What to take to your doctor about menopause

The first time I went to the doctor about menopause (perimenopause, strictly, though nobody used the word), I'd rehearsed the whole thing in the car. Symptoms, dates, a couple of intelligent questions. I was going to be one of those organised patients.

I sat down, opened my mouth, and it had gone. Total blank. What came out instead was a sort of word soup: "I'm tired", "I don't feel like me", "I don't know, really", and then, to my absolute horror, tears. The doctor was kind. I was mortified. I walked out convinced I'd wasted everyone's morning because I was a bit tired and, apparently, a bit weepy.

I wasn't a bit tired. I just couldn't prove it. Not to the doctor, not to myself.

What "a bit tired" actually looked like

Let me paint the picture I couldn't paint that morning.

I hadn't slept properly in months. Not "bad night" tired. Insomnia, the real thing, lying there night after night watching the clock do its slow lap. Tired beyond tired, the kind where you could cry at a kettle.

I looked in the mirror and didn't recognise the woman in it, and that went on for the best part of two years. Pale. Bags under the eyes, and black rings under the bags, like I'd lost a fight with a mascara. Bloated from the collarbone down.

My appetite was all over the place. Weight on, weight off, weight on again, like my body was trying different sizes to see which one fitted.

I was snapping at the people I love and then sobbing about it. Sadness arrived from nowhere and sat on me like a cat. And I developed anxiety, which I had never had in my life, and started second-guessing every decision I made, which I had also never done in my life. I used to be the decisive one. Suddenly I couldn't pick a yoghurt.

Then there was the brain fog. I'll give you the worst one. I got into my car one morning, sat down, and genuinely could not remember how to drive it. Not where I was going. How to drive. I sat there, keys in hand, looking at the pedals like they were a piano. Reader, it is an automatic. There are two pedals. I laugh about it now. At the time I thought I was losing my mind, and I mean that literally, because I'd just forgotten how to operate a car with two pedals.

And here's the odd bit: not one hot flush. Everybody told me menopause was hot sweats and a fan. I'd have swapped the lot for a hot flush. This thing doesn't read the leaflet.

The second time: I took a list

The second visit I took notes. Not a diary, I'd never have kept that up. Just a few taps a day for a couple of weeks: how I'd slept, my mood, how clear my head was, what I'd eaten, and a line when something odd happened.

Laid out side by side, it stopped being "I'm tired" and became a list that even I couldn't argue with. I handed it over and the conversation was completely different. Not "it's probably stress", but "right, let's look at this properly". Two weeks of facts bought me ten minutes of being taken seriously, and that was all I'd ever wanted. Nobody cried. Progress.

Why the list mattered more for me

For a lot of women that conversation ends with HRT and off they go. For me it couldn't. I've had skin cancer, I've had polyps in my womb, and my family history of cancer needs a second page. HRT was off the table before we'd finished saying the letters.

So the list became the plan. If I couldn't take the usual route, I needed to know exactly which days were bad and what was sitting behind them. I read a lot. I changed what I ate. I moved more. I checked things with my doctor rather than with the internet, which, let's be honest, has opinions. I'm not going to tell you what to take, because I'm not a doctor and what suits me may be wrong for you. I will tell you this: I have never looked after myself, body or head, as well as I do now. It took a list to get me there.

What to take to your doctor about menopause: the checklist

If you take nothing else from this post, take a list. Here's what goes on mine.

1. Two weeks of patterns, not one bad day. Sleep, mood, energy, your head. Doctors are trained to spot patterns. Give them one.

2. The odd ones. The itchy ears, the heartburn, the sweet tooth you never had. Write them down even if they sound daft. Especially if they sound daft. "Forgot how to drive an automatic" went on mine.

3. Your periods, if you have them. Dates, how heavy, how far apart. If you don't have them, say why, so nobody wastes ten minutes asking.

4. What you've already tried. Earlier nights, less coffee, whatever. It saves being told to try it.

5. Your history, and your family's. Cancer, clots, blood pressure, anything that changes which doors are open to you. This is the bit I'm most glad I had ready.

6. Your three questions. Only three. You will forget the fourth. Write them at the top of the page, not the bottom, because you will not get to the bottom.

7. Someone with you, if you want one. Not to talk for you. To remember what was said while you're busy holding it together.

And go in knowing you are not wasting their time. You're bringing them the one thing they can't get without you: what your days actually look like.

The cheat

Hot Mess does the list for me now. Four taps a day, and when the appointment comes round I press one button and it puts the last 30 or 90 days on a single page: symptoms, sleep, triggers, the lot. I hand it over and start talking. I can still find the car.

Hot Mess is a tracking aid, not a medical device, and nothing here is medical advice. If something feels wrong, see a doctor. Take the list.