I thought night sweats, bane of many post-menopausal women, were a minor tribulation of my past. Last November, in Aristotle Speaks!, I wrote confidently about a marvelous low-dose estrogen delivery system that restored a rich dreamscape to my sleeping hours, but was safer than the pill format I had swallowed every morning for years. It helped me chill out at night, too; a nice bonus.
I thought at first the pain under my right rib cage was a pulled muscle, but it persisted for weeks, and gradually worsened. I began to get the idea that the estradiol acetate ring might be a factor in whatever was going on, and so several weeks ago unceremoniously removed it and threw it away.
By then, the pain had moved around to my back, fairly high up under my right shoulder blade.
No. Don’t worry. I’m not leading up to anything scary here. An ultrasound last week confirmed that my gall bladder is full of biliary sludge. Wow, just what every former femme fatale wants to hear.
Ah, well. Buck and I will go visit with the nice surgeon on Tuesday and explore options. Meanwhile, a bland, no-fat diet (with lots of beets and apple cider, thank you dear sister-in-law) is helping keep the pain down to a dull roar.
The estradiol acetate has been implicated in gall bladder disease.
Meanwhile, every night I’m sweating like one of those villains that Sir Sean Connery (the James Bond) locked in a steam bath machine at some eastern European health spa. As a result, I am having some unusual nocturnal adventures. Sometime in the middle of last night, not sleeping, I got fixated on wondering where an old piece of writing was– one I think I might be ready to deal with now — and got up to rifle through some old file folders.
Never did locate the wordscrap I sought, but I did find an old halfway attempt at a poem from 1978.
My rebellion sits;a yellow fog with fighting mitts
It’s gone ten rounds so far;bloodied, sore and blind
Thirsty still, though marred; stubborn, yet; sure of a win
Despite bought judges; despite those bone-cold men.*
*I have no earthly idea who or what I was worked up about when I wrote those passionate words some 31 years ago.
Okay. So now you know my deepest, darkest secrets (well, two of them, anyway). I am a crappy wanted-to-be poet and I have a rotten gall bladder!