At Christmas, when my daughter-in-law asked me if she was too young for menopause, I was both surprised and amused at her question. Surprised, because the question was unexpected; amused, because that stage in any woman’s life is not all doom and gloom. It can have its funny moments, and I knew that she would probably experience a few of her own humourous incidents throughout this next phase of her life. Most menopausal women do.
As she was leaving our home, I explained that she may well be too young for menopause, but unfortunately, not for perimenopause. And later that evening, my brain shifted into overdrive as I started to think about the more serious and useful information that I could share with her. I suppose I have her to thank for inspiring me to write an article on HRT for DIVINE. That article gave her all the information I wish I would have had on hand when I was in the throes of menopause, and I was happy to hear that she found it helpful.
Moreover, I believe it was all this talk about menopause that made me recall the day I felt my very first hot flash. It was a humdinger, to say the least, and it happened following one of the most embarrassing moments of my lifetime. What’s even more interesting is that it happened 20 years before I started to struggle with the many ill effects of surgical menopause.
Starting the day off right
One chilly winter morning in Ottawa in the late 60s, I was in a mad rush, as always, to iron my skirt before I bolted out the door to catch a bus to work. I was a bit of a fusspot at the time, and I suppose if I’m being perfectly honest, still am today, given my habit of wearing only freshly ironed clothing. Not just to go to work, but to go anywhere.
The phone rang. I shouldn’t have picked it up as it was from a family member who had a special knack for calling me at the most inopportune times. Imagine how happy I was to pay extra for the ident-a-call feature on my phone when it became available years later.
Luckily, I was let off the hook moments later, and I was free to get back to the ironing job on my skirt so I could finish getting dressed, and complete the look with my white silk blouse and the elegant, but simple, navy ribbon I tied in a bow at the collar. Call it my professional look, if you will. Unlike today, that look was important for many office workers of that era. No one would have dared show up for work wearing pyjama bottoms!
Out the door I went after I put on my winter coat and boots. How I loved that coat. It was a ‘Maxi’, a very fashionable style of coat back then. Those coats were made of a black wooly type of cloth, and because I’m so short, mine went down to my ankles. Instead of buttons, it had stylish wide snaps from the collar line to mid-calf, to keep my legs properly shielded from the cold or a strong wind. The imitation fur trim around the hood kept my face warm to walk to and from the bus stop or for a walk downtown over lunch.
My morning routine falls off the rails
The bus dropped me off a block away from the newspaper building where I worked in advertising. I hung my coat in the vestibule at the entrance of my work area, and I walked to my desk to get out of my boots and slip into a pair of shoes I kept in the bottom drawer.
On my way to my desk, I couldn’t help but notice the stares from my co-workers. The expression on their faces was one of surprise bordering on rudeness, and naturally, I began to feel uncomfortable. I remember wondering if my hair looked OK.
I couldn’t understand why all eyes were on me until I sat down at my desk and noticed that I had come to work in my black half-slip. Lovely blouse and ribbon, but no skirt; it was still on my ironing board at home!
A humiliating flush
Someone started to laugh, and at that precise moment, my face must have gone several shades of red. I didn’t say a word as I walked back to the vestibule to grab my coat. One co-worker asked if I was planning to come back to work once I finish getting dressed. Everyone enjoyed his humourous comment; it was funny, after all.
I wasn’t in the mood for a laugh, though. I had other things on my mind, like the hot fluster I couldn’t shake and my panic about whether or not I’d turned off the iron. I felt extremely hot on the way back home on the bus, bundled in my Maxi coat that I suddenly regretted having worn that day. I didn’t need a warm coat while I was overheating from head to toe.
When I finally made it home, I noticed that my face was still beet red as I caught a glimpse of myself in the front hall mirror. Thankfully, the flush started to subside once I realized that I had done at least one smart thing that morning by turning off the iron.
The aftermath
After that incident, I was the butt of corny jokes from many of my colleagues. Most of the wisecracks came from the men I worked with directly, while the women were more empathetic.
Since I’ve always been able to laugh at my own foibles, I let the wannabe comedians have their fun knowing that sooner or later, they’d move on to ribbing someone else. Mind you, it took several weeks of further taunting, but eventually, I became yesterday’s amusing tale.
These days when a woman asks me what a hot flash really feels like, I tell her to think about the surge of heat on your cheeks that sometimes accompanies an embarrassing moment, and then multiply that intensity by 10. That, in my opinion, best describes a rip-roaring hot flash!
Lise Cloutier-Steele is an Ottawa writer, the author of Misinformed Consent: Women’s Stories about Unnecessary Hysterectomy, available from www.amazon.com (U.S. edition only), and the 2025 Edition of There’s No Place Like Home: A guide to help caregivers manage the long-term care experience, available from www.ottawacaregiver.com.
