Menopausal Mother

    It is with a heavy heart today that I write of the passing of my mother on April 4th. She fought a brave fight, and although her spirit was strong, her body became weak after multiple surgeries and complications during her month-long stay at both the hospital and a rehabilitation center. Mom passed away while I was en route from the Erma Bombeck Writers Convention in Dayton, Ohio. Ironically, the tickets for the convention were a bittersweet, final gift from my mother, who always had faith in my writing and encouraged me to attend the event. She was my #1 fan and went to great lengths to support my career. She always pushed me forward when I felt I couldn't take another step. As much as I wish I could stop all the clocks, I know I need to keep pushing forward. It's what she would have wanted. She enjoyed my quirky sense of humor, and nothing made me happier than to hear her laughter when she read something that I'd written. From this point on, the words I write will always be a loving tribute to my mother. It's the best way to honor the woman I have admired all my life.

My family will miss my mother's radiant smile, her easy laughter, her courage and enduring strength, and her warm embrace. She was the sun and the moon to us all, and we will love her forever.

***A memorial service and celebration of Fay Kester's life will be held at the First Presbyterian Church of Pompano Beach, 2331 NE 26 Ave. Pompano Beach, FL 33060 (954)941-2308 on Monday, April 11 at 4:30pm.

***For more info, please read her obituary here and feel free to leave a message on her guestbook page if you'd like. Thanks! http://obits.dignitymemorial.com/dignity-memorial/obituary.aspx?n=Marion-Kester&lc=7098&pid=179521879&mid=6875677

     Our youngest is only a year from graduating----between school, work and an active social life, he's seldom home. Since our three older children flew the coop years ago, my husband and I have been enjoying a taste of freedom as "almost" empty nesters. I cook less, nap more and I get to spend unlimited time in the garden. Even better, there are plenty of uninterrupted Cialis moments bringing spontaneity back into our lives. My husband and I are rediscovering each other after thirty years of marriage, and suddenly it's 1984 all over again.
   
     Until karma came knocking at the door.

     My oldest daughter was offered a job transfer with the opportunity to move back to her hometown. A month later she arrived on our steps with a toddler on her hip and a moving van in the driveway. The quiet serenity I'd grown accustomed to disappeared before the first suitcase was unpacked.

     Gone are the days of sharing a leisurely cup of coffee over the morning news. My husband and I now sip our daily elixir while watching Chuggington with our granddaughter sandwiched between us on the couch.

     And the changes don't stop there.

     The living room that I kept as clean as a showroom floor is now littered with stuffed animals, a toddler trampoline, a plastic princess slide and a talking choo choo train. I'm having flashbacks of raising four kids with enough play equipment in my house to run an amusement park. I'm trapped in the Land of the Wee People where there are tiny little tables, tiny little chairs and tiny little toys cluttering my home.

     My life has become one long deja vu as I stress about spilled apple juice, gooey tabletops and curious dogs choking on Lego blocks. There are glass rings in the shape of an Olympics symbol on my fine wood furniture and unidentifiable stains that resemble a Rorschach inkblot test on my couch. These mishaps are a sharp reminder of the twenty years I spent with a roll of paper towels in one hand and a spray cleaner in the other.

     I've learned that 8:00 p.m. is the witching hour for small children when the dreaded word "bedtime" is uttered. It automatically sets off a siren that can be heard six blocks away. It's the battle cry of every rebellious toddler waging a war against sleep. My granddaughter is no exception, and the high decibels of her nightly tantrums make my ears bleed. This sets the dogs on edge, and within minutes my home sounds like it has been overrun by a pack of howling coyotes.

     Extra people in the house also means that my garbage bin looks like Mount Trashmore, the laundry pile is the height of Mount Kilimanjaro and the dirty dishes in the sink are stacked higher than Mount Everest. My home has been transformed into a mountain range.

     I'm dealing daily with unpleasant odors that permeate the air, but I'm not sure if the smell is from my flatulating pugs or a diaper gone wrong. Pretty soon I'll need to invest in a gag-o-meter to determine the culprit of stink.

     Other changes include a second refrigerator in our spare bedroom for our daughter's organic groceries. She prefers clean eating. The irony of this is not lost on me since all my children lived by the five second rule whenever food fell on the floor.

      The extra stress from all the changes in our home has caused my husband to gnash his teeth down to the size of corn niblets, and just yesterday I noticed that my night guard is now sporting new holes.

     I may be on the verge of a middle age meltdown, but in all the chaos, I've found magic. It comes in the form of a little girl's laughter when she rushes into my arms after her morning waffles and plants a sticky kiss on my cheek. It's there, at the kitchen table, when I share a glass of wine with my daughter as we giggle and gossip into the wee hours of the night. More importantly, there's magic behind every "I love you" and every embrace.

     I miss the freedom of an empty nest, but I'll gladly trade it for a house full of laughter, and all the sticky kisses my granddaughter has to offer.

 
    The soft padded chair envelopes me in memories of my father, the leather worn where his arms once rested. I run my fingers over the smooth patches to get a sense of him, breath deep the scent of leather and success. From this chair he managed a real estate and banking business, arranged our summer vacations to the Southwest and designed his dream home in Montana.

     My father's legacy is now tucked away in the cardboard boxes that surround me, his voice a distant echo against these bare walls.

      Packing up his office, I come across a grainy, black and white photo that sparks memories of a father who carried me on his shoulders in the pool, made me laugh with his Cookie Monster imitations and when I was older, shared his quiet wisdom with me on a porch in Whitehall, Montana.

     The world will remember him as a successful entrepreneur who was larger than life; an intense man of intellect, integrity and power with a lifelong pursuit of excellence. To me, he was just Dad----the man who was my shelter in a world of uncertainties. No matter my age, I was still his little girl.

     At times he was imposing and strict, reprimanding me when I tested the limits of his patience. Like any teen, I resented his advice until I had children of my own and understood that the boundaries he set were rooted in love.

     There was also a softer side to my father that few people knew. He could be moved to tears when listening to a Wagner opera or the complexities of a Mahler symphony. His eyes misted over whenever he expressed his love and gratitude for my mother. And he hugged us tightly, as if he never meant to let go. When I close my eyes, I can still feel his arms around my shoulders and the soft fabric of his shirt against my cheek.

     When my father was first diagnosed with blood cancer, there was no doubt in my mind that this powerful man would beat the disease. We'd spent an entire summer together tracing his ancestral roots and discovered that longevity was in his family genes.

     He fought the good fight with chemotherapy but the insidious cancer robbed him of all the simple joys in life. The gourmet food and wine he once loved tasted like cardboard as he battled daily against nausea and fatigue. It was difficult watching a man who was once active in sports and a strong force in the boardroom become fragile and confused. I couldn't accept defeat, even as the soft angles of his face were sharpened by rapid weight loss from the disease.                                                                                                

     I realized cancer was winning the day I embraced him and felt the knotted rope of his spine against my fingertips. He no longer had the strength to hug me back.

     My father spent his last days in Hospice with his family surrounding him. I remember how his eyes lit up when we walked into the room and his feeble attempt to squeeze my hand when I sat beside him on the bed. Choking back tears, I spoon fed him his dinner and reminisced about happier times. Looking back, I should have played Wagner or Mahler to soothe him, but I like to think the music was still there, playing in his dreams and lulling him to sleep.

     We lost him two weeks before Father's Day. And just as I did when I was a child, I pressed my face against his chest and heard the last beat of his heart.

     My father has always been my idol and the inspiration that drives me to succeed. He saw the potential in the humorous stories I wrote and encouraged me to become the writer I am today. He believed in me when I was unable to believe in myself, pushing me to heights unimaginable.

     I miss his humor and the deep chuckle that resonated in his voice when he regaled us with tales from his youth. I miss our road trips, family holidays and the laughter we shared over a good bottle of wine. But most of all, I miss his strong embrace.

     I feel him now in the threads of Mahler's music and the stories I write from the comfort of his brown leather chair. When I look to the west, I see his smile beyond the darkness, a shooting star that leaves a bright tail across the summer night.



****Want more Meno Mama? You can find me this week on Midlife Boulevard talking about how menopause drives me crazy! http://midlifeboulevard.com/menopause-make-crazy
I'm also featured this week on What The Flicka, talking about bad Father's Day gifts: http://whattheflicka.com/10-things-get-fathers-day