Wednesday night. I’m dead asleep, dreaming about something amazing—possibly sex, possibly cheese, possibly Chris dressed as cheese, I don’t know—when suddenly… dream pain.
That low, dull ache in my lower abdomen.
Ladies, you already know.
The ovaries were staging a protest. Again.
I figured I’d wake up and it’d be gone, like those dreams where Paul Rudd and I are dating and raising emotionally secure dogs together. But no. I woke up Thursday morning and the pain was still there. Not ER-level. Just another delightful “WTF is this now?” reminder that I’m officially in the body-snatcher phase of my 50s.
You know. Chin hairs, haunted-house knees, and now nighttime ovary shenanigans.
Naturally, I did what all responsible grownups do: I stayed in bed and Googled it.
According to the internet, I was either:
- Riding the hormone rollercoaster of perimenopause
- Developing diverticulitis like a retiree with a bran deficiency
- Or dying of a rare abdominal cancer that only affects women who once used a Sun-In and Aqua Net combo in 1987
Cool. Coolcoolcoolcool. Thanks, WebMD. That’s the exact mental health I needed before coffee.
For about a minute, I genuinely thought, “Well, this is how it ends. Not with a bang, but with vague ovary pain and a heating pad that smells like lavender sadness.”
Then I remembered. I’ve had ovarian cysts before! And oh yeah, I’m still bleeding like some ancient fertility goddess who’s just trying to get through the week without yelling at a ceiling fan.
So yeah. Ovaries? Still here. Still loud. Still ruining my REM sleep.
It took a heating pad, three ibuprofen, and several hours of lying perfectly still cursing Eve and the entire fruit situation before the pain shifted to just the left side and turned into a dull ache. Like a hormonal hangover that forgot what it was angry about.
I don’t think I’m dying. But I am officially taking a break from Google, who clearly thinks every female symptom ends with “call 911” or “update your will.”
Moral of the Hormonal Story:
Perimenopause is a feral little beast.
No one tells you your ovaries might start acting up in your dreams. Or that your body will start playing mystery symptom roulette every time the moon changes phases. Or that you’ll start using ibuprofen like it’s a love language.
But here we are. Still vertical. Still confused. Still hormonal.
Possibly cursed.
Your Turn:
Anybody else been attacked by surprise ovary pain mid-dream?
Are your hormones throwing unauthorized raves, too?
Let’s normalize this chaos. Drop your own perimenopause nonsense below.
Because if we’re going through it, we might as well laugh, complain, and hoard heating pads together.
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