As I mentioned in my End of Week 12 post I’ve had a really crap week. The heat, horrendous PMT and my mother-in-law’s funeral hit me in consecutive waves,
I have written before about the struggles that I’ve had with decades of raging endometriosis. I’ve had countless rounds of surgery, months of prostate cancer drugs and ruptured ovarian cysts that nearly killed me. But I’ve never really had Godzilla levels of PMT until recently.
At 28 I was told that I needed a total hysterectomy but I have hung on for more 2 decades; unwilling to be butchered despite the dreadful pain. So given everything that I have gone through I didn’t expect to get worsening PMT in my mid-late 40s.
This aspect of my week 13 post very nearly didn’t get written. The purpose of my blog is to write about my final attempt to lose body fat. Every diet I’ve ever tried has failed. It is a log of everything I’ve eaten and every exercise I’ve done whilst working with Luke my fitness coach. It’s not supposed to be about “women’s problems” (a horrible phrase which, once I’ve written this post should remain in the 1970s).
So I decided that I would not write about the PMT/peri-menopausal symptoms that I’m experiencing. The thought of my husband, dad, male friends and colleagues reading about what I’m going through made me feel rather uncomfortable.
But why should this be? When I think back to my childhood in the 70s, “women’s problems” were always discussed in the kitchen, in hushed tones, between the women.
My childish impression was that the men of the day thought that the “unpleasantness” that surrounds being female was an unsuitable topic for their delicate ears.
As the 1970s turned into the 1980s my friends and I were left more confused than ever. The “knowledge” imparted by the 800 year old Miss Cox in her “lessons for girls” was worse than useless. In fact the only proper source of information that we had was Cosmo. Back issues would be circulated between us for months, under the radar, because our mothers would disapprove of the (mouth the word quietly) ‘sex’.
My friends and I grew up with an overwhelming sense of shame about “women’s problems”; that they were something to be hidden and whispered about in the kitchen. We didn’t even really talk about them amongst ourselves other than to say “I’ve got really bad cramps”.
But this week two things happened that made me decide to set aside my discomfort and write this post:
Firstly, I realised that if, at my age, I am unwilling to write about my “women’s problems” then I am doing a great disservice to my daughters’ generation. For their sake I consider it my duty to be part of the change (no pun intended).
Half of our species deals with periods for 2.5 months a year, every year of our adult lives. If we, as a society can’t speak openly and honestly about something that affects near 4 billion people on our planet, then something is seriously wrong.
Secondly, quite by chance, I read a comment on a friend’s Facebook account.
A lovely friend of mine had written a post entitled “**femail post**” following which she proceeded to explain, amongst other things, that after 27 years she had decided to stop taking the pill.
I scrolled through the many replies, there were lots of women sharing their experiences. One, in particular, caught my eye. A lone man, called Paul, wrote:
“Hope you don’t mind me commenting on this female post. It’s such a great insight for me as a man – really appreciate having the opportunity to learn about an important topic rarely discussed so thank you”.
I don’t know Paul, but his comment stopped me in my tracks.
Paul’s observation was a paradigm shift. It occurred to me that perhaps men do want to know and understand more about what their wives, partners and friends are going through.
All of the men in my life (that makes me sound like a escort, but you know what I mean) are gentle, caring, thoughtful people. If we don’t have the courage to talk about our bodies then how do we expect them to understand? Osmosis?
So getting back to this last week – when the tsunami of PMT hit me on the Wednesday of week 12, I expected to spend the usual 48 hours with a banging headache and feeling a bit bloated. Under normal circumstances my period would kick in and the PMT would disappear.
What I’ve had is 10 days of vicious headaches with alternating diarrhoea and constipation (that’s part of endo – I’m used to it). On top of this, from my belly button to my thighs, I’ve felt like a massive balloon that’s been overfilled with water and is on the brink of splitting.
Over the last 13 weeks I’ve started to really enjoy the training I’ve been doing. I love the mental challenge of pushing myself to the point that I physically cannot do any more. When I train so hard that I end up as a sweating heap on the floor, gasping for breath, then I know that I’ve done my best.
I want my progress to be linear. Every time I train I want to be able to push myself harder and do more than last time. But I can’t. Sometimes I’m too hot, haven’t eaten enough or just can’t find my mojo.
On the Friday at the end of week 12 I took a rest day for no other reason that I felt so rough that I simply couldn’t train. The hormone headache and bloated belly had rendered me useless.
So before we launch into the horror of week 13, I just want to say:
‘thank you Paul, whoever you are. The comment you left on Facebook unwittingly helped me to be brave enough to be completely honest. You’ve encouraged me to explain the real reasons why I couldn’t train in week 13 instead of just saying ‘oh I didn’t feel like it’.’
Day 85 (start of week 13):
Saturdays mark the start of a new week, for reasons previously explained.
Day 85 was my mother-in -law’s memorial and ash scattering. I got up early, walked the dog and made a picnic. It was going to be a 4 hour round trip and a long day so I wanted to make sure that everyone had a healthy lunch.
I was on fire when it came to the day’s food. I knew that my sister-in-law would have prepared an excellent spread for all of the friends and family who were attending. However, I was determined not to get caught out by the sandwiches, quiches, cakes, wine and beer.
We arrived at the farm in advance to help set things up and stopped for lunch before everyone arrived.
The memorial was beautiful. My husband and sister-in-law said a few words and planted an apple tree in a sunny orchard. Everyone said that it was the loveliest memorial that they had ever been to.
After the eulogies and socialising (at a distance), tea was served. No one noticed that I crept off to the car, opened the boot and mixed myself a tepid protein shake with water. It was grim, but it filled me up enough to stave off any stress-induced nibbling.
Suitably fortified, I returned to the wake and casually mingled back in as if I had never disappeared.
It had been my intention to do an hour’s cardio when I got home. However, I was exhausted, and despite the fact that I’d taken a rest day the day before, I took another.
When I got home I popped next door to collect the dog and see my Mum, who was making home-made chips. I stole some, photographed them and enjoyed them.
Day 86:
On Sunday I felt awful, headachy and bloated. I did an hour on the exercise bike and felt a bit better. The first 10 minutes were hard but I did it in 10 minute blocks. With each 10 minutes that passed I told myself that I could stop at the end of the next 10 if I wanted to. I didn’t.
I was stressing about having taken a couple of days off. So I had a chat with Luke and and he told me not to worry about it but to look on Monday as a fresh start.
Day 87:
Day 87 started in high spirits, I was ready to get my mojo back.
It was a Monday so I had the blessing of the Monday Diet Gods for my fresh start. I did a 4 mile walk before work and drank loads of water, but I had a busy day and I didn’t eat enough.
I’d felt like crap all day, was really teary and was in a foul mood for no particular reason. It had been a few days since I had trained hard and I was looking forward to the tough training programme that Luke had set for me..
The programme was 6 rounds of multiple sets. I got 3/4 of the way through the first round and couldn’t do it. Everything felt wrong. My right glute and knee pain had returned during my morning walk, I had raging PMT and I couldn’t get my head together.
I sat on the weights bench and started to cry. After several days rest it felt like I’d lost all of the progress that I’d made.
I decided to abandon my workout – for the first time in 87 days I just couldn’t push myself into it.
It still felt like my belly was going to explode, I had a headache, was hot, crying and my blood sugar levels weren’t high enough. Like Godzilla rampaging through downtown Tokyo, I fell out with everyone in the house and was a total and utter pain in arse.
After I’d calmed down and made appropriate apologies, I got something to eat. I ate a handful of nuts and 2 ricecakes whilst I was prepping dinner and I felt a whole lot better.
I may have failed at my planned workout and ballsed-up my eating during the day but I tried to search for the ‘little wins’. My water intake was good and I did way more steps than normal. Despite the meltdown the day was not a total write off.
Day 88:
Still felt horrible and it was also too hot do anything. However, I drank loads of water, ate well and did an hour on the exercise bike.
Day 89:
It was so hot that I could barely move.
Luke and I did an easy session at lunchtime so that I could get back into it.
I can never eat after training and the only thing that I could face mid-afternoon was some chicken. The combination of the heat and training quashed my appetite.
Day 90:
Today was Lovely Girl #1’s 18th Birthday. I’d taken the day off and had a training session first thing which I loved.
The birthday girl chose mezze as her dinner so we had an assortment of bits and pieces. It was too hot to eat.
My mum made a vegan, gluten-free cheesecake. It melted in the heat but was utterly divine – probably the best thing I have ever tasted. I only had a small bit, but then I had a bit more.
Day 91:
Another hot day. I could barely eat anything.
However, after dinner I did manage 3 strawberries and some of mum’s vegan, gluten free confectioner’s custard. She made the most amazing meringue and confectioner’s custard birthday cake for Lovely Girl #1’s socially distanced BBQ. I tasted the meringue cake and it took all of my willpower not to bury my face in it and scoff the lot.
Week 13 Progress Photos:
I ended week 13 one pound heavier that the previous 3 weeks but despite the heat and water retention I felt smaller. My mum had been telling me all week that my face was thinner.
I didn’t do the week by week comparison photo that I have done previously. There is no point – there isn’t much difference.
I know that ‘weight’ is meaningless so I just have to keep my head down and keep going.