I know it’s weird, but I rather enjoyed my menopause

Being hormonally disturbed was a great excuse – now when I behave badly, I have to face the fact that it’s because I’m a terrible person, writes Jenny Eclair

‘Davina McCall’s documentary revealed a shocking statistic’ (Channel 4)

Last week I saw Davina McCall talking about the menopause in a well-made and personal documentary on Channel 4, in which the most shocking statistic to be revealed was the fact that in 2021 only 10 per cent of menopausal women took HRT.

I’m surprised at this, mostly because the uptake of hormone replacement therapy hasn’t altered much in the 10 years since I went trotting off to the doctors, insane; with moods swinging from incandescent rage to snivelling, confidence-sapping anxiety. After a ridiculous tussle with a GP who couldn’t use the word “vagina” to my face, I was eventually given a prescription for hormone replacement therapy – and have been positively evangelical about it ever since.

Now that the supposed increased risk of breast cancer (for those with no history of the disease in the family) has been widely dismissed by the medical profession, I’m bewildered by the fact that so many women are still prepared to suffer really tricky mental and physical menopausal side effects without asking for the one thing that really can help: HRT.

A difficult menopause shouldn’t be underestimated. It can affect your entire life, your career and your relationships.

One woman’s hot flush is another woman’s thermostatic meltdown – and why antidepressants are doled out for something that has a physical root cause, I have no idea.

Of course, some women take a weird masochistic pride in getting through the damn thing by biting down on a piece of leather and taking the odd swig of cooking sherry, but I really don’t see the necessity. Lets face it: I’m a wuss. I don’t like swimming in cold water, either – I’ve always been the type to take the soft option.

Some people might be surprised that at the age of 61, I’m still taking my daily dose of tablet and gel, but I can’t see any reason to give them up. HRT is protecting my bones, heart and quite possibly my brain, as new research is looking at the possibility of a connection between the loss of oestrogen and Alzheimer’s. What’s more, I’ve never had thicker hair, stronger nails or better skin.

Apart from the HRT statistic, the rest of the documentary covered pretty familiar ground, and weirdly reminded me that I rather enjoyed my menopause.

Once I was equipped with the right dose of HRT, I rather liked feeling like I was in the same boat as millions of other women, all experiencing the same mad thing. It gave me a sense of female camaraderie without the exhausting competitiveness of the motherhood club. To which, I’ll be honest, I never felt I fully belonged.

I actually didn’t mind being defined by the menopause. Looking back, my fifties were probably my most prolific decade in terms of my career. A great deal of that work was menopause related: there were the Grumpy Old Women live shows, my own stand-up touring show, and eventually, a book: Older and Wider, A Survivor’s Guide to The Menopause.

I was fortunate – my periods stopped at a bog-standard 52; there was nothing premature or unusual about what was happening to me. Losing my fertility was no big deal to me, either – who wants kids in their fifties or beyond? I’ve got enough problems with remembering where I left my cardigan, without having a baby to worry about.

Being one of the very few species on the planet (the others include various types of whales) to have the menopause, I think we should count our blessings – most other species keep breeding until they die; and personally, given the choice between “fertility ‘til death do us part” and the menopause, I’d go for the menopause. We’re lucky to have it.

I would honestly say that the fifty-something seismic shift in my hormones revealed the true me – and although some of it was brutal, it helped to identify me for almost a decade.

Now that I’m 61 (and presumably post-menopausal), I’m not sure what I’m meant to be. I’m already ticking another age box when filling in forms; and when coronavirus came along, more or less on my 60th birthday, I was automatically considered in a “higher risk category”.

It’s not so much the ageing I mind – let’s face it, getting old is a privilege, especially in a pandemic – but I’m confused by what distinguishes this new chapter.

For starters, am I allowed to call myself “middle-aged”, anymore? I hope so, because being a middle-aged woman has been the best time of my life – and I’d like to cling to that status for as long as possible.

However, the fact is that I don’t think I can count myself as a “menopausal” middle-aged woman anymore, that part of my life is over – and weirdly, I miss it.

Being menopausal made me feel like part of a gang. Being hormonally disturbed was a great excuse when I had a tantrum or was horrifically rude.

Now when I behave badly, which is quite often, I have to face the fact that it’s because I’m a terrible person. Oh dear – come back menopause, you were great.