Reading books to young children is just one of the many simple joys of my life. I find a good challenge in bringing the stories to life. You’ve got to be careful, though, with such undertakings. If you get too … Continue reading
Entering into menopause is kind of like falling into a dark cave without a flashlight. There’s no way out, except blindly crawling along, towards a very faint light at the other end, and all along, encountering bothersome beasts. Oh, sure, lots of people have gone in before you and have lived to tell about it. Hundreds of these survivors have written myriads of articles and books about the process. But, still, it is a scary place, because you just never know which of the perils will confront you on your own journey through the cave, and which ones will linger on after you come back into the light. Think of menopause as climbing a very tall mountain. (Yeah, I know, I said a dark cave before, but just shut-up and play along. I’m post-menopausal, and I’m moody.) So anyway, you climb this menopausal mountain, slowly and painstakingly. It’s a difficult and challenging journey, but you’re strong and determined, and you make it to the peak. You’ve gone slowly enough that you’re now able to breathe in the higher altitude, so things aren’t really all that bad at the top. You sit down to catch your breath, put bandaids on all of your blisters and orthopedic braces on all of your aching joints, and then you enjoy the view. Once you’re recovered, you begin the slow (but easier) trek back down. (Puts that whole “over-the-hill” phrase in proper perspective, doesn’t it…?) In my case, because of some bad side effects from my chemotherapy nine years ago, I had to have a medical procedure done to block the blood flow to my uterus. The symptoms of menopause rushed upon me in a flood-level time warp. For me, the entrance into this stage of life was more like being pushed out of a plane with a parachute (but no training), and crash-landing on the above-mentioned mountain, all while being out of shape and not at all accustomed to the higher altitude. I think I just sat there stunned for a couple of years, before I started to regain my senses. How does anyone prepare for that?!
I wish there was a checklist, so we could at least choose the afflictions we want to deal with. Perhaps we could be required to select just eight symptoms from the list – it would look something like this:
Please select your preferred tortures for the duration of your travels through menopause (keeping in mind that these terrors might stick with you for the rest of your life). And don’t forget to read the small print!
____ hot flashes (imagine St. Joan of Arc being burned at the stake, and you might get a vague understanding for this particular torment. St. Joan might even be the patron saint of menopause sufferers…if she’s not, she should be. She was an amazing woman, so absolutely no disrespect intended!) This particular beast is bearable with an endless supply of sleeveless shirts, dressing in layers, setting up small, electric fans in every room, and carrying collapsible hand fans packed in all your bags.
_____ over-sensitivity to heat and/or sweating more than usual (a slightly lighter sentence than hot flashes)
____ early morning awakening (say, anywhere between 4:00 and 6:00, with the most likely time being about an hour before your alarm is set to go off, so you’re guaranteed no chance of falling back asleep before that time)
____ insomnia (not being able to fall asleep in the first place, even though you are completely exhausted)
____ night sweats (just to make the insomnia and early morning waking more fun)
____ fatigue (do you really need an explanation for this, after the previous three options?)
____ hair loss or dryness and increased facial wrinkles (because, why do you need to look nice enough to attract the opposite sex at your age?!)
____ weight gain (even if you eat like a bird, and go to bed each night with your stomach rumbling, you’ll soon be buying the next size up in clothing, and the next, and the next, unless you happen to be one of those annoying people with an incredibly healthy metabolism, in which case….PBTHPBH
____ loss of sex drive (and other related problems…’nough said)
____ anxiety (from what my friends tell me, this one is not optional. You’ll have it, even if you don’t check it)
____ moodiness & irritability (ditto, from above)
____ dry skin (not so bad, unless you find yourself constantly scratching. Buy lots of expensive, therapeutic lotions, which will do little to help, but at least you can say you tried)
____ absence of menstruation (PICK THIS ONE!!!!!! It’s the tiny hint of silver lining in this storm cloud passage of life)
____ And, finally…………..(Shoot, what was it? I know there was one more thing….it’ll come to me, tonight when I wake up at 2:00 am. I’ll get back to you on this one.)
So, that’s my big idea. Us middle-aged women will go to see our doctors with our long list of complaints (take legal counsel along for good measure), we’ll be told we’re entering into the inescapable transition of menopause, we’ll ask for the list, and we’ll check off the ones we reckon we’ll be able to live with. And, from there on, we just hope for the best, because that fine print I mentioned earlier….., it leaves us all on very shaky ground. But at least we have each other, and our collective sense of humor, for continued support and survival. Because, if we lose the power of laughter (and/or the power of prayer!), this potentially beautiful season of maturity, wisdom, self-acceptance, and grandchildren ain’t gonna be near as fun! So come on, ladies. Saddle up your horses, and stock-pile the chocolates, wine, and hand fans, we got a trail to blaze, and things to accomplish, in this beautiful, promising autumn of our lives!
My grandma status is suddenly skyrocketing into the higher ranks. A little over two weeks ago, my middle daughter and her husband welcomed a foster child into their home. They are recently certified foster parents, and this is their first placement. He is a precious little peanut, and “my” first baby boy.
(Well, not exactly my first, because eleven years ago, my husband and I were foster parents of two adorable siblings, Evan and Larissa. Evan was only six months old when he came to us, and he did become my boy for a while. He formed a very strong attachment to me [and, vice-versa!]. Larissa was almost two, and cute as a button. They blessed [and challenged] our lives for one year, and then went back to their mama, which was a very difficult transition for Evan and me. I remained in contact with the birth mom and the kids for a short time after that, but it was just so hard on the little guy, when I would come to visit and then leave him again, that I decided it was best to step away, for his sake. A year later, their grandma called me out of the blue, to see if we would be willing to take them back into our home again, and consider adopting them. By that time, I was deep in the throes of my chemotherapy side effects, and was in pretty bad shape. I didn’t even know if I would beat the cancer, let alone survive the chemo. The scars in my heart ached afresh, as I told her that there was no way we could do it. I felt absolutely terrible that we could not take these children back into our home, and I struggled for a long time to see the purpose in all of that heartbreak and sorrow. It was difficult not to look at our fostering experience as a stupid, useless mistake. However, I know that God’s ways are not always understood by someone like me [i.e, stubborn, prideful, shortsighted, etc.], and so I have clung to the hope that we did make a difference in their lives, and I still pray for those two children every day. And now, my daughter & son-in-law’s call to foster parenting leads me to believe that I am witnessing some of the fruitful harvest of that perplexing time of love and loss. I’m sure that our sacrifice led to more benefit than I will ever come to know in this life, but seeing just a bit of it is definitely a consoling reward.)
So, anyway, here I am now, ten years after our own fostering experience, finding myself blessed to be the foster Mimi of a beautiful boy. I fell in love with him instantly, and can think of no better pastime these days than holding him in my arms while he sleeps peacefully. (Good thing for him that it’s an hour drive to his house, or else he would be getting awfully tired of his Mimi hanging around constantly!) In the meantime, my oldest daughter and her husband, living in the northern realms of the U.S.A., are expecting my third granddaughter. (Plus, they have two little ones in heaven, who we never got to meet, and I do count them in my grandchild total, too!) That branch of our family tree, having recently purchased a used, pop-up camper, decided to squeeze in a last-minute trip to our neck of the woods to visit the new addition. It was a call to arms for this Mimi – “Man your battle stations, rearrange all the furniture, move the cats out of the spare room, drag out the inflatable mattresses, clear off the shelves of the local grocery, dig out all of the kid’s old toys, and buy some earplugs….the boughs of this family tree are temporarily swinging back towards the trunk!”
I proudly added another stripe to my Mimi hat, publicly announcing my promotion. I looked pretty sharp, all dressed up in my foremother finery. I had all the plans laid out in my mind, all my kids and grandkids tucked snuggly into their nighttime positions, everyone I love, all under my roof when I go to bed each night…but then, a big “reality windstorm” hit and blew the Mimi hat right off of my head. As it turns out, Fourth of July in our neighborhood is truly an authentic reenactment of a revolutionary war battle. It is not a safe and quiet place for overnights, especially in a far-from-soundproof, flammable camper. Before the battle became too intense for us, our company’s Minnesota arm swung to the west, to our property in Indiana. The Dayton brigade was able to join us for a couple of nights, but then had to return home (there are strict rules about transporting foster children into “enemy territory,” and they only had a 2-day leave to be out of their county). At least I had them under my roof for a while, but that other company went awol, deciding to remain at our personal campground outpost. Now, I had to give up my comfy bed, and all the other comforts of home, to go and be with them. I kicked and screamed and put up a good, toddler-sized fuss, but they are too experienced with these things. They gave me a time-out and a good talking-to, and went on with their plans. SIGH……
The little ones have had a wonderful time, with Papa teaching the 3 year old to fish and shoot archery. Both of them got to take a rowboat ride with Papa and Daddy, and playing in the bountiful supply of fresh mole hills has been a pile of messy, home-spun fun. It’s nice and quiet out there, with no noisy, alarming fireworks to contend with (although we did notice a few on the horizon, once or twice).
And (you may be wondering) what has Mimi been doing? I have been shopping, several times, for lots of groceries; I’ve slept several nights in an uncomfortable camper bed (with a home visit every third night, just to catch up on sleep and showering); and I have enjoyed immensely this precious time spent with my granddaughters (especially the 21 month old, whose vocabulary has taken off like a bottle rocket during her time here with us). And, when time permits, I have been working on my Mimi hat, trying to dust it off and get all the dents and wrinkles out of it, so it will be presentable the next time I have to wear it. But, then again…., maybe Mimi hats are better with a few dents and wrinkles, and lots of learning-to-go-with-the-flow. So maybe tomorrow, when the northern contingent pulls out, I will put the hat into millinery storage, count my blessings from this adventurous visit, and thank God for my beautiful family, all held safely under His far-reaching roof, each and every night.
It was a long Lent. The days of this yearly penitential season often drift by for me in a languid, dawdling kind of passage, so the indolent loitering of each and every day in March was not unexpected. What did hit me like a ton of bricks was a serious attack of fatigue. There was a week when I gave up all of my common sense and said yes to a few extra, emergency fill-in shifts (in my job as a respite caregiver), and the next thing I knew, I was working seven days a week. Within two weeks of taking on this more intensive schedule, my metabolism had sunk to a level comparable to that of a sloth. I was exhausted and could not get enough sleep. Every morning, at the incessant cry of my alarm clock, I would drag myself out of bed, pump some black tea and health supplements into my lifeless body, and go to work. While at work, I would give it my usual effort, but found myself sitting down a bit more often than usual, to rest and get over the feeling of dizziness. As soon as I arrived home, I would succumb to a long nap – sometimes drifting off in my recliner, and other times heading for bed, with the shades down and the earplugs installed for a serious napping enterprise. I was almost ready to call it quits.
The good news is, I have an 18 (almost 19) year old daughter who is learning how to cook. It’s been a bit of a baptism-by-fire experience for her, because she had to figure it out fast, or get by on easy-prep stuff. She’s used to all of my tasty, home-prepared meals, so she had to buck up and face the stove-top. She has done an awesome job helping me through a very tough time. I can vaguely remember answering food prep questions while snoozing on the couch, and later waking up to a wonderful supper. And, not only has she kept my husband and I well fed, but she has been chipping in more on housework. About this time I am thinking, “Thank you God , for this one more child you blessed us with, when we were thinking it would not be possible for us to have more children!” Not that I haven’t felt grateful many times in the past for all of my children, but this past couple of months, my youngest has really been working to win the “favorite child” award!
And, even more good news – I am feeling a lot better now. I was able to tweak my work schedule just a little, to make it more doable, and, most especially, to allow me to get back to my Thursday morning Bible study with the moms. I really missed that! I recovered a large portion of my lost energy just in time to head off on another Megabus adventure (read my Megabus Mama blog post, if you haven’t, yet. I wrote that one way back in September of 2014). I had to plan a shorter-than-usual stay in Minnesota this time around, what with being a working woman and all. I went up to be with my daughter and granddaughter while my son-in-law was traveling on business. I left on a Saturday afternoon, had supper in Chicago, did an overnight to Minnesota, got picked up from the bus station at 7:15 am Sunday morning, and went straight to 7:30 Mass (after digging my church clothes out of my luggage and changing in the bathroom!). Then I spent the whole week being an on-call grandma and mama’s helper. I left the following Sunday night, with an overnight to Chicago, breakfast in the windy city, followed by hopping on my second bus, which got me back home at 5:30 Monday evening. I started back to work the next morning.
I am amazed that I am still hanging in there, without a serious illness and/or missing any days of work. I’m not really sure how this can even be happening. I was the one who used to get serious upper respiratory infections three or four times every winter, and, here I am, pushing my self to the limit and beyond, and somehow (except for the couple of weeks taking long naps), I am holding up. When I got back from my trip, all of my clients were so happy to have me back. They all missed me very much. My weekend client, who I lovingly refer to as my Jewish mother, has gone so far as to tell me that I am not allowed to go away again for a long time! I do feel bad that I had to leave them, but, I’ve got news for them – this Megabus Mama will be heading off into the sunset again before too long. I’ll get ants in my pants, and the long-distance mom/grandma blues, and then I’ll have to jump on the big, blue double-decker for another adventure north!
The worst part of all this craziness in my life has been a total lack of creativity and inspiration, hence the long hiatus in blog posting. At this point, I am just trying to get something on “paper” to loosen up the logjam. So, hopefully, you’re not suffering too much boredom from this lackluster, uninspired story. While you muddle through, just think of it as a sacrifice – you’re helping with my writer’s block. Now that the words are flowing again, the wheels in my brain will start churning, the creativity will start coursing through my veins, and my blog will come back to life again. Megabus Mama has got her groove back!