On May 30th I trundled off rather reluctantly to
the menopause clinic at Queen Charlotte’s hospital. I did this because when I
had my check up three months ago, I told the doctor I had some hot flushes and
insomnia. The symptoms weren’t bad but she referred me, and I thought I’d go as
I am worried about weight gain. Even though I am reducing what I eat, I seem to
be increasingly shaped like a turnip.
I saw a young woman doctor who looked rather like one of
those women in Personnel, girlish some
how whilst being slightly over-dressed with stiletto heels. I noted the sapphire
engagement ring on her finger.
She fired questions at me and I tried to explain that I have
hardly any symptoms now.
She ignored that and recommended HRT.
I was surprised as
I’d always thought women who’d had cancer had to avoid drugs containing
oestrogen. Glancing up briefly from her pad she said they had no evidence that
HRT would cause ovarian cancer to return, but then she admitted they had no
evidence that it didn’t. I said no thank you.
“How’s your sex life?” She asked. I said it’s non existent but I don’t really care. I don’t fancy anyone and no one fancies me.
“That is probably all chemical,” she said.
Perhaps I would get my libido back if I met an interesting
man? I suggested. She flashed me a line of straight pearly teeth and
prescribed a course of testosterone saying “there might be some
increase in body hair but it would be alright.”
I pictured myself, with beard and moustache out on the hunt for men, returning to those
dingy speed-dating venues and trying to find someone honest on line. I pictured
the depression that was sure to follow these adventures.
I questioned this too and she admitted it worked partly with
oestrogen. I said no thanks again and realised she was one of those doctors who are
clever but mad, or perhaps unashamedly working for the drug companies.
“I can see you are a bit sad,” she said. “Frustrated with
the hand life has dealt you.”
There she was, young, full-health, brilliant job, ring on
finger, what could she see when she looked at me, nothing she could really
understand. She went on asking for my medical history. I said that I once had
vaginal warts and saw the look of surprise register briefly in her eyes. She
didn’t think I had ever been that kind of woman, but how could she tell. She thinks I’m sad, does she know anyone who
isn’t at my age. As a matter of fact I am happier than I have ever been before.
I said I was sorry if I came across to her or anyone as sad
and anxious.
“Well, you’ve got a lot to be anxious about” she replied.
There was the doctor’s killer line. I had felt it hanging
in the air above me all through this interview, just waiting to descend and stick
in my head.
She prescribed what she called a “mood enhancer,” and I
certainly needed it by then.
I sat sadly in the pharmacy for an hour and a half waiting for
the happy pills, and got home feeling glum and rather scared.
Perhaps she was right and I do have sad, bitter, regretful
feelings, I am just repressing them. Even if you feel quite happy you might in
fact be suicidal without knowing it until someone tells you.
When I took out the box of pills and read all their contra-indications, such
as, be careful about taking them if you have ever been depressed, had negative
thoughts, had conniptions or felt like kicking anyone, I decided to put them away
in a drawer.
When I was a child I was depressed. As a student I was
on Librium, Valium etc and I do not intend ever to go down the path of
pharmaceutical hopelessness again