"Help! My wife turned into a crab!" isn't exactly the truth as to what I once overheard my husband say on the phone. What he really said was,

"The old lady's turned into crab and making my life miserable! I remember when Joe's old lady went through the change and she ran off with the FedEx guy! God, I hope that California girl of mine, isn't going to do something crazy."

Now, before we get into an uproar, the sweet farm boy I married, is from rural Western Maryland, on the border of West Virginia. "The old lady" unfortunately, is still an acceptable term of endearment among the local men.

You don't have to be "old" to be referred to as an old lady. You could even be a newly wed of eighteen. In the backwoods of these communities, even if they know better, and they usually don't -- this is the way they talk, at least when they think their wives aren't listening. "Crab" was his pet name for me during this life altering transition. Calling me that got him in a lot of hot water. LOL

Obviously, referring to your wife as an "old lady" is considered a disrespectful term of endearment, in the urbanite world we now live in. A lesson, he quickly learned once we moved away from the mountains, but that's another hub in itself. In his defense,

I knew him well enough to know that he was just worrying aloud that I'd do something crazy. Living that isolated -- my getting fed up with being on the last farm on a dirt road, two miles from the nearest neighbor, six miles from the nearest paved road, and forty-five mountain miles from any town containing more than one stop light -- was his ever present concern. One he never had to worry about happening, but of the kind that you could never convince him, not to worry about.

The story I'm sharing is, of course, autobiographical and I don't mind you knowing these things, if it helps any other woman or her male counter-partner. The names have only been changed to protect the "not so innocent."

Hunger. Plate licking, lip smacking, "nothing left on the bone for the dog" hunger. It is the kind of emptiness that never goes away. You sometimes see it in the grown babies of long ago wars, the newly arrived, or in hidden pockets of American humanity. His was such a hunger. Monetary success could not mask it, at least not in her eyes. Perhaps, it was what drew her to him in the first place.

Cassie's parents had given her and her siblings everything they imagined they never had in their own lacking youths. The 1950s motto, "Do it for the kids," had ruled their household.

From the ranch-style home, to the blue station wagon, even to the fallout shelter in the backyard, a status symbol of sorts - her childhood had been a cornucopia of new found post W.W. II prosperity. Hunger definitely wasn't a part of Cassie's family's reality. Dinners may have been cut-rate hot dogs, hamburgers, or chicken, but at least there was always plenty of it.

Hunger belonged to unseen others. As the spoiled, oldest child of Depression era parents, she was well into her fifth decade and her third marriage before she recognized childhood hunger for what it really was. It was the common denominator lurking behind the core of every man she had ever loved.

Her husband, Joe, was finishing off his sixth ear of corn and about to pick up the plate to drink the butter that had drained off the ears as he was eating them. Not able to stomach watching this endearing spectacle, Cassie could only escape across the room of their cabin to the sink, as she tried to drown out the slurps by turning on the water to do the dishes.

If she said anything to him about his table manners, he'd only accuse her of being a "crab." Moreover, in part, he'd be right. Lately, she was out-of-sorts pretty much all of the time. Menopause had crept up on her without forewarning, like the realization of what role other people's hunger had played in her life. It repeatedly kicked her when she wasn't looking. Here she was, being sucker punched repeatedly on a daily basis, at a time in her life that begged for peace and quiet.

Starring out the window at the Canadian geese squawking on the pond, Cassie thought about how she'd read this mid-life event presumably can make women brood about the strangest things.

Today, Cassie would sell her soul for one constructive thought, or at least an answer to her most pressing question. For her, it was a re-occurring question of: "How it could be, in her fifty-first year, that she was living on a muddy dirt road in West Virginia, with no neighbors for over two miles and road-kill in her freezer?"

Each time she opened the chest door, it was just a little hard to get past the image of the dead hoot owl with one frosted bloodied eyeball hanging out, lying next to an equally frozen coon-tail rattler. The rattler was one they'd packed in dry ice while on vacation in Arizona and lugged it all the way home.

Thank God, these delicacies were not intended for their dinner table. No doubt, a few of the town's several hundred residents would consider them a special treat. However, in her freezer, they were just wildlife specimens for a yet-to-be-hired taxidermist to mount. Someday. More wall-hangers, just like the stuffed Canadian goose and red fox now gracing their old block cabin living room walls. All intended decorations for the log and stone home they intended to build. Someday.

At this point, especially on the sleepless nights, Cassie just had to ask herself, "Is this the life I was meant to live? Is this who I am supposed to be? And just where do I belong?"

She'd come many life times away from the person, or the girl she once was. No doubt, even strangers could see that. Rural West Virginia was a long way from Long Beach, California and the road there had been an uncertain and twisted one.

Lately, more and more nights were uneasy nights for Cassie. Long hours spent on the couch listening to their six dogs bark and bay at things that go bump in the woods. Nightlong aggravations for Cassie - punctuated by coyote howls and her domestic geese shrieking, "Danger!"

Inevitably, towards dawn, when everyone else had quieted down, came the young rooster resolute on being the first to crow the announcement of the new day, even if it was still dark and daylight several hours away. Frogs croaking, cicadids romancing, the snort of a deer, her Beagle's baying, her Labrador retriever pup's frantic response - all just a few of the nocturnal sounds cape no big city sirens or honking cars could every compete with in sheer volume. Of course, none of this was an inducement to a good night's sleep, leaving Cassie's mind free to do what it did best. Worry.

Cassie was a worrywart. She stewed about every little detail of possibility that may or may not happen. This habit was overpowering, a leftover penchant of her childhood.

It didn't matter how many times she recited her Grandma Mabel's old time adage, "Worry is a rocking chair that never takes you anywhere." Cassie's chair of worry kept right on rocking. It paralyzed her most days.

Still, in Cassie's mind, somebody had to assume responsibility and certainly, her husband wasn't volunteering. No matter what crisis was going on in their world, he snored the nights away, despite taking afternoon naps. Cassie both envied him and cursed him for it.

By day, Cassie busied herself trying to tune out all that was heavy on her heart, especially the questions about her own self-worth. At least once a day, a certain Liz Claiborne hot pink suit hanging in her closet jeered and laughed at her attempts to deny its very existence.

Three hundred and fifty dollars, and four sizes ago, it was a hurtful reminder of all that was and never will be again. It was almost as offensive as the matching stiletto heels hiding under her bed.

The entire ensemble and memory of how she once turned heads in it, prevented her from tossing everything in the burn barrel. It didn't matter how much weight she lost, or what high-powered job she could hold if she chose to go back to work, the end result was the same. The irrefutable fact was that nothing, absolutely nothing, would ever be the same in her life

The stiletto high-heels were a bug-a-boo of the worst kind. Her long sexy legs had been her signature. Showing them off had been a confidence builder and a power play in many a job. Now, with her left fibula shattered in five places, her tibia broken in half, and her ankle crushed - a metal plate and six screws were all that held her leg together.

No feeling was left along her shin, no feeling had been left in her toes, and no feeling remained along the top of her foot. All that remained was plenty of inextricable feelings leaving her heart and her mind adrift and on the verge of drowning.

Looking back, Cassie's journey through menopause, was just one of the expected side trips that all women take, on the ultimate road trip through life. Similar to that of giving birth, raising our children, retirement, and even death -- all roads leading out, have their fair share of detours, road blocks, and even a few accidents. Menopause is no exception. No woman needs to feel like she is drowning or losing who she really is inside.

For me, the very act of writing about Cassie and Joe's bumpy ride, was the beginning of the mental healing I needed to get through menopause. The acceptance that, this part of my life was nothing more than a natural process --led to remembering how much I like to write. Menopause is just a detour, not the end of the road.

Key to making this life transition go smoothly and become less of an ordeal for both halves of a couple, is to understand the changes that happen during menopause. You can help your partner/spouse by:

1. Truly listening to her about what she is experiencing;
2. Accepting the fact that there are physical reasons why intercourse may become uncomfortable or painful;
3. Understanding that she may not be "in the mood" quite as often or as easily as before;
4. Supporting her in eating better;
5. Supporting her in limiting or eliminating caffeine;
6. Helping her eliminate and restrict sodium intake;
7. Exercising with her;
8. Making sure she gets proper rest;
9. Making sure your menopause "jokes" are really funny to her, not just to you.