Let Me Fumble Through

A mother's ascent into menopause

I read something the other day about menopause. It was described as the time in a woman’s life when instead of giving to others, she can finally give to herself. On a physical level, the loss of life-force (blood) released every month for another potential human is finally coming to an end and that life-force can now be kept for the woman’s own vitality, health and well-being. The time has come when a woman can finally nurture herself.

As a mother, menopause also often marks the time of her children becoming grown. My young adults flap their wings loudly and strongly in anticipation of flying on their own. I fall backwards in awe of such strong-headed determination. Soon the fledglings will learn to better regulate their powerful emotions… (and towards the very end a parent may wonder when, exactly? It reminds me of labor when you think you can’t possibly push one more time and the nurse says, one more push, just one. )

I have never found being a mother as challenging as I have this past year. Toddlers? Come on, that’s nothing folks! Wheel those tots around in a stroller, fed ‘em, read ‘em and tuck ‘em in.

My big girls are strong, beautiful, and have always done well in school. They are well-respected, able, talented, stunning young adults. My eighteen year old is months away from leaving the nest and thankfully, she has a darn good head on her shoulders. (She’s worked for it, too.) Still, she’s never been an adult.

Since she was a baby we’ve loved her deeply and raised her to be a strong, sentient being. As a young adult we’ve taught her how to keep herself healthy and fed, manage her money and protect herself from bad situations. We taught her how to drive (almost died, but we taught her.) We’ve showed her what we thought were good options for her educational future…. and now it’s her choice. Her choice. Her wings. Her estimations. Her inner dialogue pulling from our words of guidance, the guidance of her teachers and peers, and off she goes…with no previous experience as an adult to draw on.

So. I’m sleepless at 3 a.m. Trying to figure out (alongside Brad) how to manage parenting these young adults while wrangling the rollercoaster of emotions surrounding our next stage of life. All the while working our asses off harder than we ever have, navigating the expenses, taking care of the house, the dogs and then… Sure. Why not. Throw in the hormonal and physical changes of menopause.

THIS is truly being an adult, I think to myself. Right here, right now. More than any other time in my life. And when my body begins to crumble under the years of immense output, it comes to me: a mother gives until she has nothing left.

Almost.

But not quite.

For the first time in 18 years, I allow myself to get support from an acupuncturist. I walk into a white and beautifully sterile, quiet room. I lie down on a white bed, in heated sheets, a mohawk of needles down my head, in my arms, ears, legs and feet. And with tears in my eyes and a deep exhaustion I slip into quiet unconsciousness for 45 minutes to the most beautiful flute music I’ve ever heard. I see myself as a crow flying high between two great mountaintops on a beautiful afternoon.

A few days later I go to a chiropractor and he intelligently works on the left side of my body which is racked with tension. He tells me, among other things, that my head isn’t sitting straight on my body. Come on bro, tell me something I don’t know.

And the months had passed with no period…and then, I get one. You again??? I say. God I’m TIRED of you. I. Can. Not. Handle. You. Anymore. You did your job and now you’ve worn out your welcome! Hit the road!

But I handle it (as mothers do.) This time however, with herbs from my acupuncturist and forced rest. Netflix. A lot of ginger tea. A lot of sleep. One more cycle.

And the kids yell: What’s for breakfast?

I want to scream MAKE IT YOUR FUCKING SELF! But I don’t of course.I make the breakfast. I’m in the kitchen (and a little bitchy.) My oldest comes over to me, throws herself around me, and says in the most beautiful, soft and sweet voice I’ve ever heard: Sweet Mama. Beautiful mama. Thank you for everything. You’re the best mama in the world. But don’t you know I would have made breakfast myself!

Ah. I know. I know. It’s a process.
Let me fumble through
Let me find my way.

The new balance between
the holding on
the letting go
the impulse to nurture
the trust that you will do it yourself
I know it’s coming

I’ll be gliding on the breeze
between my two beautiful mountains
just taking in the view.

painting by Katherine Lewis