Menopausal Mother

 
   October is a difficult month for me. Even though I love the crisp fall mornings, the abundance of pumpkins, and the fact that my birthday is celebrated on the 15th, it's also a time that I'm reminded of the sister I lost.

     Cherie was the oldest of the four children in our family, and I was the youngest, but the six year gap in our ages never bothered her. My sister carted me around on her hip, let me play with her pet parakeets and snuck food into my room whenever I was banned from the dinner table for talking back to my parents. Those tiny care packages wrapped in paper napkins were offerings of love and sympathy from a sister who knew all too well the wrath of parental punishment.

     So much of my childhood was spent in my sister's room. We shared hours together cutting out patterns for Betsy McCall Paper Dolls, drawing Arabian horses on her giant sketch pad, and singing along to her Herman's Hermits albums. She taught me how to play Crazy Eights and War, and sometimes our marathon card games lasted long past my bedtime. Her room was my sanctuary; a peaceful place that smelled of sandalwood incense, leather, and fresh paint from her art set. Every inch of wall was covered with posters of Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, peace signs and slogans protesting the Vietnam War. At night, she'd turn on a black light that made the patterns on her psychedelic posters come alive in the eerie blue glow from the lamp. We told stories in the dark and dreamed of faraway places where mythical creatures lived. And in that dim blue light, we made promises to be there for one anther no matter what happened in the future.

     Our relationship evolved the way long term friendships do----with immeasurable trust and a strong sense of loyalty toward one another. We fought occasionally as all siblings do, but neither one of us carried a grudge. All it took was a joke or a funny face, and within minutes we'd be laughing over the absurdity of the argument. She understood me better than most, and never judged me for my failings. She always had my back and defended me at every turn. We often joked that we were the black sheep of the family----so different from our siblings and parents, but in truth, it's what bonded us from the beginning.


     Once we grew older, got married and had families, I didn't see Cherie as much. We were both caught up in work and raising our families with little time to visit one another. Her life was not an easy one; she went through two difficult divorces and ended up raising a son mostly by herself. Over the years she developed an eating disorder, along with several other health issues that appeared as a result of her obesity. I knew she was broken, but I didn't know how to fix her. I was battling my own eating disorder demons, and the painful reality of seeing myself in my sister's struggles was more than I could handle. I stood by helplessly as she spiraled downward into a vicious cycle of yo-yo dieting and emotional binge eating. It frustrated and frightened me to the point that I avoided her invitations to get together, especially if the outing involved food.

     Now I'm left with guilt and a deep sense of regret for turning away from the woman who was once my best friend. We knew each other so well, yet I ignored all the warning signs. It was too painful to acknowledge that my sister was slowly killing herself. She was lonely and unhappy, but I pretended not to see it because it was easier to live in denial. I blindly convinced myself that she would realize how much she had to live for, and that she'd seek professional help before spinning completely out of control.

     In 2009, Cherie succumbed to pneumonia during the early hours of Halloween. I hovered over her hospital bed when she was in a coma and prayed that she would open her eyes. Even during her final moments, I refused to believe that she would never wake up. I thought of all the things we needed to do together, and promised her that once she was well enough to leave the hospital, that I would take her up on her invitations to feed the hummingbirds at Butterfly World, sip margaritas at our favorite Mexican restaurant, bake cinnamon rolls together in her kitchen and do "movie nights" once a month to watch all the classics from her extensive video collection.

     Her heart gave out as I stood by her bed, and the shrill buzz from the hospital monitor after she passed away still haunts me to this day. The tears I shed were not from sorrow, but anger. Anger at her for giving up too soon, and anger at myself for not keeping my childhood promise to be there for her whenever she needed me.

     Although it has been seven years, the grief still lingers. Cherie was so many parts of me, and now that she's gone, it feels as if I've undergone a partial amputation of my heart. The wound will heal in time, but the scar it leaves behind will be a reminder of the gentle spirit that once graced my life with a love that only a sister can understand.

This fall as I watch the leaves turn to golden hues and scatter across the sky, I think of Cherie. And I will never, ever stop missing her.

     I've been absent from the blogosphere this week due to a family crisis. My dear mother had to be rushed to the hospital for a torn aorta and needed emergency surgery. She's an incredibly brave and strong woman, but this latest episode really frightened me. The experience made me realize that as our parents age, we have to accept that their health is more fragile than ever before, and that we need to cherish the gift of time that we have with them. For this reason, I'm unable to offer you a new blog post today, but in honor of my mother, I'd like to share some links to a few of my favorite posts that were written with her in mind.

     The good news is that my mother made it through her stent surgery and is now in recovery. Prayers and positive thoughts would be very much appreciated. Those of you who still have your mothers here with you, please give them a hug and tell them how much they mean to you. They will never tire of hearing you say, "I love you, Mom."



THE TRUTH ABOUT MOTHERHOOD

MIRROR MIRROR ON THE WALL, I AM MY MOTHER AFTER ALL (featured on Bonbon Break)

THE INVISIBLE GENERATION

IF MY CLOSET COULD TALK  (featured on Purple Clover)

   
      As I'm waiting in the emergency clinic to get my injured hand stitched up, I'm wondering how the heck I got here in the first place. FACT #1: Baby gates, pugs and glass mugs don't mix. FACT#2: I'm a klutz.
     I rarely get sick or have injuries, but when I do, I go big. When I was a little kid, I pestered our family German Shepherd one night while he was eating.... and he decided my face looked like a pork chop. Four stitches just below the eye taught me never to come between a dog and his Alpo.
     In high school on the eve of an important band competition, I got bit by a spider on my arm. I knew if I told my parents, they would never let me go to the out-of-town competition, so I kept my mouth shut. The next morning the bus driver had to stop frequently to let me ralph on the side of the road. All dignity was lost at that point, but for once I didn't care how green or disheveled I looked to the others on the bus. My arm felt like it was on fire and all I could think about was finishing the competition and getting back home.
     When the contest ended later that day, I pulled back my sleeve to reveal angry, red tracks drag racing up my arm toward my heart. "Um....excuse me....is there a doctor in the house?" The green infection that the doctor drained from my arm looked like something an alien would spew after eating our GMO enhanced foods.
 
      My freshman year of college I decided to get sporty (or at least look like I was) and invited my roommate to play Frisbee on the front lawn of our dorm. I'm about as athletic as an elephant on the U.S.  Olympic Swim Team, but I had an ulterior motive--- to attract the attention of some M.U. males who strolled across our campus. It was all fun and games until my 150 pound friend tackled me for the Frisbee and fell on my left arm, snapping both bones in half. Good thing shock set in when I saw the middle of my arm curve into a backward "L" like a misshapen piece of pasta. A metal plate, five screws and one pin later, I had a bionic arm that set off all the alarms at the airport.
     Fast Forward two years---same college, different friends. I slipped down a flight of icy stairs and busted up my ankle. Back to the same hospital, cast and crutches complete. My fall had absolutely nothing to do with the "hunch punch" served at a certain sorority party. I figured I might start a new fashion trend that spring when I attended a formal affair---nothing speaks sexy more than a college coed hobbling through a line dance with a cast on her leg.
     A few months after my graduation, I ended up in the same E.R. for a third time with a fractured elbow from a fall in a parking lot.

     Things remained quiet for several years until I decided it might be fun to experience labor pains. My mother popped out babies faster than a bubble blower, so I assumed it would be the same for me. WRONG. Four kids and four c-sections later, I am the proud owner of a belly that looks like I have a road map to The land Down Under stamped across my skin.
   
      And then there was the infamous Night Of The Living Dead experience. Imagine a romantic anniversary celebration at a resort with candles, flowers, champagne....and a wife with her head in the toilet, yacking up Kung Pao Chicken and imported Italian chocolates. I had one of those creepy, out-of-body experiences where I gazed down and saw myself curled into the fetal position (with an uncanny resemblance to a gray, uncooked shrimp) on the bathroom tile. The paramedics arrived just in time to pump my body with the elixir of life and cart me off to the nearest hospital.

     You know that part in your wedding vows where you SWEAR you'll stick by your spouse through sickness and in health? I gave that vow a run for its money that night in the hospital. What didn't come out of my mouth came out the other end and even the nurses refused to handle me since the doctors were unable to identify what virus I had. I knew it was bad when the staff kept coming in with masks on their faces and spraying my area with disinfectants and air fresheners. The Hubs never left my side and cleaned me up when no one else would. That, folks, is someone who takes their vows seriously.
   
      Today as I leave the emergency clinic with eight stitches, I wish I could tell you that the nasty condition of my zombie-looking hand was due to a bar fight. And that the other guy's face looks much worse than my hand. Sadly, my accident can only be blamed on my klutziness. Hopping over a baby gate with a glass mug in my hand while trying not to step on two, sleeping pugs is a recipe for disaster. I have to keep reminding myself that despite all my booty shaking in Zumba class, I am long past the age of twenty and not nearly as agile. I tripped and fell when my toe caught on the gate, causing me to land on the shards of glass from the broken mug. I never realized how badly a hand injury bleeds---my kitchen looked like the inside of a slaughterhouse.
     As the doctor stitched me up, he apologized for the scar it would leave. I laughed and showed him all the others I have. The way I see it, each one is a new story to share with the grandkids some day.
     And in typical blogger fashion, I took pictures of my bloody, stitched-up hand for the blog post that was already taking shape in my head.
     When we left the emergency clinic, I told The Hubs that I thought I deserved chocolate for my ordeal. He smirked and said that at my age, what I REALLY needed was a Life Alert necklace.
     I've survived not only these injuries and illnesses but multiple hurricanes and plenty of car accidents....so bring it on, Mother Nature and Murphey's Law. This Queen of Klutz might take a fall but she always lands back on her feet.



****Meno Mama is featured over at The Sadder But Wiser Girl blog, revealing her reasons for being called, "The Squirrel Whisperer." Stop by and say hello!