WET DREAMS

Rivulets of water trickle down my hairline as I adjust to the fever dream. Moisture puddles between my breasts. Another wave. The fire starts behind my neck, and moves around my chest, cloaking me like a mink stole. The flames of menopause lick my skin - red hot flashes. Awake, I am desperate for coolness. I lie spread-eagle on top of the covers, thankful to live alone after a long-dead marriage and kids at college. I throw myself off the bed and turn on the overhead fan to maximum speed. It wobbles with ferocity, ready to decapitate me should it fall from the mount. I don’t care. I strip off my soaked T-shirt, lift my bare breasts to the cool air drifting down and sigh with relief. The insurgence is over. 

       I take a long pull on the water bottle by the bed. The ice-cold liquid is felt down to my stomach. Drinking water is supposed to help. I have resisted hormone therapy since that huge study that was all over the news, but my doctor says it will reduce my night sweats. He says things have changed, but have they? I’m reluctant to increase the probability of breast cancer. 

       I change the sheets and refill the water bottle. I turned off the fan because now I am getting cold. For months, this has been the rollercoaster I ride on a nightly basis. I pull on a dry T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. I open the window an inch to let in the cool winter air and tuck back into bed, under the feather comforter.

       Hours later my body is a volcano. I am erupting fluid through all my pours. Delirious from lack of sleep, I stagger dreamlike out of bed and head to the back door. I open it wide and step out. The yard is white with two feet of snow glistening in the moonlight. I pad down the path barefoot, oblivious to the freezing temperature and turn. I fall back into the snow like plunging into a pool on a sizzling summer day. The relief is instant. I move my arms and legs in wide arcs and ride the wave of coolness. Steam escapes my lips and curls into the night air. I get up and go back inside.

       I wake for the third time shivering on the sofa. I pull a blanket around me, but it is not warm enough. My clothes are wet. Why am I on the sofa? I drag myself back to my bedroom, barely conscious from exhaustion and remove my wet clothes. My teeth are chattering. I put on a long-sleeve shirt and pajama bottoms and crawl under the covers.

       In the morning, I wake to the alarm clock. I hit snooze and let my brain acclimate. Did I go outside last night? I throw off my comforter and pad to the back door. I open it and look in the yard. The snow is pristine, sparkling in the morning sunlight. My breath swirls out in front of me. Must have been a dream.

       Ready for work, I walk into the living room and see the pillows from the sofa and the Afghan I crocheted years ago on the floor. A memory tickles my brain, déjà vu? I look around the room for anything else unusual and continue to the front door.

       It’s unlocked. What the heck? Is this brain fog or am I over-tired?  Did I forget to lock the door? How could I be so careless?

       Something niggles my consciousness. My eyes sweep left and right of the doorway. I lock the door and walk towards my car. A glance to the left stops me. Like the roar of an iceberg calving, reality thunders in my ears. I scan my neighbours’ houses and think of their doorbell cameras. Acceptance stings my eyes. There, beside the sidewalk, is a perfect snow angel.