#family
Menopause Sucks Less – 14 Years Later
Menopause Sucks premiered in Eagle, Idaho on August 8, 2008. The event remains one of the highlights of my long and festive life.
I was divorced, and my son and daughter helped me organize the premiere party at Seasons Restaurant (now known as Bacquet’s French Restaurant.) My 15-month-old granddaughter attended as a special guest. I worked on the final edits of the manuscript while waiting for her to be born.
Prior to Menopause Sucks, I had written and published The Red Tease – A Woman’s Adventures in Golf and two children’s books. The Red Tease won the bronze medal for humor from the Foreword INDIES Book of the Year program, and the award helped me obtain a literary agent.
My agent, Andrea Hurst, secured my contract with Adams Media, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, for me to coauthor Menopause Sucks with bestselling author Joanne Kimes. We worked on the manuscript for several months, sending chapters back and forth, and laughing at every exaggerated description. We included factual information approved by medical professionals and added our own creative humor. We never met in person. The book continues to sell in paperback and eBook formats.
Here are some excerpts from Menopause Sucks.
“Warning: Over 38 million women are going through menopause, and some of them are really irritated. If you’re one of them, you know that it’s a crying shame that you could live to be 100 but only twenty of those years come with youthful vigor, shiny hair, smooth skin, multiple orgasms, and a flat stomach. To understand what is happening to your mind and body, just put down that shotgun and find a cool spot to read the book Menopause Sucks by menopausal maniac Elaine Ambrose. You’ll find answers and laughs as you learn about hot flashes, incontinence, hair loss, age spots, flatulence, mood swings, and hot sex after forty. This isn’t your mother’s medical manual.”
“While it is better than dying too young, living past forty often comes with unpleasant and bewildering challenges. For the most part, every single symptom of menopause is caused by one reason, and one reason alone: hormones. It seems that your body makes several different kinds of hormones that love to cavort through your body and play havoc with your sanity. Two major players are called estrogen and progesterone. In medical terms, estrogen is produced in your ovaries and acts as a chemical commander in chief, telling your female body what to do. In not-so-medical terms, imagine a teeny tyrant running through your brain yelling, “Grow pubic hair now!” “Ovulate from the left ovary!” or “Make that boob bigger than the other one!” As with most power-hungry rascals, estrogen likes to change the rules every now and then just to confuse you.”
“As perimenopause begins, your ovaries are tired of taking orders, so they decide to reduce the production of estrogen. “Attention All Sectors. Estrogen is leaving the body. Farewell party at noon in the pituitary gland.” Then all hell breaks loose and you start to experience symptoms of perimenopause. The fact that you live through this chaos is definite proof of your magnificence. A lesser species would have become extinct millions of years ago.”
“It’s a rather cruel trick of nature that you could be raising teenagers and caring for aging parents while your Generalissimo Estrogen is barking orders at your female parts, your Busy Bee Progesterones are frantically fixing up the uterus for the Sperm and Egg Combo, and your Naughty Testosterone is working your libido like a tigress in heat.”
Since 2008, I’ve written or published 18 more books, moved six times, and met a cute guy I call Studley. Due to a recent heart attack, my projects have been postponed, but ideas for future books continue to swirl in my brain and beg to be written. The proposed title of my next humor book is Midlife Reboot – Stories of Revival.
Does the Parade End at the Empy Nest?
When my kids were three and five we took them to Disneyland because we wanted to spend our life’s savings to stand in line with a million sweaty people and wait an hour for a 30-second ride. Disneyland was celebrating Donald Duck’s 50th Birthday, and the speech-impaired duck was my three-year-old son’s favorite funny character (besides me, of course.) Wishing for a cattle prod, we maneuvered our way to the front of the crowd for the afternoon Magic Kingdom Parade and waited eagerly to be enchanted. On days when I border on madness (too numerous to count), I can still hear the cacophony of the calliope as the giant duck sings, “It’s Donald’s Birthday, it’s Donald’s Birthday!”
After the parade ended, my usually-ebullient son began sobbing uncontrollably. I asked what was wrong and he answered, “Because it’s over.” At that moment I would have given everything I owned to make the parade start again, but I knew that was impossible, (I didn’t own that much) so I sat on the curb and held him until he stopped crying. What else do you do when the magic goes away?
Most of us have seen several decades of parades, and sometimes we feel deflated when the commotion stops. We recently ended the season of high school and college graduations and all the summer weddings. Each celebration deserves elaborate fanfare, but we know from experience that the festivities come to an end. That’s when new graduates realize they must (pick at least one):
Get a job
Marry rich
Move out of their parent’s basement
Invent a better Facebook-Video-Game that includes donuts
And the newlyweds realize their spouse (pick at least one):
Farts on the hour and belches sulfur
Cries about road kill
Faints at your kid’s projectile vomiting
Gets diarrhea at dinner parties
Then your new spouse gets dramatically alarmed when you sleep with a:
Humming teddy bear
Dog
Nasty magazine
Picture of mother
Yes, that’s when the parade is over and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it. We just need to sit on the curb in our own Magic Kingdom and hold ourselves until we stop crying.
Many middle-aged women experience Empty Nest Syndrome after the youngest child leaves home for college, jail, the circus, or to find him/herself. After at least 18 years of majestically sacrificing our lives for our delightful offspring, they gleefully run out of the door and into the dangerous world without a helmet or a clean change of underwear. Our tears stop when they turn around to come back, but it’s only to ask for gas money. We slink back to our reruns of the Carol Burnett Show and pathetically relate to the cleaning lady at the end who sweeps up the mess and turns off the lights.
Good News! Now is your opportunity to turn that empty bedroom into a retreat for:
Sewing, craft, and writing projects
A private wine bar
Afternoon sex
Séances with Madam Moonbeam (great write-off)
All of the above
Do it now so the kids can’t move back and bring their pet spider collection, garage band, and/or face-eating zombie. Also, you could use your extra time to take a class, try yoga, volunteer, or start a creative project. You may want to focus on your physical and mental health; maybe talk to a professional about that stupid duck song that keeps squawking in your head. Or (my favorite suggestion) become the drum major of your own parade, just don’t forget to tip the guy who cleans up after the horses. And, of course, any midlife parade is best enjoyed with a bold and liberated red wine.
The Good Brother
My brother George Ambrose died yesterday. His health had been declining, so my husband Ken and I drove 130 miles to Twin Falls, Idaho, to meet him at a restaurant overlooking the Snake River Canyon; a fixture from our childhood. He told funny stories, we drank wine, and we helped him to his pickup. He drove home and died a few hours later.
My usual response to pain is to crack jokes. After I learned of his passing, I asked, “But he ordered the house wine!”
He could have ordered top shelf anything, but he wasn’t like that. As much as we were similar in our ability to tell stories, sing, laugh, and savor good food, we were different because he was a humble, quiet man. My obnoxious public antics often embarrassed him, but we remained close in spirit if not in proximity.
Because he can’t stop me now, I’m going to write about him so others can appreciate his goodness. He was a talented artist. The drawing above was done when my older brother left home and shows my mother sobbing as she holds Little George’s hand while he’s grinning. My father plays a fiddle on top of one of his 18-wheel trucks. At the time, my father also owned about 6,000 hogs, hence the use of pigs in the artwork. (I’m not in the picture, but that’s for the memoir.)
George wasn’t encouraged to pursue his love of art because he was needed to help run the trucking company after he graduated from college. George also loved to sing; another passion that was discounted in the family work ethic requirements. He and I both were members of the Vandaleer Concert Choir at the University of Idaho. The Vandaleers only traveled on two tours outside the United States. I went with the choir to Europe, and five years later he traveled with the choir when it toured South America. I have a favorite photo that shows him adjusting my academic chords before graduation. He threatened to strangle me if I didn’t hold still.
Another memory is when were performed in the talent show at school. I was in high school and he was in junior high. I performed an original poem titled, “My Mommy Spanked My Bottom.” He did a reading of “The Cremation of Sam McGee” by Robert Service. We won First and Second Place, which caused criticism from the town folk who thought we hogged the awards. The Robert Service poem continues to be popular in folklore and poetry. My poem, not so much.
One fun adventure with George and Marti, his wife of 30 years, was when they took Ken and me to Jackpot, Nevada to see the comedy show performed by “Larry, the Cable Guy.” I laughed and snorted for two hours. I recommend that to anyone.
My father’s health deteriorated when George was in his mid-twenties, and George took over most of the daily duties of the trucking company and the farms. After my dad died in 1989, George became the owner of Montana Express. For relaxation, he loved to fly his small plane, and continued flying until he could no longer pass the physical test. On the day he died, a friend took George and Marti flying one last time. The altitude change was bad for his health, but he went anyway. Then he drove to Twin to meet us at the restaurant.
I had no idea that was the last time I would see him. We talked about arranging a family get-together at a restaurant in Hagerman. He nodded. But, there was something in his eyes. I couldn’t stop staring at them. There was a glow that saw something beyond me that I couldn’t see. Now I believe he was making the transition to another realm, and to be included in that moment, I am honored and humbled. (Ha! He would love that!) At his request, there won’t be a funeral.
My father died at age 60. George was 61. I’ve outlived both and am getting nervous. I’m motivated to enjoy every day and will try to avoid crabby people, create some laughter, and hug my family. I treasure the memories of George, and I promise to live better. I probably won’t become as humble as he was, but I’ll try. God speed, Little Brother. Follow the light.
Actinic Keratosis isn’t a Foreign Movie Star
Just when I thought nothing could get worse than the presidential campaign, a nasty growth appeared on my head and threatened to sprout into an evil poltergeist of death and destruction. At least it took my mind off of politics.
During the middle of June, I was washing my hair and felt a strange bump the size of a jelly bean on the top of my head. The following week, it grew a topknot that felt like a chocolate chip. My normal mode of operation was to ignore bad things and hope they went away, but this strategy wasn’t working. Two weeks later, the bump had grown to the size of an M&M candy, probably a red one but I couldn’t see it. Using candy as a measurement was an effective tool to prompt a positive reaction. I’d be happy as a pig in warm mud if my head suddenly erupted with bountiful bouquets of bonbons.
Alas! No sweets came with the irregular growth that became more irritated each time I used a blow dryer on my hair. I scheduled an appointment with my doctor and thought of a hundred reasons to cancel. What if it was just a blemish? What if I suddenly became allergic to hair dye and had to go gray? What if my brain was being eaten alive? What if I imagined everything and the doctor would send me to a padded cell? By then, the growth was morphing into the size of a red-and-white peppermint, so I kept the appointment.
There is a crater on top my head.
The doctor poked around my head, muttering and fussing about lesions and keratosis and surgical excision. Finally, she stepped back and with professional authority said I’d need to return as soon as possible and have it cut out and sent for a biopsy. I envisioned a crater on the top of my head and asked if it would be deep enough to hold fresh flowers or candy because that would be a nice feature. She didn’t laugh.
I returned on July 29 and the doctor draped a surgical towel over my head, gave me a shot of wonderful anesthetic, and commenced to cut with a tool that resembled a tiny post hole digger. My scalp bled profusely, and I asked if any brains were leaking. She assured me only blood was escaping and all the essential gray matter was still inside the scull. I mumbled my thanks, grateful that I was still able to coherently speak. She sewed up the wound with bright blue stitches and told me to have a nice day. “No problem,” I lied.
My husband and I continued with our plans to join other family members for a short vacation in the nearby mountain town of McCall, Idaho. On August 2, we had just finished golfing and were ready to join the family on a rented pontoon boat when a call came from the doctor. I hesitated answering because I suspected she was calling about lab results from the biopsy. She was calling a week ahead of my scheduled follow-up appointment, so I immediately wondered how many hours I had left to live. I sat down and answered the phone. She got straight to the truth.
“An aggressive actinic keratosis with a high potential for squamous cell carcinoma.”
“Damn,” I said. “I should have ordered dessert.”
Then the doctor offered the magic words of hope: “We dug deep and wide enough that the biopsy confirmed the margins of lesions are clear.”
I repeated the strange words. “The margins of lesions are clear?”
“Yes,” she assured me. “I’m sure we excised beyond the edge of the keratosis but come in Monday and we’ll go over the next procedures.”
I can’t die now because I just qualified for Social Security!
My grown children and their families were waiting on the boat and noticed my worried look. They asked if my irritable bowel syndrome was acting up again. I told them the biopsy diagnosis, and they immediately began bartering for my jewelry, silverware, and Steinway piano. I stopped their gleeful scavenging.
“Don’t get too excited,” I said. “It’s curable. And my mortgage isn’t paid off, so it’s best if you wait a decade or two.”
We continued our ride around the lake, and I used my cell phone to research important facts. Squamous cell carcinoma is the second most common type of skin cancer and fortunately is curable in 95% of cases, if detected early. Every year in the U.S., approximately 200,000 to 250,000 cases are diagnosed, and 2,500 people die from the disease. While 96% of SCCs remain localized to the skin, the small percentage of remaining cases can spread to distant organs and become life-threatening.
Most types of severe actinic keratosis are causes by exposure to the ultraviolet (UV) radiation from the sun. I was guilty of not taking care of my skin. I grew up on a farm and worked in the fields without a hat. I rode bikes, played outside, and rode my horse without covering my head. As an adult, I golfed and went boating without a hat. I’m fair-skinned and have thin hair. This skin cancer scare was the result my own careless stupidity.
I turned off the phone and focused on the boat ride. Suddenly the sky became bluer, the mountains more majestic, and my children seemed to radiate joy and purpose. Laughter from my grandkids sounded like music, and my husband held my hand as if pulling me out of a looming despair. While breathing and living in the present moment, I had one passionate thought: There is a hole in my head closed with blue sutures, but I’m going to live. I whispered a prayer of gratitude and thanked my weary guardian angel.
Proactive prognosis under my thinking cap.
I watched the wake from the back of the pontoon boat and appreciated the splendid journey through six decades of life. At my age, I’ve enjoyed more summer days than I’ll experience again, but I choose to look forward. There are more mischievous moments to provoke, more words to write, and more hugs to share.
From now on, I’ll follow the doctor’s orders, get regular examinations, wear sun screen, and purchase a millinery of festive hats. I’ll buy a patriotic bonnet to wear to the voting booth, and I intend to vote for many years until we get it right. This negative election season soon will be gone but I’ll still be here, wearing jolly hats and eating dessert.
Leave a Legacy of Laughter
I made it to my 60s without irritating too many people, and now it’s time to consider what legacy, if any, will remain after I die.
Any leftover money should be spent on a lavish farewell wake and community party. My adult children won’t be inheriting stock portfolios or trunks full of gold. By not having those assets, I’ve saved my heirs from dealing with multiple accountants, estate lawyers, tax attorneys and nefarious scoundrels who will take every dime they inherit. My kids do, however, have a chance to own my treasured collection of wine corks from around the world and several baskets of finger puppets. I hope they won’t fight over them.
My kids already have the best gift I could share: a sense of humor. In a wicked world spewing toxic drama and trauma, they possess the ability to laugh in the face of chaos and spit in the eye of the storm. These are essential skills to have as they boldly jump out of the proverbial handbasket going to hell.
For more than 30 years, their comedic talents have caused me to laugh until I snort. This raw ability came in handy during their volatile teenage years when they tested my patience and failed the test. Just as I was ready to use my outside voice when my son missed his curfew, he would come home and share humorous stories of adventure and victimless pranks accomplished with his friends. I tried to stifle my amusement, but it was impossible to be mad at him. He always made me laugh.
My daughter knew how to use silly dialects and animal noises to distract any pending consequences for breaking the rules. If she behaved beyond the normal shenanigans and anticipated my disapproval, she would race into the room, tilt back her head, grab her tongue, and baa like a wounded sheep. There was no use trying to maintain any semblance of parental authority. If I had practiced this clever technique with my father, I wouldn’t have been grounded for 40 years.
My children grew up to become happy, productive adults with loving spouses and laughing children. Their two families include four adults, five children and two dogs, and they often take vacations together. During the last camping trip, they each posed in various yoga positions on a rock overlooking a picturesque river. Ranging in age from three to 46, their techniques included my daughter’s physically toned Lord of the Dance Pose and my son’s creative Danish Flying Old Viking Pose. I laughed out loud seeing the collage of photographs.
Laughter truly is the best medicine, and my children and their children should live healthy lives and giggle well into old age. I’m looking forward to the time when my grandchildren will avoid parental reprimands by telling tall tales and creating animated excuses.
If this next generation of children inherits the gifts of humor, they will be rich, indeed, and can happily continue the family legacy of laughter tax-free.
