When I answer the phone Kate is breathless. “I’ve decided on the theme for my baby! Winnie the Pooh! It’s gender neutral!”
I blink twice. First, to understand that babies now are thematic. Second, to process the term “gender neutral” then glean that she is referring to Winnie being appropriate for either girl or boy rather than the baby being neither girl nor boy.
Despite the urgency in her voice, she is whispering into her iPhone since she’s out shopping with her mother-in-law for her sister-in-law’s baby shower—the party for the baby who is actually due in a month. “I know this isn’t about me!” she giggles, “but I just can’t help it!” She keeps her voice down so no one else can know that when it comes to anything related to any newborn, it is about no one else but her.
Kate’s baby is still a twinkle in her eye, a conversation she and her husband engage in daily, now that Kate has the childbirth bug. She has successfully negotiated with him to “start trying” in December. Something tells me he’s gonna get lucky a lot this Christmas. In the meantime, she leaps onto the Internet to determine what foods might enhance fertility (I point out that if she is anything like her mother, she’ll be pregnant five seconds after she ceases birth control). She visits her doctor to wonder when to commence pre-natal vitamins and cease double shot lattes. She prays her sister-in-law won’t take the baby names she’s already chosen. As Pooh would say, “Oh, bother!”
Last week, she called to ask whether I thought she should have a spinal during labor, or experience natural childbirth. Uh-oh—now there’s a loaded question. Her friend Dory had opted to give birth to her second child the way nature intended it. Recovery from the tearing that occurred during her first birth experience because the spinal had rendered her too numb to feel it happening had been “the worst part of all,” she reported to Kate.
Twenty-eight years ago I gave birth naturally to both my daughters, primarily because the mental image of a spinal being administered was enough to make me buy another puppy and forget being the mother of a human. When everyone was in awe that I had done so, I went with sainthood instead of confessing my real motive. Should I tell her the truth about labor pains or what I told myself when I thought transition might be my final hours on earth?
“What did Dory tell you?” I asked, hoping she would determine her path due to someone else’s advice so I wouldn’t later be the bad guy.
“She said she thought she was going to die, but then when it was over, it was over.” That about summed it up. Except for the distinct memory that after birth, in the maternity ward, where nurses offered a class on bathing your newborn, I seemed to be the only woman who had trouble walking down the hall to attend and took a sits bath for myself instead.
“It takes a little time to heal from the episiotomy,” I said sheepishly, not going into the details of that particular procedure. I subscribe to the old adage that what you don’t know can’t hurt you.
I quickly decided to offer encouragement, the practical and helpful information that, hand in hand with the silent vow that I would never have sex again, astonishingly saw me through a billion hours of labor and into blessed delivery. After all, I would like to have a grandchild someday.
“It helped me to remember that the uterus is just a muscle. Contractions are like squeezing your arm really hard.” It felt more like cutting it off, like that guy in the book and movie had to do when he got caught between a rock and a hard place…but why go there?
My motherly instinct kicked in; I wanted to spare my baby the agony while having her baby, so I should advise, “spinal.” But what about the ecstasy? She’d seen me, certifiably menopausal, still sob whenever I watched a woman giving birth naturally on some cheesy sitcom. That moment of personal triumph is as overwhelming as Rocky winning the fight. Ironically, despite the paralyzing pain, I’d trade every moment before or since just to be back there again, hee-hee breathing and willing my cervix to dilate to ten centimeters.
“Does it hurt to push?” Kate asked while snapping pictures in Babies R Us and emailing them so I could instantly see all the Pooh paraphernalia. Winnie or not, there’d be plenty of poo all right, once the diapering began. I told her that when I pushed it was quick and actually a huge relief, but many a female friend had informed me that hours into it her bearing down had been…well, hard to bear.
“That’s when you might wish you were gender neutral,” I answered.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Talking turkey about diagnostic test results
When you reach my age, the annual gynecological appointment is a rather ho-hum affair. Centuries ago I gave birth (naturally, naturally—that’s what one did to feel accomplished in 1983) to two daughters who are old enough now to be asking me, “Does labor really hurt?” as they contemplate having their own children.
Fortunately, I’ve had little to be concerned about, as I’ve maneuvered my way through menopause. A few mood swings my husband found rather exciting (“It’s like I’m married to a different person!” he admitted thrillingly during the one where I, the wuss and doormat wanted to beat the neighbors’ dog that nipped at me), and a couple of hot flashes he appreciated (when they washed over me I had to rip my shirt off), but nothing dire enough to require medical intervention. Until I received the phone call after my recent check-up.
“Your pap smear indicated that endometrial cells were present,” the nurse said flatly. “This is perfectly normal if you are having periods, but since you aren’t doing that anymore, the doctor needs to find out what’s going on.”
After reacquainting myself with all those birthing body parts and recalling that the endometrius is the lining of my uterus (isn’t it?), I made the appointment for the biopsy from hell that felt like I was having a hysterectomy without anesthesia. I levitated off the examining table. I hee-hee breathed throughout the procedure, pretending I was having another baby. I nearly fainted while lying down, sweat like a clammy pig, called it a day, and then started the worst part of any such situation: The Wait.
There are never as many seconds in a minute as when you are waiting to hear back from the doctor about your test results. I engaged in all the usual time passers: I took long walks, talked on the phone to every old friend whose lengthy conversations normally annoy me to no end, reorganized my file drawer, cleaned out the closet, and would have redecorated the house were it not made of log walls and wood floors. I waxed them. Yes, even the walls.
The day passed when I should have heard but didn’t. My husband was away for a couple of days, and I’d been on my knees reading a book of prayers to the point where I felt like I’d been on a church retreat, so I turned on Monday Night Football anyway, a futile attempt to become engrossed in the players I drafted for my family league fantasy team. I was getting there, until I heard the not so gentle tap-tap-tapping at my family room window, the one that goes from floor to ceiling and looks out at pitch black and the forest here in Montana.
My dogs went nuts. I reached for the light switch that illuminates the back patio. A turkey! A Tom turkey the size of one of my German Sheperds was pecking determinedly at the window pane, oblivious to anything but its purpose…which was, what?
It’s an omen! I thought, as I scrambled for the laptop so I could search Google to see if a gaggler portended good news. Had there ever been a turkey in the bible? I found nothing, so I began to email my close friends. There is a gigantic turkey tapping at my window! Do turkeys bring glad tidings? Maybe he is saying, ‘Do not fear, Kathleen! Your uterus is fine!’ “
One by one the responses poured in. “He’s saying, ‘Hey you in there! You in that green top! That color looks great on you!’ offered my fashion-conscious New York daughter. Some other day that might have done it for me, but today? That wasn’t the life-sparing answer I was looking for. Delete.
“He wouldn’t risk exposure this close to Thanksgiving unless he had a real purpose!” one woman encouraged. Better.
“When we moved into our house, a huge turkey was displaying itself at our sliding glass door,” my zoologist neighbor replied, “and we’ve never been happier than we are living right here! A turkey is most assuredly a good sign.” Save! I was bolstered by such a buoyant result to my query. That’s when my friend from church typed an email that popped into my inbox.
“I think he wants sex!” she said. “I think he is looking for a ‘friend’.” Sex?
Yikes! My husband was gone and here I was in the dark of night, splayed across the barcalounger in the barest minimum of clothing since the temperature had been 100 all day and it hadn’t cooled much below 90. Waiting for news as to whether or not I might have a condition that necessitated removal of my entire uterus, the last thing I was interested in was sex—especially with a turkey. Lord knows, I’d known my share of those before I finally met Brad.
"I think he wants to have sex!" I frantically emailed both my daughters while Tom pecked like mad, faster and faster. My eldest in New York had gone to bed, but her sister in Arizona answered right away. “Are you okay, Mom?” When I tried to skype her to prove their was, in fact, a sexual predator, he waddled off in a huff, frustrated no doubt by my inattention.
The next morning, the nurse called to inform me that the biopsy came back “normal.” All was well, she said (my youngest daughter was not entirely convinced). But then, I already knew that. Not even a turkey would pursue a sixty-year old woman with a defective uterus.
Fortunately, I’ve had little to be concerned about, as I’ve maneuvered my way through menopause. A few mood swings my husband found rather exciting (“It’s like I’m married to a different person!” he admitted thrillingly during the one where I, the wuss and doormat wanted to beat the neighbors’ dog that nipped at me), and a couple of hot flashes he appreciated (when they washed over me I had to rip my shirt off), but nothing dire enough to require medical intervention. Until I received the phone call after my recent check-up.
“Your pap smear indicated that endometrial cells were present,” the nurse said flatly. “This is perfectly normal if you are having periods, but since you aren’t doing that anymore, the doctor needs to find out what’s going on.”
After reacquainting myself with all those birthing body parts and recalling that the endometrius is the lining of my uterus (isn’t it?), I made the appointment for the biopsy from hell that felt like I was having a hysterectomy without anesthesia. I levitated off the examining table. I hee-hee breathed throughout the procedure, pretending I was having another baby. I nearly fainted while lying down, sweat like a clammy pig, called it a day, and then started the worst part of any such situation: The Wait.
There are never as many seconds in a minute as when you are waiting to hear back from the doctor about your test results. I engaged in all the usual time passers: I took long walks, talked on the phone to every old friend whose lengthy conversations normally annoy me to no end, reorganized my file drawer, cleaned out the closet, and would have redecorated the house were it not made of log walls and wood floors. I waxed them. Yes, even the walls.
The day passed when I should have heard but didn’t. My husband was away for a couple of days, and I’d been on my knees reading a book of prayers to the point where I felt like I’d been on a church retreat, so I turned on Monday Night Football anyway, a futile attempt to become engrossed in the players I drafted for my family league fantasy team. I was getting there, until I heard the not so gentle tap-tap-tapping at my family room window, the one that goes from floor to ceiling and looks out at pitch black and the forest here in Montana.
My dogs went nuts. I reached for the light switch that illuminates the back patio. A turkey! A Tom turkey the size of one of my German Sheperds was pecking determinedly at the window pane, oblivious to anything but its purpose…which was, what?
It’s an omen! I thought, as I scrambled for the laptop so I could search Google to see if a gaggler portended good news. Had there ever been a turkey in the bible? I found nothing, so I began to email my close friends. There is a gigantic turkey tapping at my window! Do turkeys bring glad tidings? Maybe he is saying, ‘Do not fear, Kathleen! Your uterus is fine!’ “
One by one the responses poured in. “He’s saying, ‘Hey you in there! You in that green top! That color looks great on you!’ offered my fashion-conscious New York daughter. Some other day that might have done it for me, but today? That wasn’t the life-sparing answer I was looking for. Delete.
“He wouldn’t risk exposure this close to Thanksgiving unless he had a real purpose!” one woman encouraged. Better.
“When we moved into our house, a huge turkey was displaying itself at our sliding glass door,” my zoologist neighbor replied, “and we’ve never been happier than we are living right here! A turkey is most assuredly a good sign.” Save! I was bolstered by such a buoyant result to my query. That’s when my friend from church typed an email that popped into my inbox.
“I think he wants sex!” she said. “I think he is looking for a ‘friend’.” Sex?
Yikes! My husband was gone and here I was in the dark of night, splayed across the barcalounger in the barest minimum of clothing since the temperature had been 100 all day and it hadn’t cooled much below 90. Waiting for news as to whether or not I might have a condition that necessitated removal of my entire uterus, the last thing I was interested in was sex—especially with a turkey. Lord knows, I’d known my share of those before I finally met Brad.
"I think he wants to have sex!" I frantically emailed both my daughters while Tom pecked like mad, faster and faster. My eldest in New York had gone to bed, but her sister in Arizona answered right away. “Are you okay, Mom?” When I tried to skype her to prove their was, in fact, a sexual predator, he waddled off in a huff, frustrated no doubt by my inattention.
The next morning, the nurse called to inform me that the biopsy came back “normal.” All was well, she said (my youngest daughter was not entirely convinced). But then, I already knew that. Not even a turkey would pursue a sixty-year old woman with a defective uterus.
Growing Up Is Hard To Do At Any Age
I set the carton box on the counter and waited my turn.
“How are you doing?” asked Linda, proprietor of Post Net, the postal store on Reserve Street in Missoula, when she finished with the customer ahead of me. She knew when I came in with a package under my arm that chances are it was addressed to one of my two daughters. And that meant they were not here visiting. And when they weren’t here visiting, I was battling breakdown. Fighting back the tears. I was doing a mighty job of it today.
I hadn’t always exercised such reserve. When I first moved to Missoula, after my girls had moved away from our former home to faraway cities, Linda was my safe place—I could put my packages on her counter and cry the blues. Their homes were far away from me now, when all I’d ever wanted in my entire life was to live around the corner and have everyone over for Sunday night dinner, as easy as pie.
Lest you think I need therapy (the jury is still out on this) I am not one of those mothers who inserts her menopausal psyche into her adult children’s lives. During their younger years, I was most certainly involved, and always there for the girlhood crises. Still am. But I was perfectly content to see them off with brand new driver’s licenses. I looked forward to hearing their college stories, their study abroad adventures. Of course, they were still coming home—for Christmas, for summer break, sometimes just for the weekend. I didn’t want to strangle or stalk them; I just wanted to meet for lunch or a cup of coffee any old day of the week.
Home was the same place it always had been. The anchor, the sigh of satisfaction and relief after a long, hard day, week, month, or semester. When they graduated from college and back to back bolted for cities that tugged at them, either due to a dream boy or a dream job or both, and my father went into an Alzheimer’s facility, at first I welcomed the opportunity to clean like a demon and be “just me” instead of a mother or a daughter or a caregiver. My stress level plummeted from 10 to 0, but after the dust settled, I wandered aimlessly from room to room, just to pick up the lavender scent of Clary’s shampoo, the rose aroma of Kate’s body wash, the Old Spice and vitamin B that belonged to daddy. The daily routine wasn’t hectic anymore, but because of it, I felt a little lost, nostalgic for the noise of their comings and goings. The house went up for sale—there was no point in bumbling around day after day in such an oversized space.
After we moved, I sent Clary little things that made me think of her—Pat Conroy books and anything French from deep down in my hope chest—to New York. I brought box after box overflowing with clothes I’d packed in Southern California but found I could not use in Montana. Off they were to Kate, who wears my size, is married, and was living in Scottsdale, Arizona. As fat teardrops stained the address labels, Linda encouraged and consoled me.
Month after month, and especially on the heels of the dreaded airport trip where I would drop them off after a much anticipated visit and make a beeline for Post Net in order to ship them whatever wouldn’t fit in their suitcases, she knew a basket case when she saw one. Whenever I pushed open her door with one shoulder, laden with cardboard boxes, she offered me her shoulder, to cry on.
My mother had sent me to private schools, showed me how to be a lady, and taught me everything I needed to know, including how to go on living without her. But she’d never taught me how to do this. Three happy generations had inhabited the same suburb since our family’s world began. Nowadays it seemed everyone’s adult children were sprinkled all over the planet. Yet not one of the mothers I knew was reduced to blubber and bawl due to separation anxiety. Linda wasn’t there yet, her children being much younger than mine, and when she arrived in this disconnected place, I imagined she’d do a better job at it than I was doing. Anyone would, and was. But at least she empathized.
Conversely, when either of the girls was here and I’d have occasion to mail something, I pranced through her door as ebullient as a three-year old on her birthday. The rise before the fall.
Then one blessed day when God decided to answer my most heartfelt prayer, Kate’s husband was temporarily transferred to Spokane! It would only be for a few months, but in the summer, when she and I could actually drive back and forth to see each other! After that, his company might move them to Seattle! Be still my heart—it wasn’t both girls (only half of my prayer but Lord knows, I’d take it), but at least it was one. It wasn’t around the corner, but it was a far cry closer than Scottsdale. Heck! I’d heard that half the women in Missoula hopped in their cars and drove to Nordstrom to go shoe shopping and back in one day! Even if we didn’t see each other that much more often, psychologically it would make a world of difference just to know we were so geographically close. While running errands in town, I sprinted through the busy parking lot, dodging cars, eager to surprise Linda with glad tidings.
Summer has ended now, and after all that hope, Kate’s husband decided to enroll at Arizona State University to get his masters in business. One minute she was “ so over” Scottsdale, but come to find…the next, she missed her friends there. She loves her mother, but is relieved to be returning to what feels familiar. This is as it should be, since what I want for her is happiness.
For me, if I am honest, there is no more familiar. Will I ever become accustomed to the space between?
“We discovered that drive is no piece of cake,” I rationalized to Linda when I stopped to mail Kate a package just two days after they’d passed through Missoula on their return road trip to Scottsdale. She was brokenhearted for me. Her furrowed brow betrayed real concern. Was I was going to be all right? “And you can only travel I-90 for a short time anyway,” I continued without shedding a single tear. My voice remained steady and bold. “Winter would have come, and we wouldn’t have seen each other any more often—maybe less!”
“Very true,” Linda nodded.
“She’s safer on a plane!” This coming from one who refuses to fly because there is no logical way something that large and that heavy can possibly stay in the air.
“Absolutely,” agreed Linda as, with a quick click she wiped Kate’s Spokane address off the face of her computer and re-entered Scottsdale.
“But the real reason I am okay with this, besides the fact that I have no choice, is that she is happy. She really is happy to be going back,” I said confidently, and I meant it…well, at least part of me did, on a good day. “I’m over it (I was in fact exhausted from the emotional ups and downs of the situation). I can do this for her.”
Linda stepped back from the counter, took a very long look at me, and smiled.
“You know, Mom? You’ve done a lot of growing up since we first met. I’m proud of you!”
That did it. I swallowed a sob. Without reply, I quickly collected my receipt, smiled what must have appeared a very weak one, and mumbled something that caught in my throat like a piece of half-chewed taffy. En route to it, I unlocked the door to my car with the remote while speed walking, plopped into the driver’s seat, buried my head in my hands and wept.
I’d fooled her only slightly more than I’d fooled myself.
Not so grown up after all, I said out loud to no one. Then it hit me. If growing up means I learn to breezily exist without my children nearby, no matter how old we all are or what the expectation associated with our age is, I think I’ll pass.
“How are you doing?” asked Linda, proprietor of Post Net, the postal store on Reserve Street in Missoula, when she finished with the customer ahead of me. She knew when I came in with a package under my arm that chances are it was addressed to one of my two daughters. And that meant they were not here visiting. And when they weren’t here visiting, I was battling breakdown. Fighting back the tears. I was doing a mighty job of it today.
I hadn’t always exercised such reserve. When I first moved to Missoula, after my girls had moved away from our former home to faraway cities, Linda was my safe place—I could put my packages on her counter and cry the blues. Their homes were far away from me now, when all I’d ever wanted in my entire life was to live around the corner and have everyone over for Sunday night dinner, as easy as pie.
Lest you think I need therapy (the jury is still out on this) I am not one of those mothers who inserts her menopausal psyche into her adult children’s lives. During their younger years, I was most certainly involved, and always there for the girlhood crises. Still am. But I was perfectly content to see them off with brand new driver’s licenses. I looked forward to hearing their college stories, their study abroad adventures. Of course, they were still coming home—for Christmas, for summer break, sometimes just for the weekend. I didn’t want to strangle or stalk them; I just wanted to meet for lunch or a cup of coffee any old day of the week.
Home was the same place it always had been. The anchor, the sigh of satisfaction and relief after a long, hard day, week, month, or semester. When they graduated from college and back to back bolted for cities that tugged at them, either due to a dream boy or a dream job or both, and my father went into an Alzheimer’s facility, at first I welcomed the opportunity to clean like a demon and be “just me” instead of a mother or a daughter or a caregiver. My stress level plummeted from 10 to 0, but after the dust settled, I wandered aimlessly from room to room, just to pick up the lavender scent of Clary’s shampoo, the rose aroma of Kate’s body wash, the Old Spice and vitamin B that belonged to daddy. The daily routine wasn’t hectic anymore, but because of it, I felt a little lost, nostalgic for the noise of their comings and goings. The house went up for sale—there was no point in bumbling around day after day in such an oversized space.
After we moved, I sent Clary little things that made me think of her—Pat Conroy books and anything French from deep down in my hope chest—to New York. I brought box after box overflowing with clothes I’d packed in Southern California but found I could not use in Montana. Off they were to Kate, who wears my size, is married, and was living in Scottsdale, Arizona. As fat teardrops stained the address labels, Linda encouraged and consoled me.
Month after month, and especially on the heels of the dreaded airport trip where I would drop them off after a much anticipated visit and make a beeline for Post Net in order to ship them whatever wouldn’t fit in their suitcases, she knew a basket case when she saw one. Whenever I pushed open her door with one shoulder, laden with cardboard boxes, she offered me her shoulder, to cry on.
My mother had sent me to private schools, showed me how to be a lady, and taught me everything I needed to know, including how to go on living without her. But she’d never taught me how to do this. Three happy generations had inhabited the same suburb since our family’s world began. Nowadays it seemed everyone’s adult children were sprinkled all over the planet. Yet not one of the mothers I knew was reduced to blubber and bawl due to separation anxiety. Linda wasn’t there yet, her children being much younger than mine, and when she arrived in this disconnected place, I imagined she’d do a better job at it than I was doing. Anyone would, and was. But at least she empathized.
Conversely, when either of the girls was here and I’d have occasion to mail something, I pranced through her door as ebullient as a three-year old on her birthday. The rise before the fall.
Then one blessed day when God decided to answer my most heartfelt prayer, Kate’s husband was temporarily transferred to Spokane! It would only be for a few months, but in the summer, when she and I could actually drive back and forth to see each other! After that, his company might move them to Seattle! Be still my heart—it wasn’t both girls (only half of my prayer but Lord knows, I’d take it), but at least it was one. It wasn’t around the corner, but it was a far cry closer than Scottsdale. Heck! I’d heard that half the women in Missoula hopped in their cars and drove to Nordstrom to go shoe shopping and back in one day! Even if we didn’t see each other that much more often, psychologically it would make a world of difference just to know we were so geographically close. While running errands in town, I sprinted through the busy parking lot, dodging cars, eager to surprise Linda with glad tidings.
Summer has ended now, and after all that hope, Kate’s husband decided to enroll at Arizona State University to get his masters in business. One minute she was “ so over” Scottsdale, but come to find…the next, she missed her friends there. She loves her mother, but is relieved to be returning to what feels familiar. This is as it should be, since what I want for her is happiness.
For me, if I am honest, there is no more familiar. Will I ever become accustomed to the space between?
“We discovered that drive is no piece of cake,” I rationalized to Linda when I stopped to mail Kate a package just two days after they’d passed through Missoula on their return road trip to Scottsdale. She was brokenhearted for me. Her furrowed brow betrayed real concern. Was I was going to be all right? “And you can only travel I-90 for a short time anyway,” I continued without shedding a single tear. My voice remained steady and bold. “Winter would have come, and we wouldn’t have seen each other any more often—maybe less!”
“Very true,” Linda nodded.
“She’s safer on a plane!” This coming from one who refuses to fly because there is no logical way something that large and that heavy can possibly stay in the air.
“Absolutely,” agreed Linda as, with a quick click she wiped Kate’s Spokane address off the face of her computer and re-entered Scottsdale.
“But the real reason I am okay with this, besides the fact that I have no choice, is that she is happy. She really is happy to be going back,” I said confidently, and I meant it…well, at least part of me did, on a good day. “I’m over it (I was in fact exhausted from the emotional ups and downs of the situation). I can do this for her.”
Linda stepped back from the counter, took a very long look at me, and smiled.
“You know, Mom? You’ve done a lot of growing up since we first met. I’m proud of you!”
That did it. I swallowed a sob. Without reply, I quickly collected my receipt, smiled what must have appeared a very weak one, and mumbled something that caught in my throat like a piece of half-chewed taffy. En route to it, I unlocked the door to my car with the remote while speed walking, plopped into the driver’s seat, buried my head in my hands and wept.
I’d fooled her only slightly more than I’d fooled myself.
Not so grown up after all, I said out loud to no one. Then it hit me. If growing up means I learn to breezily exist without my children nearby, no matter how old we all are or what the expectation associated with our age is, I think I’ll pass.
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