I’ve been fiddling around with my HRT, finding the right combo. I’m not under any illusion this won’t happen again, but this particular combo involves patches.
Well, easy for some, not so much for me.
I’m larger than your average, with folds and flaps and BOOBS.
The patches the doc prescribed are teeny tiny, about the size of a postage stamp.
I have to stick them on twice a week, the same days each week. That was the first hurdle. Which days and will I remember. There are seven days in a week. How can it be the same day each week and be equally spaced?
I got over my need to follow the rules and chose Sunday and Thursday. Now, where to put the patch, as it has to be below the waist. I decided on my thigh, the right one.
All good, great even. It didn’t come off when I showered, toweled dry, or yanked up my jeans that seem to have shrunk over the last twelve months.
On to patch number two.
Where is patch number one?
I can’t remember where I stuck it. It’s a see-through postage stamp. So I’m lifting one boob, peering down at my thighs, then the other boob and still can’t see it. I feel myself up and then find it.
Note to self, I need a mirror that isn’t a vanity one stuck to the wall.
Let’s move to patch number eight.
I can never remember where the last patch was stuck because I vary locations.
Because my stupidly sensitive skin doesn’t like the sticky stuff. I have postage stamped sticky square over my belly and thighs. I look ridiculous because unless I want to use nail polish remover, nothing gets the stickiness off without scratching my skin raw.
In short, I now have to lift my belly, each boob, get my fingers onto sticky residue to find the right tab on my body. There is bound to be a better way to accomplish this twice-weekly exercise, but I can’t like it this way now.