Hold My Wine. Fetch My Medical Degree.

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I’ve just watched a psychologist on TV explain menopause—or at least that’s what the programme claimed was happening.

My takeaway? Fatigue and brain fog apparently cross some magical border after two weeks and become depression.

Someone inform my hormones. They’ve overstayed their diagnostic visa.

Then ADHD entered the conversation as a “symptom,” and I started wondering whether the television needed a responsible adult.

But the solution really finished me: women should self-diagnose more and take their doctors by the hand to find the right treatment.

Lovely. I’m exhausted, can’t remember why I opened the fridge, and now I’m the fucking clinical project manager.

Apparently I should arrive with a diagnosis, a treatment proposal and a PowerPoint. Perhaps bring biscuits for the multidisciplinary team. Which is also me.

And then: HRT.

My anti-hormone treatment after breast cancer would like a word.

I didn’t gently enter menopause. Treatment launched me through its front window. “Ask about hormones” lands rather differently when suppressing them is part of your cancer care.

For clarity: depression is real. Menopause can affect mental health. But a fortnight of brain fog isn’t a diagnosis delivered by kitchen timer.

Anyway, good luck, world. An army of exhausted, sweaty women is preparing to rise.

Just as soon as we remember where we put the banner.

Sour thought: Women’s healthcare: please arrive with your own diagnosis. We’ll invoice you for agreeing with it.

Personal commentary and satire, based on my recollection of a TV discussion. Comic scenes and dialogue are imagined.

For the medical distinction: NIMH explains that depression diagnosis involves more than symptom duration, including depressed mood or loss of interest. The NHS lists brain fog among menopause symptoms.