Camping can be scary!
The next summer, as so many times before, Ken and I went camping. Ken put up the tent, I got the blankets from the van, and we made our usual cozy nest beneath the Oregon fir trees. I snuggled into the inside corner, my jeans still on and covered myself with all the blankets I could find. Ken cozied up next to me by the entrance. For a little while we talked, laughed and then went to sleep.
My old visitor, hot flash, woke me. I struggled to get rid of the
blankets to cool off when my head hit the low tent ceiling. My heart
joined the struggle and aimlessly raced up and down in my chest.
I couldn’t breathe. This tiny crowded space held no air. I struggled to
free myself from the constraining blankets. My hands struck the damp
tent walls. My flailing got me tangled tighter into the blankets. My
heart tried to push out of my chest to catch its own breath. I struggled
over Ken, pulling the blankets behind me and groped for the exit.
There was no exit!
Ken tried to push me back into the terrible coffin-like space behind
him. I pushed him away, fumbled for the zipper with my last shred of
reasoning and burst from the tent.
Outside, in the pitch dark, I took deep breaths, calming my crazy heart.
Ken must have thought that I needed to go to the bathroom. Let him
think that. I wouldn’t be the one to enlighten him. Sitting on pine
needles in the dark, I told myself this unexplainable, and never before
experienced, bout of claustrophobia was but another manifestation of
menopause. My strong, independent self should not succumb to it.
I was woman! I had taken life by the horns and conquered it! Menopause
would not become my master! And I would not succumb to hormone
replacement therapy, like other, weaker women. Eventually I crawled back
into the tent and dozed on and off until daylight. The claustrophobia
did not return.
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