I learned a valuable LIFE lesson today. Please read my story.

Today was my scheduled ovarian cancer screening that I told all of our followers about a month ago.  It was just a routine screening at the University of Kentucky; free to any woman over 50 years of age (the senior discounts have begun.)  The screenings were also offered to younger women who have a family history of the disease.  The day I made this appointment was a bright, shiny day.  I had no idea I would be going to my appointment in the bitter cold and snow…and I scheduled it for 8:30am.  What was I thinking?  Even with hot flashes, this created stressor number 1.

I left my home at 7:00am to give myself enough time to get there and walk the stairs up to the third floor.  But, as luck would have it, construction had taken over Rose Street, which just happened to be the street I needed to get across to my appointment.  I drove for miles in circles that kept ending with signs that said, “Street closed.”  I was about to pull my hair out!  I even contemplated moving one of the signs…it was wood planks…it would be easy.  No one would know.  I could move it…drive by it…put the sign back in place…and no one would know!  

But, the police officer to my right, who seemed to know just what I was contemplating, shook his head “no” at me.  I waved and continued to drive all over the university campus until I found the magical street that got me to the correct building. This situation was stressor number 2.

At this point, I only had 10 minutes to get parked and up to the third floor.  SO, that meant I had to ride the elevator.  I don’t do elevators.  I have been known to do things people would find bizarre.  I love to hunt crawdads and fish, and ghost hunting and TV shows about ghost hunting are my favorite forms of entertainment.

Steve and Dave from Ghost Hunters-Steve and I share certain fears.  I told him I needed to get over my fear of flying, and he said, "Don't do it Kim...don't get on a plane."  

  
But, riding elevators is something I truly fear.  I can self-diagnose myself and link this irrational fear to several incidents that happened when I was younger (I should have been a psychiatrist,) but regardless, the fear is real. 

SO, I walked up to the elevator and pushed the “up” button.  The door opens and people are swarming around me to get on.  I looked in at all of the people and froze.  One really sweet woman said, “Are you alright sweetie?”  I said, “I am claustrophobic.  I have to get myself prepared to get on an elevator; otherwise I end up with a panic attack.”  The kind woman said, “I will ride with you.”  And, her husband laughed and said, “I know CPR…you will be fine.  Come on board!”  So, I did.  This was stressor number 3!

The couple talked to me, and they suggested I breathe.  Haha!  Was it that obvious?  I could not breathe.  They said my face was looking a little… “rosy.” But, we made it to the third floor just fine.  It took a few minutes for my heart to slow down and for my hot flash to subside, but I did calm down.    

After I signed in and filled out all of the necessary paperwork authorizing the clinic to do the screening, I reflected on my morning.  So what if I had a difficult time driving to the right building? So what if I had to walk a short distance (very short) in the cold to get inside of the building?  So what if I had to ride an elevator?   None of these stressors really mattered.  You see, the kind couple who rode up the elevator with me was dealing with so much more, and it did not dawn on me until that very moment.  She had a scarf on her head, and she was at the cancer clinic.  That very kind lady was dealing with cancer.  And, her amazing husband was not only there for her, he extended his kindness to me under all of that stress.  In that moment, I felt shame.  In that moment, I felt warmth and kindness.  In that moment, I felt blessed.  In that moment, I thanked God for my life.

I don’t know if that kind couple will ever see this, but if you do, please know that you inspired me like nothing ever has today.  I will keep you both in my prayers.

Have any of our readers ever felt like a whiney baby when every little thing doesn’t go your way?  Share your story with us. 

May your hot flashes be mild and your wrinkles even milder.
Kim York

Hot Flashes + Snowpocalypse 2015= Happy Menopausal Mom

Snow.  I had never thought about it, but “snow” is a four-letter word.  And, typically I don’t like four-letter words, but I happen to love this one! 

I was so excited to hear Sunday night’s weather forecast for Monday: “10-14 inches of snow predicted for Central, KY.” Yay!!  And to top that, record low temperatures will follow the big snow storm, which was named “Octavia” by the way.  That name actually sounds more like a kind, menopausal woman you would invite to dinner rather than a scary snow storm

But, speaking of menopause, as we so often do in this blog, I was watching the “Today Show” Tuesday morning, and they devoted an entire segment to menopause…it even spanned into Hoda and Kathie Lee’s hour.  They were reporting that menopause could last 14 years or more.  They said many factors played a part, and that “The younger you are when it starts, the longer it may last.”  Really?  Really? I began having hot flashes when I was 45.  This could not possibly go into my 60’s…could it?  Well, my husband said he hoped I stayed hot as I got older.  Be careful what you wish for. 

And, for those of us who suffer with our own personal summers year round, does it get any better than a prediction of a massive snow storm?  It’s a menopausal woman’s dream come true!  When a hot flash happens, you just open the door.  Immediate, refreshing relief!

And, I was elated to wake up Monday to find out the prediction was correct.  By Monday evening, we had over a foot of snow in my little hometown of Winchester, KY.  I was like a little girl wanting to build a snowman, but this type of powdery snow would not support an Olaf.  But, that mattered not to me.  I was just happy that with snow came cold temperatures.  I must have opened the door at least 20 times on Monday. 

 No one else in my household seemed to like the snow one bit. Even my dogs did not want to go out in it.  I would open the door for them to go out and do their business, and they would tuck their tails, look at me with those sad puppy dog eyes, and run back into the living room.  Sometimes, I would open the door and they would look out the door, look up at me, look out the door, look up at me, as if to say, “Really, you haven’t shoveled us a place to poop yet?” They REALLY had to go bad before they would venture out.  And, I have to say, watching them try to find a place to actually do their business was hilarious.  They would push themselves through the snow in a circle until there was a decent path, then they would let er rip!  They didn’t seem to appreciate my laughter, but it was entertainment for mom!

My husband acted much like the dogs.  He didn’t want to go out in the snow either.  But, Tuesday came and the cars and drive-way needed clearing.  So, he opened the door, looked outside, looked at me, looked outside, looked at me, and I said, “What, you expect me to do the shoveling?  Get on out there…the dogs had to figure it out too.” 

Today’s forecast is calling for record low temperatures.  I believe one forecast said -10 degrees, and this is not the wind-chill factor, this will be the actual temperature itself.  That makes me happy.  If I feel a personal summer coming on, I will just open winter’s door.  Life is good.

May your hot flashes be mild and your wrinkles even milder.
Kim York

Ok, now I believe you. There's a stretch when you won't recognize your teen.

There are certain things that we Moms, menopausal or not, simply don't share willingly with each other. Did someone, anyone, come to you when you were pregnant and tell you that your feet would never been the same size again? Did your best friend or sister let you know that the shoes in your closet would forever be a reminder of your pre-pregnancy glass slipper size as your newly evil step-sister sized feet will never again squeeze into.
No.
No one tells you.
I've never told anyone.
I don't have the heart. The baby-making mammas are so excited. I can't stand to point out any of  the downside.
They'll find out soon enough.
 Giant feet. Raw nipples. Lack-of-sleep psychosis. They'll find out.
Along the same vein, no one tells you while you are growing a human that someday that interloper will think you are an idiot and actively show their disdain for you. Eyes will roll so far back into their head you aren't sure they will ever unroll. This may be because you suggest, perhaps, wearing a coat to a high school football game because with the windchill factor of -15 degrees.
Apparently it is a part of the developmental process. The paperwork given to me by my mental health counselor -- if  you don't have one you should totally get one -- shows that it is a child's job to separate from their parents. My personal experience is that it is especially painful or dramatic between mothers and daughters and compounded exponentially between Menopausal Moms and hormonal teen.
No one told me.
Ok, that is not true. A couple of people told me and I didn't believe them. One of the them was the sweetest, kindest, most Christian woman I know. She swore her daughters were terrible as teens. She didn't recognized them. The got better when they were young adults. I didn't believe her. Her family was so adorable it couldn't be true. They looked like the families that come in pictures frames when
you buy them at fancy stores.
My fellow Menopausal Mom, Kim, told me of the Dark Times with her now grown, and awesome, children. She also said it will fade and my girl will come back to me.
I'm not sure I believed that either.
So, I have been taking two informal polls in the last few weeks. One is of mothers whose daughter's recently travailed adolescence. I don't even have to really know you. I just have to know you have a young adult child. I just say something like: My daughter and I are at that stage where she acts like she hates me.
They nod and look sympathetic.
The other is among any unfortunate young woman who I encounter between the ages of 20 and 35. Did you hate your mother at 15? I ask. They all say yes.
What about now?
Generally, it's something like "Oh, I totally love her, I talk to her every day. She's in Bolivia and we FaceTime every night."
So I take some solace.
This being the holiday season every sitcom I watched this week seemed to have an over reaching mother shaming, begging, manipulating their children to spend time with them And, sitcoms being what they may, in each instance the child, often grudgingly but most genuinely as a sitcom can manage will see -- gosh darn it-- I love my Mom too much not to spend an evening
around the Christmas tree with her if that's her hearts desire.
Oh, if life were wrapped up like a sitcom.
But I realize I have to adjust my thinking. This developmental stage isn't personal.
When my girl was a baby and she cried I didn't think "that cry is a indictment of my skills as a
mother". No, I tried to help her. I tried to figure it out. I put myself second and worked for the better of both of us. And that's what I need to do now.
I never thought of myself as one of those moms who saw herself first as her kid's friend. But maybe it slipped that way. Maybe I thought I was protecting her by letting of some things I need her to do ...like chores or listening or being respectful because overall she is a great kid.
But, apparently, according to my mental health professional, she needs something to push against.
That is me.
So here is my job. She pushes, I stay firm. She hurts me and I let it go.
I set a rule and I stick to it.
It is a little trickier because part of this for me is saying no, setting boundaries and making her accountable so she can be an accountable adult. I was really good at setting boundaries for her when she was little. Even when she would push. Because I could see it clearly. Don't touch the stove you will get burned. No matter how much you want to touch the stove the answer is still no.
And now it is the same. The lines are just more involved. But I will figure it out although I could use some suggestions.
And I know, and I should have known all along, we are family and we will work it out. It might be a couple of years, apparently, but it will work out.
Polls don't lie.

3Ms: Mat Maid to Mom to Mid Life Crisis

I was a Mat Maid at Waggener High School  in 1982 where wrestling was, at the time, the sport.
A Mat Maid's job was to cheer at wrestling matches.
Sue Heck, the dweeby middle daughter on TVs The Middle, is a kind of  fictional Mat Maid. But at Waggener High School in 1982 it was considered an honor. If I remember correctly the boy athletes voted the girls onto the squad.
As my brief tenure would attest, skill was not a pre-requisite.
Mat Maiding overall made me uncomfortable. I didn't enjoy being so front and center with so much pain. I had to resist the urge to yell at the grappling boys: Use Your Words!
No offense to those athletes, and they were impressive, but I'm generally not a fan of grunting, moaning and wrestling unless I am an active participant.
Frankly, the title Mat Maid even at 17 it made me think of a maid who made her money on a mat, short for mattress, and, well, that didn't seem appropriate.
As I believe we have established with It's OK. Go Gray I was adorable, thanks Mom/Dad/God, but was clueless.
But  even way back in the age of Big Shoulder Pads and Bigger Hair I was aware that I was a terrible Mat Maid.
And that one particular Mat Maid semester I had a lucrative waitressing job, a boyfriend, was editor of the school paper and, you know, trying to get into college I remember getting a nasty virus or walking pneumonia. It might have been Mat Maid induced MRSA. Anyway, my Mom told I was stretched too thin and I had to let something go so, bye-bye my short cheering career. I think I was looking for an excuse to decline something that was suppose  that was an honor because I didn't want to seem ungrateful because, you know, boys voted for me!
About a year later, around my 18th birthday, I remember thinking really clearly....I'll never be a cheerleader. Which is weird, because I really never wanted to be a cheerleader. My failed Mat Maid effort showed that.
I think at the time it just marked a passing of a phase like when I was 7 and realized I was never really going to be a Pretty Pretty Princess or when I was 22 at my first job and I thought 'I will never go from reporter to Editor-in-Chief is two years' which had happened in college. Another revelation at the time was "I will never get another summer off."
(Random aside: I was also a ball girl for the Westport High School fighting soccer Warhawks circa 1980-81. I liked this job because it afforded close proximity to soccer players who were a Harry Styles-type combination of dreamy and mildly rebellious. There was also limited grunting and pain. Plus in those early Title IX Days it offered me the athletic outlet of running, climbing fences and being part of a team.  Also I, for a ridiculously long time, wanted to put "Ball Girl: 1980-1981" and "Mat Maid: 1981-1982" on a resume under "Other Interests" just to see what happened. Back to the story at hand.)
Over the years there have been some other moments of "I will never" some are poignant like "I will never see my Papaw again" others are shallow like  "chances are, I will never be famous."
But as you likely all know by the blog title Menopausal Moms I have hit the big one.
I will never have another child.
That ship has sailed.
That store has closed.
This uterus is officially out of business.
I don't know that I have ever really thought.....I must have another kid. I did think, briefly and wrongly, that maybe having another baby would right my wrong-trending marriage. Thank God for a moment of clarity there.
But more and more I am trying to think about my next chapter as my daughter gets ready to drive and go to college then on with her life.
I have had three main jobs,  two of them paying,  in my life.
Waitress, Writer, Mom.
The perimeters of one is changing and I can't do anything about it.
Adjusted for inflation of the other two one of them paid significantly better, especially in the last few years when health insurance rates keep going up, unpaid furloughs are required and raises, even matching 401-K contributions, have been non-existent at the same time workloads, required job skills and stress levels at my place of employment have increased.
So I'm trying to refigure the Mom part. (Thus, the blog)
I'm thinking about the rest.
There have been so many signs that God is trying to nudge me and, as always, I am slow to take the hint.
I got up on a recent Sunday and picked up the the paper from my driveway dressed in my non-too-fancy pajamas that didn't match and drove to the home of a long-time subscriber who had been working without success for two weeks to get her newspaper delivered.
It wasn't a long drive. I live in a small town.
But the trip was notable for two things. One, I don't normally go out, sans bra,  in Pjs and Crocs on a winters morn.
Two, I don't generally sob while driving.
I cried most of the way because my heart was breaking. Working for a newspaper is more than a paycheck for me it is a calling. It's what I've wanted to do, more or less, since I was 10. For a restless spirit who loved to write it was kind a dream job. I love all the good and noble parts of it. I am a believer in the power of a story both big and small.
It's also been a lifeline for me. When you tell the story, you are in charge and get to make the world make sense. There were times when I desperately needed the world to make sense.
I learn something every single time even when it is a topic I've covered a lot before.
I get to invest in people and, most of the time, help someone
I have to wonder if "I will never be able to do this work until I retire"
That is a big one.
I admire women who've gone back to school or started something completely different mid-life.
And I was once a girl who just picked a path and charged towards it. When I was a freelancer I would look at any kind of product with words and think: Someone has to write that, it might as well be me.
She's in there, I guess, but she seems diminished and not quite up for another big bold run.
I am pretty sure I'm not alone in these feelings.
I believe it is called a Mid-Life Crisis
I just know it makes me incredibly sad. A few weeks ago I was at a lunch with a bunch of nice people who all devote their lives to helping others. My daughter was with me. Someone I really respect introduced me as being "a really great reporter".  For the first time ever, I wished she could think of something else nice to say.