Phoebe McKinley and the Menopause Support Group

Chapter 1

Phoebe McKinley swung her 1960 MK 2 Jaguar into the parking lot of St Mark's Community Hall. Before the vehicle came to a skidding halt, just short of the concrete pavement, there was the distinctive sound of a lot of gravel being swiftly tossed aside, by fast-moving rubber tyres. If anyone had been present, they would have been surprised to note that the driver was none other than a distinguished-looking older woman. It was not entirely the driving style that one would associate with a lady in her later years.

But no one was watching, albeit a couple of starlings high up in a tree, and although they observed the arrival, they placed no opinion or thought as to what they had seen. Birds don't really go in for that sort of thing.

In her beautiful, classic, cream-coloured motorcar with its shiny­­, spoke wheels and tan leather upholstery, there was just Phoebe. And, on the back seat of all that stylishness, was a cardboard box that once held Bartlett pears but now contained a packet of chocolate biscuits and two plates of scones, laden with jam and cream. 

Before Phoebe had commenced her drive that evening, she had performed a ritual that preceded every motoring journey she ever took. To begin with, she always made sure she was securely settled and comfortable in the natural indentation of the Jaguars aged-leather driving seat. Then she would lean slightly to the left and gracefully extending her arm she pressed the small latch inserted in the walnut dash. Phoebe McKinley was possibly one of the few people left in this world who actually kept driving gloves in the glove box of her dashboard. These she methodically placed on her hands, feeling the softness of the kid leather as they encased each fine-boned finger. Phoebe then reversed out of the garage, stopping briefly to check the position of her rear vision and side mirrors, making sure they were correctly in place. The final act in Phoebe's driving ritual was to think of her steering wheel as if it were a clock face, where she placed her hands in the position of 10 minutes to two. A famous racing car driver had advised her that in this stance, the motorist has complete control of the steering, no matter what the circumstances or conditions.

On the evening of the first meeting of The Menopause Support Group, Phoebe had opted for a little exhilaration, by driving her favourite route toward the city. The street she termed The Turini. With sweeping views across the harbour, this breath-taking ribbon of bitumen wound its way down the side of a steep hill toward the heart of the city, through a series of sharp, left-hand turns and hairpin bends. This road always reminded Phoebe of the time she and her late husband Walter had competed in the Monte Carlo Rally in the winter of 1962, in the same car that she still drove. It had been Phoebe who had traversed that section of the rally, driving at night through the well-known mountain pass of the Col de Turini in northern France. The locals called it The Night of the Long Knives. Which is how they termed the high-beam headlights slashing through the darkness, as they stood huddled on the sides of the twisting road, cheering on the competitors toward their southern destination.

Phoebe had no qualms about driving on gravel or treacherous mountain passes, and neither did she mind the pace of city driving or the leisurely open road of a motorway. Still, the absolute gem of her motoring experience was always her fondness for corners. Phoebe loved the enjoyment of coming into a bend when she would take her foot from the accelerator and lightly touch the brakes before her left hand grasped the gear stick where she would drop the car down a gear. Then, out of that turn, Phoebe would accelerate, change gears, and with a sense of delight, she anticipated the next bend where she would repeat the process. Phoebe could not imagine anyone would get quite the same pleasure from driving tight corners in one of those Automatic motorcars, without a gear stick.

Now that Phoebe was stationary in St Mark's parking lot, she loosened her grip from the black Bakelite steering wheel. Removing her gloves, she returned them neatly to the compartment in the walnut dash.

During Phoebe's reminiscing of the 1960s, and the winding road of the Col de Turini, she had entirely forgotten about the cardboard box on the back seat of her car. Engrossed as she was in the unadulterated enjoyment of driving, she failed to hear the box sliding from left to right and back again. With every movement, the jam and cream had skidded off the scones, till the whole thing looked like something resurrected from a rubbish bin. It came as quite a surprise to Phoebe when she opened the back door of the car.

What a mess, she thought. I will have to do something about this. Oh well, she pondered, taking the food from the back seat. I have dished up worse in Afghanistan, and the main thing is, thanks to the box, there is not a dollop spilt on the lovely leather upholstery. She would have it fixed in no time.

'Quick sticks Phoebe,' she said out loud and all to herself. 'The meeting starts in 20 minutes.'

Phoebe needed three separate keys to unlock the main large entrance door to the community hall. There was a top lock, a middle lock, and a large lock down the bottom of the door. Warning stickers were placed on the side windows discouraging any attempt of foul play at the local hall. Security was paramount at St Mark's, she thought dryly.

As was often the case with public halls, the position of the toilets was to the left and right of the vestibule. When Phoebe finally opened the heavy front door, the sharp smell of those nasty things they put in the men's urinal was unmistakable in the stuffy evening air. Latching the doors open, she made her way to the two, secondary, glass doors that led directly into the main hall. This yawning space was home to basketball games, indoor bowls, dance classes, and yoga, among other community events. A stage at one end of the vast room was where Phoebe had, on occasion, seen some pleasant music recitals and tolerantly, a few performances by the local theatre company. Phoebe was not fond of amateur theatre. She thought the art of acting, was best left to those who could. St Mark's was a well-frequented working hall with nothing intimate in the slightest about the space, particularly for the meeting she had organised that was, of a somewhat personal nature. However, what the community hall did have going for it was that it was central, available, and inexpensive, and at this point, that was all that mattered.

Phoebe arranged eight seats in a circle in the corner closest to the kitchen, hoping that it would create a cosy, relaxed, and informal environment. Although Phoebe had no idea how many women would attend her meeting, she considered that amount was neither ambitious nor frugal and decided it was easy to add extra chairs if needed. In the smelly foyer, Phoebe located her forgotten box of baking. She returned to the kitchen, arranged cups and saucers, a teapot and milk jug on the long stainless-steel bench. Phoebe found fresh milk in the fridge and a clean platter for the scones, and one by one, transferred them, scooping up the cream and jam doing her best to make them look presentable. They did not look particularly appealing but, there was nothing that Phoebe could do about it because, at that moment, the internal glass door opened, and a tall slim woman strode across the room.

'Good evening,' she barked toward Phoebe, as her black stiletto shoes heralded her arrival.

The woman then promptly took her place in one of the seats. She checked the time on her watch, extracted her phone from her handbag, and went about her business with efficiency, force, and a slight, soured grimace on her painted red lips.

'Hello.' Phoebe called back, thinking how exciting it was that at least one woman had turned up.

Much to Phoebe's delight, another woman appeared, closing the door behind her. She had a kind, friendly face, and smiled warmly at Phoebe, who had remained in the kitchen. For a moment, Phoebe wondered if she could perhaps stay in that room and conduct the meeting from there. It felt comparatively safe and snug, compared to that vast space beyond the serving counter. Phoebe was not altogether comfortable with public speaking. Still, she had to acknowledge that no one had forced her to organise the meeting, so she would just have to set aside her apprehension for the task ahead. Phoebe steadied her nerves and inhaled deeply, gathering strength before making her way out toward the two women where she took her place in the circle.

Then quite suddenly, the foyer doors opened with such force that each of them jolted to attention. Phoebe, who at the same moment was putting her glasses on, now dropped her spectacles to the floor. With an outstretched hand, she fumbled about in search of them, but to no avail. Phoebe could not concentrate on her retrieval because she could not take her eyes off the person marching with determination toward the small group. Phoebe squinted, but her eyes were out of focus. Was that a man coming toward them, she thought?

The heavy work boots reverberated with each step in the echoing hall, and Phoebe was quite sure she felt the floor quiver. Finally, Phoebe managed to get her spectacles back on the bridge of her nose and saw with relief that she was indeed a woman, with a hefty touch of masculinity, but a woman, nonetheless. Phoebe noted the attire of the latest arrival: Faded denim jeans with an oversized cuff at the end of each leg and a white tee-shirt printed with two, powerful, black words, clearly visible on her chest.

Hmm...interesting, thought Phoebe. That is quite a statement.

The masculine young woman, who took the seat to Phoebe's right, had firm features and a set chin. Her hair was cut short in a nondescript style, and her skin had a ruddy, weathered complexion. However, the defining characteristic of this young woman was her noticeable facial hair. The dark outline of a moustache covered her top lip and protruding from her chin, irregularly spaced, long whiskers. Intriguingly, both areas of skin were partially covered by a raw rash, in the process of forming a protective crust.

Phoebe consciously averted her eyes, hoping she had not stared too long. It was challenging to say which was the more perversely fascinating; the top lip or the chin? Phoebe smiled and mouthed a hello and then regretted the subsequent in-breath she had taken. There was a distinct, acrid odour, permeating from the latest arrival that hung cloyingly to her. There was another smell too that Phoebe recognised. Under the acidic layer of sweat, was the fresh smell of sawdust.

'Welcome everyone,' began Phoebe, who thought she had better say something before the silence became significant. But just as Phoebe was about to launch into her opening speech, the door opened inward for the last time that evening bringing the newly formed Menopause Support Group to a total of five members.

The four females stared at the new arrival, and this time there was no uncertainty about it. The fifth arrival was, without doubt, a man.

'Hello ladies,' he said breathlessly. 'So sorry, I'm a bit late.'

Chapter 2

Phoebe shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Her concern that evening had been that perhaps no one would turn up to her meeting, so in some regards, this small attendance was rather pleasing. However, what she had not considered was that one member would be a man! Her brain tried to make sense of the situation, and in the end, there were only two conclusions that came to Phoebe's mind. Either the latest attendee had come to the wrong group, or he was transgender. Rather than asking the fellow directly, she thought it best to let the occasion play out. If it were a mistake, she hoped he would just remove himself quietly and with the minimum of fuss. Which sadly, would decrease the number down to a meagre three other members. Phoebe's eyes scanned the circle, and she smiled hesitantly. The time was 7.10 pm — time to get started.

'Good evening, everyone. My name is Phoebe McKinley, and I would like to welcome you to The Menopause Support Group.'

Phoebe glanced toward the man, checking for some reaction to the meeting's title that she had stated particularly clearly. Nothing untoward seemed to register with him; he simply smiled at Phoebe, so she continued, ruling out the I’ve turned up at the wrong group theory. Which then left her thinking of option number two.

‘Thank you for coming along this evening. I was not sure what to expect, so it is a great relief to see you here. I will begin by telling you a little about myself and my symptoms and why I decided to set up this group. Then I thought we could go around the room and all do the same. That way, we will begin to get to know one another.’

Phoebe sensed the slender, red-lipped woman was uncomfortable with the prospect of audience participation. Not for the first time that evening, she noted that she was checking her watch, yet again.

‘Right then, let us begin,’ said Phoebe, coughing slightly to clear her throat. ‘I am 73 years old and suffering from menopause. You might think that I should have gone through this change a long time ago. However, after my hysterectomy, when I was 35, my doctor put me on hormone replacement therapy and, 38 years later, another doctor took me off the drug. I had no idea that for some women, HRT just delays menopause. I have hot flushes; I often feel dizzy, and for the first time in my life, I am getting dreadful headaches, which I am not enjoying at all. My doctor said it is a natural part of life and one that I must now accept. He has prescribed a type of anti-depressant for my headaches, but they have made me feel so rotten that I have stopped taking them.’

Phoebe then rummaged in her handbag and took out an A4 folder. 

‘On the internet, I found a list of the symptoms of perimenopause and menopause, that I thought was rather interesting, and surprising. I made several copies, so while I am reading them out, please take one and hand them around.’

Phoebe adjusted her glasses that had slipped down the bridge of her nose and softly cleared her throat once more before beginning to read the extensive list.

Hot flashes, hot flushes, night sweats and, or, cold flashes, clammy feeling

Irregular heartbeat.

Irritability.

Mood swings, sudden tears.

Trouble sleeping through the night (with or without night sweats).

Irregular periods; shorter, lighter periods; heavier periods, flooding; phantom periods, shorter cycles, longer cycles.

Loss of libido.

Vaginal dryness.

Crashing fatigue.

Anxiety, feeling ill at ease.

Feelings of dread, apprehension, doom.

Difficulty concentrating, disorientation, mental confusion.

Disturbing memory lapses.

Incontinence, particularly upon sneezing, laughing; urge incontinence.

Itchy, crawly skin.

Aching, sore joints, muscles, and tendons.

Increased tension in muscles.

Breast tenderness.

Headache change: increase or decrease.

Gastrointestinal distress, indigestion, flatulence, gas pain, nausea.

Sudden bouts of bloat.

Depression.

Exacerbation of existing conditions.

Increase in allergies.

Weight gain.

Hair loss or thinning, head, pubic, or whole body; increase in facial hair.

Dizziness, vertigo, light-headedness, episodes of loss of balance.

Changes in body odour.

Electric shock sensation under the skin and in the head.

Tingling in the extremities.

Gum problems and increased bleeding.

Burning tongue, burning roof of the mouth, bad taste in the mouth, change in breath odour.

Osteoporosis (after several years).

Changes in fingernails: softer, crack or break easier.

Tinnitus: ringing in ears, bells, 'whooshing,' buzzing, etc.

Phoebe stopped to catch her breath. When she had first read the list of symptoms, she had been rather astounded by just how many aspects of menopause there were. But now that she was reading them aloud, they felt positively exhausting.

‘I decided to set up a support group as my friends have already experienced menopause, which has left me feeling at quite a loss and alone as to what is going on. I was sure I wasn’t to be the only one feeling like this and thought it would be good to be around others who know what it is like to go through this change.’

Phoebe then relaxed into her chair with a sense of relief. Thankfully by speaking, she had calmed her nervousness. Turning to her left, she addressed the woman with the red lips.

‘Would you like to be next, dear?’ she asked.

The woman sat even straighter in her chair, her posture upright and rigid. The muscles around her mouth tightened as if she had swallowed something distasteful.

‘My name is Miranda Brown. I am a partner in Brown Miller Brown. Ours is a Logistics company with a staff of 80. The symptoms that I am suffering from are anxiety, dizziness, and heart palpitations. Up until now, I have always had a sharp, clear mind, but lately, that has not been the case. The effort to make my mind appear to function normally is exhausting. Through my doctor, I requested an MRI that revealed a perfectly healthy brain. I have also had my heart extensively tested, and there is no problem there. My doctor suggested that my symptoms could be an indicator of perimenopause because of my age and the fact that they found no medical ailment. My husband then read the ad for this support group and recommended I join.’

‘And if I may ask; how old are you Miranda?’ interrupted Phoebe.

Miranda shot Phoebe a look that from the older woman's perspective could best be described, as rather scary. She completely ignored Phoebe’s question and continued as if she hadn’t heard it at all.

‘I didn’t want to come here this evening. I am only doing this for my husband’s sake.’

And with those final, biting words, Miranda sat back in her seat, her arms tightly folded around her slim body. She never liked to admit weakness and usually never needed to do so. But the past month, her mental state had given her cause to think she might be losing her mind entirely and this horrifically, frightening thought, had scared Miranda into reluctantly seeking support. Her doctor had prescribed anti-depressants for her anxiety and recommended Miranda find a Psychiatric Therapist. Miranda was not about to disclose that information, though, to this bunch of misfits. Her husband, Patrick, wasn’t even aware of that part of her doctor's diagnosis. Anyway, it was not like she was taking the anti-depressants. Just because she had filled the prescription and hidden the pills in her underwear drawer, did not mean that she was in the same category as all those out of control, unstable types, who could not cope with the world.

Phoebe turned her head toward the woman next to Miranda.

‘And what is your name, my dear?’ She asked.

‘I am Alice Walker. I am a silent partner in an accountancy firm that I own with my husband, David. We have two adult sons at university, and I have just completed a diploma in interior design. Lately, I have been feeling out of sorts, and my periods are becoming very irregular. Sometimes I get two in one month. I have no energy for anything, have a constant feeling of dread and sometimes really aching bones. Most of the time, I would just like to go off on my own and live in a cave for a very long time, perhaps even forever. I love my boys very much, but I do get very annoyed with my husband. I have completely lost any sexual desire for him, but I don’t know if that is perimenopause or the fact that I don't fancy him. He does irritate me rather a lot, and to be honest, the only thing we seem to have in common is that we are parents to the same children.’ Alice had spoken rather quickly as she did when she was nervous. But as she thought of her unhappy marriage, her voice began to drift along at a slower pace. ‘I cook and clean and seem to end up doing all the awful jobs at home, without any help from David. I run around after all of them and try to provide emotional support. But no one ever really asks how I am. And now with my hormones going haywire, well, some days, I am not sure how much more I can take. Oh, and by the way, I am 48 years old. I have had my hormones tested twice. One result said I was in perimenopause, and the other said I was not. I believe that I must be, as I feel so unlike my normal self. I tried taking bio-identical progesterone cream, but that didn't work for me as I couldn’t seem to maintain an even dose. Sometimes I felt good on it; sometimes, I felt a hundred times worse. My doctor suggested HRT, but I don’t like the health risks associated with that, so now I just bumble along, hoping it will all pass.’

‘Thank you, Alice,’ said Phoebe, sympathetically. She immediately like this woman, thinking her very honest and open, having revealed so much about her unhappy life to a small group of strangers.

All eyes then turned to the man amongst them, whose turn it was next.

‘Good evening, friends. My name is Rick, and I want you to know I am here for you.’ Rick spoke slowly and with intent, as his eyes circled the group. He had a soft, pleasant American accent, which he used to project as much sincerity as he could squeeze through his vocal cords.

‘I am a Psychotherapist with The Battered Man’s Refuge Centre, and so am bringing to you my love, support, and counselling abilities. If any of you should need analysis or therapy, let me be the one you turn to for support. There is no need to suffer alone or in silence.’

Rick was a rather attractive man in his early 40’s, who had retained his boyish good looks by dedicating his life to self-preservation. Rick believed himself to be a lightworker; part of the Galactic Federation of spiritual beings, placed on Planet Earth to balance evil negative energy. He also knew that one day, he and his fellow lightworkers would help save the world in the darkest of times. Most people, on the other hand, found Rick to be somewhat delusional, but tolerated him anyway, because he had a certain likeable quality. But only in small doses.

‘Now that I am amongst you, I am beginning to feel the symptoms of menopause.’ Rick lowered his voice in a conspiratorial tone. ‘A very renown guru once said to me that I am extremely hyper-empathetic. And although that comes with challenges, it is one of my God-given gifts in this incarnation.’

Rick reached out toward the last person in the circle. The woman with the long whiskers and odorous armpits. He went to take her hand in a show of compassion, but she withdrew it abruptly.

‘And I think you probably misheard your guru, mate. What he probably said was, Hi. Your pathetic,’ she said, staring hard into Rick’s face, one eyebrow raised, daring him to continue.

‘Let it out, my friend,’ he said. ‘Let all that menopausal anger out.’

The woman with the long whiskers mumbled something along the lines of him not being her friend before she raised her voice to