This is your brain on MENOPAUSE
I apologetically shrug as I point to my head. “Sorry, menopause brain.”
Names? Gone. Appointments? Forgotten. Hippocampus? Swiss cheese.
I find myself creating routines because it appears that I am now my own toddler in desperate need of a predictable environment. Sans routine, I come into the kitchen and see our cat Steve go full urban raccoon over an open can of cat food that I abandoned on the counter. (Lola gets 1/2 tsp of wet food twice a day with a crushed thyroid med as a garnish, and Steve gets his own bowl to shut him the fuck up when I give Lola hers.)
After several occasions of discovering a mostly-eaten can on the counter, or floor, or stuck between the fridge and the movable island, I make a change. Now, as soon as I spoon the so-called pâté into bowls, I snap the lid on the can and get that sucker back in the fridge.
I take pride in the fact that I haven’t yet needed a sticky note for that plastic lid that says “COVER ME!” Because if I did that, I suspect that my brain might interpret that as hide the can and then I’d have no idea where I put the can when I next went to feed the cats. And then, maybe six months from now, there would be an unholy stench from somewhere in the house where I have secreted dozens of these ‘covered’ cans, which, given the state of my brain, I only find because I’m looking for Halloween decorations that we donated over a decade ago.
I have a sticky note on my bathroom backsplash that reads: “Sunday Meds.” I have another note that I put on my retro-styled pill case every night that reads: “Take Pill” reminding me to take my morning pill.
For several hours, I forget what year it is. Could be 2023… Maybe it’s 2027? I am fairly confident that it isn’t 2019. Cementing myself back in 2025 takes an uncomfortable amount of time.
I space on my employee login number for the cash registers at work. Though this has only happened a couple of times, the yawning abyss of terror that opens inside me when it transpires is no less alarming. I work my way through maybe 18 permutations of my 4-digit login before I give up. I now have an emergency piece of paper in the pocket of my work apron for subsequent memory lapses. I’m not sure which pocket, but it’s in a pocket.
This version of my brain is so different from Baby Brain, which, back in the day, had me forgetting common words and just pointing to items maniacally until someone would say “Did you want the teapot?” Baby Brain is understandable – you’re a walking fucking zombie. Sleep deprivation makes you delulu.
Menopause Brain is to Baby Brain as Werewolf is to Chihuahua.
I can handle an occasional grey matter hiccup if I haven’t been sleeping regularly. That makes complete sense. I even manage to laugh off the ‘Why-did-I-come-into-this-room?’ moments because I’ve been living those for decades.
What I don’t understand is how I can memorize over an hour’s worth of material to perform but I can’t tell you what days I’m working this week.
I can remember the ENTIRE FUCKING libretto to Jesus Christ Superstar, but I cannot bring David’s cell phone number to my frontal lobe.
I can give you my address from 44 years ago when we lived in Sacramento, but I have no clue where I put the book I’m reading.
David and Rissa see the whites of my eyes more and more.
“Ma! We’ve got you,” Rissa says.
David holds me by the shoulders, placing himself in my panicked line of sight. “What does a key do, love?”
“Huh?”
“What does a key do?”
“It opens things.”
David and Rissa share a look and nod. “You’re good.”