instantly transported back to the most heinous of my life’s experiences…junior high and high school gym class.

I have vivid memories of bright red, one piece gym suits.  The elasticized waist and balloony butt did nothing to enhance my already chubby figure.  My self-esteem took other major hits when I was always the last one picked for the teams.  Any ball kicked, hit or thrown into my vicinity was sure to be missed; perhaps even ducked from.  It didn’t matter what sport we were about to learn, I knew I couldn’t do more than the mandatory participation accompanied by routine embarrassment.  Hence, the word ‘exercise’ has taken on a life-long connotation of distaste for me.

Don’t get me wrong.  I understand the value of exercise.  I know it’s important for my health.  I love the endorphin buzz and feel much better about myself when I exercise.  I love to take walks along the beach here and bike rides down the pier.  I just hate the word.  When I think of taking a walk to get some exercise, I’ll often sit my butt back down in a chair.

Knowing that I’m not alone in the damage that my school phys ed experiences left me with, I’d like to propose a movement to change the word ‘exercise’ to something that doesn’t have negative vibes for so much of the population; something that most of us find pleasant.

I’d thought of sex, but there are some amongst us who would prefer not to have to experience that again and have also had some bad experiences in that area.

I’d thought of flowers, but those with allergies might find that word causes them some distress.

After pondering this battle of semantics for awhile, I finally decided on a word that makes most of us smile; a word that brings happiness to young children.  A word that, on its’ own, can make you giggle.

Pudding.

Yes, that’s right.  Pudding.  While I’m sure that there is someone in the world that has had negative pudding experiences, I think the majority of us will agree that most of our pudding memories are happy ones.

That being said, I’m going to go for a walk on the beach now and get some pudding.

My latest adventure in taking my octogenarian parents out included a trip to Sam’s Club, among several other stops.

After trip to the doctor for Mom, we stopped back at their house to pick up my father and go to lunch. We dined on fine cuisine at Steak ‘n Shake, where they inevitably under tipped the server. (My mother can’t wrap her head around the concept of tipping for service. She thinks that if you eat in a cheap place, you also cheap out on the tip.) As usual, I left the rest of the tip on the table when they went to pay the tab.

Once in the car, the argument about who had the Sam’s Club card ensued. Dad insisted that Mom had taken it from him a few weeks before, and Mom was adamant that he had it. I assured them that I had a card of my own, so if theirs was lost, we could still get in. They argued this point all the way to Sam’s, which was really just a trip across the parking lot. Just as we were pulling into our parking spot, Mom found the card in her wallet. My father exulted in, “I told you so!” as we made our way to the door. Once at the door, the greeter asked to see the card. Mom had already put it away and wanted to know why I hadn’t gotten mine out to show her, instead.

I exchanged a goofy grin with the greeter who could see what was going on, as I quickly pulled my card out and made my way into the inner sanctum of the store. Mom was still in the lobby, looking for their card again. Being more than just a little hard of hearing, I had difficulty getting her attention to get her to realize we had been granted permission to enter. She eventually found her card and came forward, while the greeter and I exchanged more smiles and knowing looks.

We made our way through the aisles and down to the bakery department. Mom wanted cheesecake, but it was too big. Mom wanted baklava, but there were too many in the package. Mom wanted Danish, but they only came in packages of twenty-four. She was getting angry and was loudly complaining about everything being in such large sizes. I had to remind her that we were at Sam’s, and everything at Sam’s came in that size before she stopped being so vocal about her disappointment.

We hit the meat department, and I took the cart and stood off to the side while I waited for her to peruse and reject everything in sight. She picked up a large, poorly wrapped pork roast and called me over to see if I thought it was two roasts together. She turned the package this way and that, while bloody juices dripped all over the floor. She thrust it into my hands to get my opinion before I could point out the poorly wrapped quality and the mess she was making. Luckily, I had a paper towel in my pocket to wipe our hands on.

We proceeded down various other aisles, where she seemed to forget that other people were also shopping. Thankfully, most of them caught the gist of my dilemma and no one ran her over with their cart, nor did they get nasty with her when she walked in front of them and stopped dead in her tracks to compare prices on olive oil. I mouthed silent apologies to many shoppers when she nearly caused a collision, and they were all gracious in their awareness of an elderly lady being taken shopping by her middle-aged daughter.

The check-out line couldn’t come too soon.

I put all of their purchases on the conveyor belt and the cashier rang them up. This is when my mother decided it was time to argue a coupon with this poor gal. It seems that she had gotten a “$10 off all new memberships” coupon in the mail that morning. She thought she should be able to get $10 off because she was renewing her membership. I took this opportunity to go sit at one of the picnic tables behind the registers, once again mouthing silent apologies to a clerk who had a hidden smile, just for me. She had to call the manager to the register to explain to my mother, who continued to argue. The line was growing longer behind her. The manager finally told her that she could claim the coupon, but would have to fill out an application at the front of the store. My mother thought that was ridiculous and too much of a waste of time, so she gave up the idea of the coupon.

Thankfully, we were able to get out of the store at this time. She just wanted to make one more stop at the grocery store on the way home, for a couple of small things she couldn’t get at Sam’s. Dad and I decided to wait in the car for her on this trip. Forty-five minutes later, she emerged with two small bags. She was furious and complaining about some “old lady” in front of her at the express register who wanted the clerk to just take the money out of her bank account, without a debit card, check or credit card to present. The store manager had to get involved and the situation deteriorated.

“Vhat iss vrong viss some people? Dat dumb old vooman! She made effrybuddy vait!”

I think the concept of Karma was lost on Mom.

Nursing chart review. Patient is a 65 year old female, brought to ER after becoming disruptive in workshop at community mental health center. Delusional and screaming about being “injected with climaxes” from staff at mental health center. Sexually preoccupied with manager at workshop. Upon chart review, staff in hospital spent fifteen minutes considering ways of patenting the climax injections and shared dreams of early retirement.

3/21/09 0700-1530

@ 0915

Assumed care of patient. Elaine is demanding and entitled. Has repeatedly put call light on, insisting staff “serve me breakfast in bed!” Limits set with use of call light, explanation of not being on medical floor offered, rules about all patients having to eat in the dining room given. Stubborn and obstinate. Refused breakfast and stated she would starve before she would eat in the dining room. Patient’s breakfast enjoyed by staff.

@0935

Refused morning meds. Stated she would not take them until manager from workshop was there and demanded staff bring him to her immediately. Explanation of visiting hours given. Patient then stated, “My boobs need him before then!”

@ 1045

Elaine came to nurse’s station, demanding her breakfast. Informed that she had missed her opportunity to have breakfast and reminded of rules regarding eating in rooms. Told that she would be offered lunch at 1230 in the dining room. Angrily stomped away from desk, warning staff that if they “don’t do what I tell you to do, I won’t do anything you want me to do, either!” Was overheard by staff to be asking housekeeper for soap. Housekeeper directed to send patient to desk to get her needs met.

@ 1105

Elaine returned to nurse’s station, requesting “some soap that won’t make me horny.” Was given bottle of liquid soap. No complaints of horniness as of this writing.

@1245

Eating lunch in dining room with peers. Complaining loudly about quality of food. Patient was reminded that she was former employee of this hospital in dietary department.

@ 1320

Came to desk with complaint of headache. Offered Motrin 400 mg. Refused, stating she needed Tylenol. Patient informed that Tylenol was not available for her, as she had a Tylenol allergy. Angrily informed staff that they were ‘not authorized to give me a Tylenol allergy!” and that staff needed to review what their practice allowed them to do to a patient.

@ 1440

Elaine came to desk and stated that she needed to use “someone’s cell phone.” Was informed that cell phone use was not allowed on unit and that she could use patient phone located in lounge area behind her. Became angry and stated that she did not use patient phones and we’d better give in to her demands.

@1500

Elaine returned to desk and warned staff that if we didn’t let her use our cell phones, she would, “call you-know-who!” Was informed that it was well within her rights to call whomever she pleased.

@ 1510

Observed to be using patient phone, possibly calling you-know-who.

@1530

Care of patient turned over to next shift

Our return home from our honeymoon was a bit on the hurried side, as we needed to prepare for our nearly immediate return to the daily grind. Kevin downloaded our vacation shots to Kodak, put together a little album and sent the pictures off to various people in a hurry before he left for work on the morning of our first day back.

My daughter called me at work that day and said that her husband had opened this album while he was working and was quite shocked, because there was a topless picture of me in the mix. I assured her that that wasn’t possible, and that her husband must not have seen the shot clearly. I just figured that since he knew we’d had the audacity to go to a clothing optional resort for this trip, he’d imagined he saw something that wasn’t possible.

You see, I tan very, very dark. My race has been questioned on many occasions throughout my life. Stuck in the midst of Jamaica in a place that wouldn’t worry about my tan lines, every inch of my skin soaked up every ray that it could. My skin color was nearing black.

At times, I did don a bathing suit. The sexiest little leopard number that Victoria’s Secret had to offer was worn on the occasional occasion when I wanted to feign being demure. In the dawn of the digital day, I allowed some pictures to be taken of me that would not have to be seen by the toothless, drooling developers at a drug store photo shop. We had a favorite table at one bar that was actually in a pool, and there were pictures of us at this table, both with me wearing the leopard bathing suit and without…much of anything. Even I had found it hard to tell the clothed shot from the topless one without looking closely. I mean, leopard spots can look like…um…other spots…on a body. I was certain that Kevin wouldn’t have made this error, as he was too conscientious and gallant.

When I got home from work, I laughingly told him of the call I’d received and my reaction to it. The look on his face terrified me. The look told me that the news I’d heard was true. He went on to tell me how he’d accidentally included that shot in the album, and how he’d been overwhelmed with email and phone calls all day from people with questions and comments about the inclusion of the questionable picture in our honeymoon album. Apparently, he didn’t know what to do about it until the guy from IS at his hospital said, “Dude. Just go to Kodak and remove the picture from the album.” This is what he did, but not before it had been seen by my son-in-law, daughters, son, parents, new step-daughters, their boyfriends, new sister-in-law, new in-laws, the neighbors, our friends, some of his co-workers…yeah. All of them.

I don’t embarrass easily, but when he gave me the news, I literally fell to my knees in the kitchen, one hand flung over my mouth and the other over my unexposed breast. I remember wanting to crawl under the stove. I was gasping for breath and making unintelligible sounds for the longest time, while he apologized repeatedly and profusely.

Naturally, I was the butt, or the boob, of many jokes from family, friends and neighbors for the next couple of weeks. One man kept insisting that he’d ordered a dozen “Ina coffee cups” from the Kodak website before Kevin had the chance to remove the picture. I just kept staring and glaring at my new husband through all of this ridicule, adding to his ever-growing sense of guilt and shame.

In the end, it was well worth it. It’s given me fodder to hold against him for all of the years since and many to come when I need him to feel guilty.

Not to mention a spectacularly shiny diamond and emerald tennis bracelet. He really apologizes well.

We walk the halls of the Veteran’s Administration with them; we, the daughters of men who served our country. There are some young women with fathers who are obviously of the Viet Nam era, but mostly it’s us older women; the daughters of men who served in World War II.

Gray haired and often struggling with our own ailments, we hold the doors for fathers with canes, walkers and wheelchairs. We put our fathers in chairs in the lobby while we run to the pharmacy, lab, physical therapy and the front desk to make and confirm appointments, pick up medications, update personal information.

We become familiar to each other. The woman in the red blouse seems to come here nearly as often as we do. The woman in the green shoes…I think I heard her father call her Kathy. That one has a new hair cut. That one’s father is in a wheelchair, now. He was walking last month. I turn my head to the side so no one can see my eyes fill. The one with the lyrical laughter doesn’t come here any more. I’m fairly certain I know what has happened to her father, and I look at my own by my side, biting my lip to stop the tears.

The halls resound with our voices:

“Daddy, wait here and I’ll get…”

“Dad, you don’t need to be so rude to this nice man…”

“You’ll have to excuse my father, he doesn’t…”

“Do you need to use the bathroom before we leave, Dad?”

“Hold my arm, Daddy. I’ll get you there.”

We’ve become the parents to our fathers, the parents to our own children and often the parents to our grandchildren. We’re sandwiched and weighted, weary and grateful.

We hold the frail hand of Daddy as we help him try to maintain some dignity and thank God that we’ve had him this long, and that we’re able to be here for him as he takes his last steps, as he was for us, when we took our first.