A Mid-Winter's Day Nightmare

Guess what I got to do last week?  After the eggnog, cookies, hors d’oeuvres, turkey, ham, wine and gingerbread, I went shopping for a bathing suit.  I don’t know too many middle-aged women who enjoy bathing suit shopping at any time of year. But when the holiday over-indulgence chickens have come home to roost – on my hips and thighs --bathing suit shopping is the last thing on my list.  OK – maybe not the last – but it’s a close third.  Right behind pap smears and mammograms.

I shouldn’t complain.  (But I will.) As you may have guessed, I need this bathing suit because I’m going somewhere warm and sunny.  My husband and I are heading down to Panama for three weeks.  The last time we were there, I left my favorite bathing suit behind.  I wasn’t too sad because while it was comfortable, it wasn’t very flattering and I had had it for a long time. No love lost there.  My other bathing suit was bought hurriedly before our last trip.  It was one of those “look instantly ten pounds thinner” suits – the kind that is all crinkled up in front as an attempt at optical illusion.  But it feels like what I imagine a corset must have felt like.  It’s hard to breathe deeply and I periodically get lightheaded if I don’t concentrate on getting enough oxygen.  If I fall asleep with it on, I have nightmares involving boa constrictors and being buried alive. Although my waist does look smaller, my head and legs look huge because the excess flesh is forced out either side of the suit – like one of those balls you squeeze to reduce stress.  The ten pounds are merely redistributed.  I am tempted to reach for a pair of scissors when it’s time to take that sucker off.  When, exhausted, I have finally peeled myself out of it, I feel such relief – probably the way poppin’ fresh dough feels right after it’s rapped against the counter.  In other words, I don’t like that suit at all.

They say that styles return.  I have longed for my grandmother’s era bathing costumes to come back into fashion – but I didn’t think it would happen before we had to leave so, alas and alack, the deed had to be done. Having recently lost 15 pounds I was even a little curious to see how this spree would go.  Maybe it wouldn’t be as painful as the last time.

I headed up to Northgate. First stop, Nordstrom.  I thought I’d see what the other half wears on the beach and then see if they had the same thing or something similar at Ross or Target.  Who knows, I thought, maybe I’d find a suit that I liked there and even if it was a tad on the pricey side, if it made me look and feel good, well, I could find a way to justify the expense.

After longingly eyeing the moo moos and maternity clothes, I headed for “Active Wear” and perused the sparse racks, avoiding anything that was crinkled in front. (Fooled me once – not going there again.)  I found a few that looked possible and tried them on.  Not great, but not bad.  I was mildly encouraged.  Then I found it.  A beautiful greenish gold, simply cut, modest yet sexy, feminine, classic suit.  And it fit.  And it looked good. Unbelievable!  Could this be it?  Could I have found a suit on the first try?  I reached for the price tag, fingers crossed, but the price was missing. The sales assistant came back to check on me (I love that. It doesn’t happen in the stores I normally shop in.) I asked her if she could find the price for me.  “Of course,” she said pleasantly.  Behind the closed door, I choked back tears of gratitude.  I tried on a few other suits while waiting but they didn’t compare. Two light raps on my dressing room door and then the words:  “One hundred and seventy eight dollars.”  Wha wha wha….  The bubble burst.  This is NORDSTROM, Irene, and this is what it costs to look good in a bathing suit in your mid-50’s.  But there is no way I can rationalize spending that kind of money on the tiniest item of clothing in my wardrobe.

After considering the possibility that you have to be rich – or 20 - to look good in a bathing suit, I let it go.  Not meant to be. I went back out for one last look around before heading to the discount stores.

Standing next to me I noticed a woman roughly my age, admiring a suit on the adjacent rack.  “Oooh this is so cute,” she said.  We smiled at each other in recognition -- like two people traveling in a foreign country discovering they speak the same language.  “It wouldn’t look the same on as it does off, though,” she said. “I know what you mean,” I agreed, “I keep forgetting that I don’t have that body anymore.” We both laughed and continued looking at the suits. Suddenly, she stopped, looked right at me and said,  “But you know, I have come to realize that I am a really interesting, strong, beautiful woman and I would trade that body any day for what I am now.”

We talked about the way we were in our 20’s.  We both thought we were fat and were hypercritical of ourselves back then.  We had no idea what was coming and so we couldn’t – or didn’t - enjoy what we had.   How could we know that in our 50’s we would look at pictures of ourselves in our 20’s and discover, too late, that we were babes!  Beauties!  Just think when we are in our 80’s what we will say about our 50-year-old selves.  We will see youth and beauty.  We will, once again, wonder why we were so down on ourselves when we looked so good.

Christiana Northrup, in her book, Women’s Bodies, Women’s Wisdom, writes that women between 49 and 55 experience hormonal balance once again, freeing them to pursue creative interests and social action.  “These are the years when all of a woman’s life experience comes together and can be used for a purpose that suits her and at the same time serves others.”  In spite of the media and pharmaceutical companies’ efforts to depict menopause as a dry wasteland – the end of the road -- Northrup points out that during menopause, women discover a “deeper and freer experience of self.”  In Celtic cultures, menopausal women were believed to “retain their wise blood,” ceasing the constant ebb and flow of cycles and thereby becoming more powerful than younger women.  It was only after menopause that a woman could become a shaman.  In Native cultures, menopausal women were “the voice of responsibility towards all children, both human and nonhuman…unafraid to say a strong no to anything that did not serve life.”  These women were looked to by their younger counterparts for education and initiation into this knowledge and responsibility. 

Bathing suits aside, my new friend and I agreed that we are right where we want to be.

Yeah – we’re really good.  Right now.  And it’s only gonna get better.  We high-fived each other and moved on.  Her to who knows where, me to Ross where, by the way, I found two fabulous suits that looked great and cost under $50 – total.

(originally published winter of 2012)

Finding Your Way Home

 I used to fall in love twice a month.  Every other weekend, without fail, it happened. And always with the same man. Luckily it was the man I was – and am – married to.

The trigger was my husband’s bi-monthly call to his father.  For an hour I’d hear laughter and tenderness as he filled his dad in on the latest news:  kids’ accomplishments, work successes, things that would make his dad proud and give him something to brag to his friends about.  Glowing summaries commonly reserved for holiday letters and reunion bios.  And, eventually, elderly parents. 

As a stand-alone event it was pretty sweet.  The thing that really moved me, though, was that my husband’s relationship with his father was not exactly storybook.  His father was an angry man who took out his frustrations on his children.  Criticism, abuse and fear were constant members of the family. It’s a miracle that my husband grew up to be the gentle man he is.

In spite of the history between them, he called.  In spite of having become a father and realized the power of words and actions in forming a child’s character, he called.  He chose the high road, stayed in touch, called his father regularly and gave him an hour that would keep him going until the next call.  

It was not a choice everyone would make, understandably, given the past.  But he did.  And as I overheard pieces of the conversation, I would feel that delicious feeling of loving someone where your body feels warm and soft and your heart feels like it’s expanding to its limits.

It was also a poignant lesson in sticking with something or someone no matter how hard, no matter how many times you get rebuffed or discouraged and no matter how angry it makes you.  Some people in our lives are toxic and should avoided.  But if you find you care enough to want to know why a person is the way they are; if you have even an inkling that there is a good soul underneath the prickles and barbs; and especially if this person is a one and only in your life, then it’s worth the work to find your way back home.

Changing Places - Sort of...

I have heard that this day would come. The role-reversal. The day when we, as adult children, would care for our aging parents. But I could not imagine my parents ever needing help from me. Not my strong, funny, surgeon father, unwavering in his convictions, his intelligence, his “dad-ness.” And certainly not my beautiful, smart, energetic mother who ran a family of nine with a firm and loving hand, who had all the answers and who invented the phrase, “my way or the highway.”  My parents would just keep going until they dropped.  If they dropped.  It seemed to me that they could live forever. I hoped so.

But here I am, on a plane, on my way to DC.  My father is housebound with Parkinson’s syndrome and dementia. He needs to be fed, dressed, and much to his horror if he were fully conscious of it, occasionally changed and cleaned. 

My mother, recovering from leg surgery, cannot be on her feet for long periods of time. She can’t cook or clean or care for Dad as she has, amazingly, done for years. So my sisters and I are rotating in to help out for a week at a time, along with aids (who have become like family members) who come in to do the moving and lifting and the really hard stuff. 

My job will be to shop, cook, clean, feed Dad, help my mother bathe and take her to doctor appointments and church. When was the last time I helped someone bathe? Fed someone? Did laundry for anyone other than myself? Drove anyone to a doctor appointment?  That’s right – when my children were…children. So, yes, the time has come. I just didn’t know it would feel like this.

Mid-Life? Bring it On!

            Has it happened yet? Have you been called “M’am” at the supermarket?  Have you woken up and looked in the mirror to find your mother staring back at you?  Do you perform an occasional strip-tease during a business meeting as a hot flash comes on? Or have you noticed men staring as you walk past them on the street – not at you as they once did – but at your daughter?

            Or how about this…

You’re out with your husband, enjoying cocktails with some work associates after a holiday party.  You feel pretty good in the outfit you bought for the occasion – it’s swishy, slimming, and youthful.  You’re chatting and laughing with the other wives and you notice that they pay close attention when you speak.  Ahhh!  I’m fascinating as well as gorgeous tonight, you think.  The other women are a bit younger than you; their children home with a babysitter while your teenagers are out with friends.  It seems like just yesterday that you were forced to keep glancing at your watch, as these women do, to be sure you wouldn’t be late for the babysitter.  The talk turns to the wear and tear motherhood puts on women’s looks.  “Wait until they’re teenagers,” you throw out casually but with an air of authority.  One of the women counters with “But you look great!”  Before you have time to take in the compliment she adds, “I hope I look as good as you when I’m your age.” 

           (SOUND OF TIRES SCREECHING ON PAVEMENT.) 


          When I’m your age?  When I’m YOUR age?  Suddenly the noise in the bar begins to fade, taken over by a weird humming sound as all the blood in your body rushes into your ears and your brain tries to sort out what this statement means.  How old do they think I am?  What do I look like from their perspective?  Were they paying such close attention to my comments because they see me as their elder, wiser counterpart – the Village Crone?  You do your best to appear engaged in the conversation but the internal dialogue is too loud and you find yourself wishing you had the excuse of a babysitter to hurry you out of the bar.  Your makeup feels like it’s melting and the bulge around your waistline feels suffocating.  The clock has struck midnight and Cinderella suddenly ain’t lookin’ so good anymore.

Scenarios like these are happening to me with increasing frequency.  I am often (too often to ignore it) mistaken for my younger sister’s mother.  I’m blown away when it’s time to get my driver’s license photo re-taken and I see the difference between the old picture and the new one.  And what about invisibility?  I always thought it would be cool to have a super-power, but I was thinking more about, say, flying... or x-ray vision... or time travel...    than becoming invisible to entire sidewalks full of people younger than I.

Let’s face it.  We live in a youth-worshipping culture where women (and men -- guys are not entirely exempt from this phenomenon) are pressured to dye their hair, lift their lids, nip and tuck chins, necks, breasts and butts.  In short, to do anything but allow the natural process of aging to occur.  There is a sense of something coming to an end, of being about to topple into the abyss of old age where society will view and treat you differently. 

So what do we do?  Do we just disappear?  Do we give up and resign ourselves to the end of life as a vibrant, worthy, physically beautiful person?  Or do we embrace the change, accept the results, and rejoice in the freedom that can come from letting go of the superficial?   We certainly would not be alone if we chose that approach – far from it. 

New Studies Show Estrogen linked to Mothers' patience for teenage angst............ Warning: Some material may be unsuitable for pre-menopausal mothers

At 2:00 in the morning I have my most profound revelations.

Last night (or rather early this morning) I had an epiphany that could change the way we view menopause and mothering.  I fell asleep at the usual time, book on my chest, glasses askew on my face.  Shortly thereafter I came to the surface just enough to stash my book and glasses, turn off the light and adjust my pillow.   Ahhh....  But then, instead of sinking into REM sleep per usual, I was wide awake like someone had just screamed "FIRE!!"  And what was the first thing that popped into my mind?  My daughter.  My 18 year old, red-headed daughter, who is finishing high school (by the skin of her teeth) and figuring out what next year will bring.  Who has made some choices this year that, on paper sounded fine, grand even.  But in reality did not pan out as promised and have me really concerned.

So I lose sleep. But instead of merely fretting and worrying, I am angry.  Angry because at age 54, I am definitely ready for this to end.  After 23 years of nurturing, soothing, worrying, loving, commiserating, adjusting, psycholigizing, praying, hoping, crying, laughing...  I'm just about out of steam!  I still love my kids dearly.  Still want for them all the things I ever have.  Still rejoice when they are successful and happy and share the times that are disappointing.  But the difference is, when a problem arises that I know will need dissecting, counseling, working through, and loads of patience on my part, what I really want to say is, "GET OVER IT!" I just don't know how many more of these episodes I have left in me.   

Dad's Hands

I just spent a weekend with my parents.  My father has dementia related to his Parkinsons and the disease has progressed to the point where his words don't really make much sense any more.  There are rarely full sentences and never two sentences in a row that go together.  Conversation is non-existent because meaningful exchange is not possible.  The type of dementia he has eats away at his brain, leaving the equivalent of holes, robbing him of his ability to string coherent thoughts together.  That's the best lay explanation I can come up with.

However there are occasional moments of lucidity when he is grasping for words - when he is desperately trying to express something.  At one such point I said, "Dad, is it frustrating to want to say something and not be able to find the words?"  He looked at me with his eyes wide open and clear and said, "YES!"  He was there with me just for a moment. And then he returned to unrelated words, strange hallucinations, anxiety and mood swings.

Towards the end of my visit, as I was leaving in fact, I knelt down in front of his wheelchair, laid my hands over his which were crossed on his lap, and looked in his eyes.  "Dad, I'm leaving now.  I'm going back to Seattle to be with Dan, Sarah and Julia.  I love you, Dad.  I have enjoyed our visit and I'll miss you - but I'll be back...  I love you, Dad."  He looked at me hard as if he was trying to follow, trying to grasp the meaning of my words, trying to find this familiar place that is becoming more and more distant for him as his illness progresses.  He didn't say anything.  Just looked at me.  But I could see that he wanted to say something.  Wanted to participate in this exchange.

When was the last time I had a conversation with my Dad?  I can't remember.  This disease has been slowly taking his mind and I can't remember when we last spoke without the illness getting in the way.  There was a time in the kitchen, about a year and a half ago, during breakfast, before his meds kicked in, when we talked sweetly, and I reminded him that the reason he forgets and feels confused is because of the Parkinsons.  "Oh really?" he said.  "That's what it is?"  But what about the political sparring we used to do?  What about the long conversations we'd have about life and nature and my kids and growing older?  Once when I was in Canada on vacation on our boat, we talked for so long that I went over my long distance minutes.  I thought my husband was going to have a fit, but I didn't care.  I knew this was precious time.  But I didn't know just how precious.

All is calm, all is bright.

Yes, Christmas IS over.  I have been baffled as to why I feel it so acutely this year.  Why am I crying so much, grieving so much?  What is it?  Normally, I am relieved when all the madness has passed.  I love the post-Christmas time. 

I was pondering this, baffled and weepy, when it struck me.  This was the last Christmas when both my daughters will be living at home.  This time next year, Sarah will be living in her own apartment and Julia will have moved out to attend college.  Instead of waking up with them in the house, they will be coming home for Christmas - possibly sometime late morning!  Oh...  maybe they will come home for Christmas eve and spend the night.  But they might not.  It will be their choice.  I hope they will choose to be with us on Christmas Eve but I can no longer hang on to that expectation - especially for Sarah.

Here's the tricky part.  Accepting whatever it is they decide.  Not being disappointed.  Not taking it as a personal affront to the years I spent creating a sense of holiday in the house.  Not interpreting it as a rejection, but celebrating it as a graduation to a different phase of our family life.

On Christmas Day, I looked out the window of the boat and saw our neighbor's adult children walking down the dock towards their boat, arms laden with packages and smiles lighting up their faces.  That's nice, I thought.  I can get used to that.  Imagine the joy of hearing the knock on the door and knowing "they're here!"  Especially if their lives are productive and happy and independent.  Yes - that will be good.  Dan & I will spend the morning preparing a lovely brunch.  Gifts will have been wrapped - not in secret - but out in the open the night before.  It will be good.  It will....

To tell the truth, the last few years in the house, I found myself decorating the tree by myself, quite sad that the kids had better things to do and absolutely zero interest in oohing and aahhhing over the cherished ornaments.  It was winding down already, but I was holding on to it for dear life.  Especially as I knew the house sale was inevitable.

This year I asked, "does anyone want to bake Christmas cookies?"  (Both girls are trying to avoid wheat and both are working on maintaining a healthy weight - especially during the holidays.)  "Nah," came the reply.  I was not disappointed.  Not at all.  I was relieved.

I think I am going to like this.  I think I've been waiting for it for a long time.  A holiday where we are adults and we enjoy each other as such.  When the grandchildren come, I may steal them away for a  bit to resurrect some of the fun.  But for now - this is just fine.

Hold that thought.