A Day in Menopause · A Hormonal Comedy by Nurit Rozenblat
Chapter Twenty: 03:17 — Who Turned On the Oven? Again.
At 03:17 in the morning, Dana woke up feeling that someone was trying to cook her.
Not metaphorically. Actually cook her.
Her back was wet, the pillow was damp, and her shirt clung to her body.
Exactly like yesterday.
She reached out a hand to her husband.
Dry.
Of course he was dry.
"Some things don't change," she murmured.
But then she noticed the things that had changed.
The fan by the bed was already working.
It had worked all night, actually.
Two shifts had become three.
On the nightstand stood a glass of water and a bottle.
Eyal had put them there in the evening.
"Just in case."
In the refrigerator, a reassuring distance away, the cold compress from the evening was waiting.
Dana didn't turn on the air conditioner.
Didn't open the window.
Didn't change her pajamas in a panic.
She sat up slowly, in stages, because she had learned that today too.
Lying down.
Sitting.
Waiting.
She drank some water.
Breathed.
Waited.
The hot flash did its round, like yesterday.
It rose.
It washed over her.
And went down.
"I know you," she said to it. "You'll be back. And I'll be here too."
From the other side of the bed came Eyal's voice, half asleep:
"Are you hot or cold?"
Dana smiled.
"Yes."
"Good," he mumbled, and went back to sleep.
She looked at the clock.
03:17.
Exactly the same time as yesterday.
Twenty-four hours.
She counted in her heart, the way you count inventory at the end of a long workday:
A hot flash.
Brain fog.
Fatigue that had stolen her day.
Itching.
A belly that looked like a pregnancy.
Names that had run away.
A bladder with opinions.
A heart that beat with complaints.
Joints that had moved further from the floor.
Skin that asked for moisture.
Rage at an innocent clock.
Hair in the brush and one chin hair that wasn't invited.
Eyes full of sand, and vision that asked for distance.
One ear with a private radio station.
Anxiety that came uninvited.
A head that called an emergency meeting.
A libido that had gone on vacation.
A hand that fell asleep without her.
And a whole room that spun.
Twenty symptoms.
One day.
One woman.
And one husband, still here.
Dry, but here.
See? the inner voice said, quietly, almost in a whisper. You got through the day.
"You sound surprised."
Not surprised. Pleased.
"And what about tomorrow?"
Tomorrow will be a new day. Some things will come back, some won't. For most women, this period changes over time, and for almost every symptom there is something that can be done — movement, sleep, the right treatment, a doctor who listens. And you don't have to go through it quietly, and certainly not alone.
"I have a list," Dana said. "Eyes, ears, hands, a doctor. A full renovation."
You have a list, and you have Eyal, and you have humor.
"The humor is the only thing that didn't waver today."
Because it isn't hormonal.
Dana laughed quietly.
She lay back down.
The fan kept working.
She thought about Michal, who had said these things should be talked about more.
Without being ashamed.
She thought that tomorrow she would call her.
Not to complain.
To laugh.
Because it turns out it is possible to be woken twenty times in one day by your own body — and still finish the day with a smile, with a glass of water by the bed, and with someone sleeping beside you, completely dry, asking in his half-sleep whether you're hot or cold.
"Eyal," she whispered.
"What?"
"If tomorrow I'm hot again at 03:17..."
"I know. Water on the nightstand."
"And the fan?"
"On."
"And you?"
"Dry. I promise."
Dana closed her eyes.
At 03:41 in the morning, twenty-four hours after it all began, Dana finally fell asleep.
Without waking up in the middle.
Without changing her pajamas.
Without killing anyone.
And the fan?
It kept working.
For her, this time, it did only one thing.
It accompanied her to sleep.
End of Chapter Twenty.
End of the Book.
Continued in A Word from the Author
© 2026 Nurit Rozenblat. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed without the author's prior written permission.
