Redhead Amok in Antarctica
The Cold That Pauses
I was steaming. Literally. I stood outside at -72F, in a windchill hovering around -110F, and I had shed my Big Red parka, taken off all but my thin wool beanie, and was in my polypro liners. But still, I was steaming in the cold from the heat radiating from my body. My face, if you could have seen it in the dark moonless night of blowing snow particles and snow fog, was bright red. Sweat rolled down my cheeks, but mostly froze the instant it oozed from my pores. My eyelashes were rimed and sticking to my wet cheeks, eyes brimming with warm tears moistening my dry eyeballs.
I formed my own fog, heat rising from my body, and still I could have disrobed to my skin against the elements and been quite comfortable. This was my first ever outdoor hot flash at Pole.
I am menopausal.
I had begun skipping or doubling and even tripling periods in the last year or so. My normal habit of the 23 day cycle--in which I knew when I ovulated and had just a few days of light flow with a few hours of pale cramping for which I took painkillers for convenience not unbearability--had been completely upended. Last summer I had a 4-6 week period in which I did not get a period at all, but was blessed with regular steaming hot flashes that had me dressing in snap button shirts over my tank top so I could have the pleasure of yanking and popping my shirt open instantaneously (if loudly and violently) to cool off. I hiked in Denali National Park under these circumstances, and would have scared bears off with my constant unsnapping and resnapping.
But I once more settled into regularity of both bleeding and temperature and started on my Summer season at Pole. I missed one period during the season. Then started my winter and all hormonal hell broke loose. My period now ghosts through my panties or hemorrhages for weeks on end. My nights, though not flushed and sweaty, are disrupted by the flux of my body's hot/cold ratio. I toss and turn, too hot for covers, then too cold for skin against air, then back to too warm. I have not had hot flashes of the sort that necessitate the changing of pajamas or sheets, but I am regularly removing and replacing covers throughout the nights.
But on Monday as I dressed for the outdoors, I could feel my temperature rising. I dismissed it as the normal feeling of warmth that comes with wearing as many layers of warm clothing as I had on whilst still inside. But even as I descended into the darkness down the snowy stairs at DZ (Destination Zulu) and headed out to check on my Waste Line (the line of triwalls close to the station where station waste is put) I could feel myself building up a sweat. Perhaps the slow onset had much to do with my body's shock at the sudden influx of cold, but it pulled its hormonal charge together and fended off any feeling of cold as I opened each bin, climbing inside a few to tramp down the contents and make space for a few more bags.
I was soon headed to the Waste Yard to build new triwalls, stepping heavily and slowly through the fog, aiming in the general direction of one of the small lights outside the BIF (Balloon Inflation Facility, where the meteorologists launch their daily weather balloon). The moon was still evident in the sky, but only as a fuzzy fingernail of light low on the horizon over my waste berms to the left, not bright enough to provide anything but direction, certainly shedding no light on the plateau. I squinted and stumbled in the darkness, but sure of my general direction, until I came upon my Waste Yard, vague darker shapes on the snow.
By the time I arrived I was shedding ECW gear like I had just walked into a 200 degree sauna fully-clothed, drinking hot chocolate. This, I knew now, was not sweat from effort, but the ridiculous heat of a hot flash. I figured any satellite passing overhead would register me as some kind of moving thermal event and would report me to a committee of military and scientific experts to be investigated. I had to be on some kind of radar.
It's not that I was impervious to the cold, no, I still felt it. In fact, I felt it on a deeper level than on previous trips outside. I was wet through my many layers of long underwear, and my body--as seemingly steaming hot, as much heat as the cold polar air reacted against, blanketing me with rising ice crystals of a personal frozen fogbank--was still vulnerable and distantly chilled feeling. The contradiction in temperatures, and what I was sensing within my body, was fascinating. I was probably hypothermic, yet my mind read my body, and the cold air reacted against the heat I was putting off, without charging my core temperature up high enough not to feel the cold creep inside.
Soon enough, through the efforts of building several triwalls, large and small, I could feel the flash fading. Soon I was standing, near naked against the chill air and wind, without the internal heat raging and keeping me in the illusion of warmth. And I was wet, through and through. I quickly donned my hats and gloves and parka and headed over to the closest warm building near my Waste Yard, the Rodwell.
I did not head for the well-lit comforts of the station, or the closer BIF, or my Haz Palace, but raced as fast as my boots and weight could be moved to the VERY closest warm building to me. My temperature had dropped precipitously and I was wet outdoors at temperatures you cannot even imagine until you have experienced them. I stormed into the Rodwell, our source of water the Rodriguez Well, and threw my jacket off again, and hugged the warm boiler like a long-lost lover until I took the chill off and felt somewhat more equilibrium. In about 15 minutes my magical long underwear had wicked away enough of the moisture against my body, and the dry Antarctic air had removed the rest of the moisture, or at least enough to lend me the illusion of dryness and warmth.
I dressed again, and returned to my Waste Yard to finish building my triwalls. I still felt the chill up my legs, on the backs of my thighs, and could follow the folds of my damp clothes as I bent and pulled and strapped and cracked the triwalls into shape. But the sweat of effort, and the heat of hard work were sufficient to keep me going until lunch.
I did disrobe to my skin after my retreat to the station for lunch. I spent my lunch break with all my layers of long underwear in the dryer drying. I had to head back outside after lunch and even a mild feeling of damp was going to be just too much at this point. My body temperature had probably fluctuated more ridiculously than bearable and I knew I would be vulnerable to the slightest chill, so a start with warm dry clothes against my skin would be vital.
In the battle of my hormones vs cold polar air, I'd say, though it wasn't a complete smackdown win on the part of hormones, they still held their ground against the heavy hand of the Polar Plateau in winter.
Next time the battle ensues, I'll be staying inside for it. I don't need to be deep in the dark of my furthest berm shoveling a space out when I get hit by another one of those personal thunderstorms, and at the first hint of internal rain I'll be headed back to the station. The window between my overheated self giving the steamy finger to the extreme cold and my wet self vulnerable and too cold to walk back to safety was a small one.
And my epitaph will not read "Death By Menopause at the South Pole".
posted by: coldwish at 05/20/09 21:41 |
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south pole waste winter 2009
