My moms gone, my dad's mind is going

After four years you'd think it would have gotten easier to go into their house.  I've hated going into that house since my mother died.  It's more than hate really.  You know the feeling.  Your chest tightens, you can't breath right, you start to sweat.  It's awful and I don't know how to stop it.

And now, with my dad not living there it's even worse.  The walls are bare, bookshelves are barren and the for sale sign is planted firmly in the front lawn. 

This weekend there will be a yard sale, hoping to sell the last bits of furniture that the family hasn't claimed. I feel like a part of me has died all over again.  My moms gone, my dad's mind is going and I just can't seem to get a grip on it all. 

A week before mom died, she had made the decision that it was time.  She had had enough. She was in a nursing home with the hopes of getting strong enough to go home again.  That was not to happen.   With each passing day, she got weaker and weaker and it was then and there she decided it was time for her to go "home".  And within in a week, she did.

When my mother made that decision, she informed the Dr.s that she wanted to go to hospital, they agreed and off she went. 

My husband and I met the ambulance at the emergency room with our granddaughter in tow.  When they brought my mother in on the stretcher, she was lucid but a bit slurred; hurried but not anxious.

Taking my hand, she was trying to tell me something but just couldn't get the right words out. 

She kept repeating the same thing over and over about what she wanted and I just couldn't get it.  And then I finally did.  It was the name of the funeral home where she wanted to be laid out.  At the same time my aunt and uncle arrived who had been visiting with her that day and pulled my husband aside..  They filled him in on my mom's decision that she was done; no more tests, needles or medications.

Knowing this information, needless to say, I burst into tears.  My mom is telling me where to be laid out and now I know why.  With that, she took my hand and asked me if was ok for her to want to stop fighting, to want just finally rest.  What can you say to that?  How selfish can a daughter be?  Should I have said to her to keep fighting for me, to keep living so her family could see her but for her to be miserable and in pain?  Of course not...

I told her it was ok; that I loved her and I put my head on her chest and cried.

For the next several hours in the ER while waiting for a room, family members coming and going, our mother proceeded to tell us while going in and out of lucidity what to have at her wake; make sure your dad doesn't cook, and to please make sure we have chips.  If it wasn't so sad it would have been funny.  This lady was serious.

It was a difficult week to say the least.  Until we could get her into hospice, she was uncomfortable, unable and unwilling to eat and so frail.  Our dad was in denial, wanting her to come home; hoping that she would get well enough too, all the while his health and mental capacities were being tested to the limit. 

When we were finally given the ok to move her to the hospice floor, my sister Susan and my dad, who had been with her all day, took that last elevator ride with her, making sure that she was cleaned and dressed in new pajamas and put in a warm bed.  Exhausted, she took my dad home knowing that the rest of the family would be there soon to continue watching over mom. 

I believe her last words to my sister were "I'm going to miss you girls". Meaning my two sisters and myself.   I hear those words so often in my head.  If she only knew how much she is missed. 

With seven of us at her side that evening and all comfy in her bed hooked up to a morphine, breathing so softly and peacefully for the first time in months she slipped away from us. 

The family members that weren't there were called, as well as dad to come and say their last goodbyes.

Life hasn't been the same since. 

My dad suffers from dementia; it's been coming on for years and getting worse and worse.  Two months ago the decision had to be made by my sisters and me to put him in an assisted living facility.  Although it was the only decision that could be made, it was by far one of the most heart-wrenching things that we have ever done. 

He seems happy enough, although confused and unsure of where he is and who we are.  Once we remind him who we are he remembers, but rarely before.  We might be his cousin or his sister or just one of those nice ladies that come to visit him. 

I miss my dad that used to be. The one that used to make donuts after a home town football game.  The one who made steak and eggs on Christmas morning. The one who taught me how to chop fire wood with an ax. I just really miss my dad.

I know that there is enough of the old dad in there that he misses him too.  That's what hurts the most.  That there is a small piece of him still in there that knows what's going on. 

In the years since our mom has died it has been hard from him.  Living alone in a big house, missing her more and more each year.  Getting frustrated and confused and for a time angrier with each passing day. Disliking anyone we hired to help care for him. Only wanting his daughters to take on the responsibility of his daily needs. Never really being satisfied. 

My dad is a great man who has always been there for me; always.  Maybe not the easiest person to go to but a kind, compassionate man who loved his family more than anything. 

That's where my guilt comes in.  Not only did I hate going into that house because my mother wasn't in it, I hated going there because of what my father had become.  The angry, nasty man that I didn't know anymore. Of course it wasn't my dad's fault that dementia was taking a hold of his mind.  It is a disease for Christ's sakes.  I took everything that poor man said personally.  The hygiene issues weren't something that I could handle easily; but my sisters had to because at different times they lived there due to different circumstances.  One lost her home in Sandy and one works on a cruise ship and lives there when she isn't at sea. Nonetheless, I neglected my duties as a daughter and a sister because I couldn't take it.  I did the bare minimum because one of them was usually living there.  On the occasion when I went for more than an hour or so, and stayed to watch a movie with my dad, something that he loved, I'd leave and have to sit in the driveway and compose myself before I could even drive. 

At my home I'm dealing with PTSD, bipolar, depression, all multiplied by two and all the other ins and outs of life, family and work.  I feel like the rug is about to be pulled out from under me at any give moment.  But then, I take a deep breath and try to get my footing; try to stand straight and firm and go on.  I try to smile all the time, act like all is well with the world. 

I know we all have things in our lives that we carry, mine might be different than others but they are no more trying or stressful; but they are mine and they are no excuse for my inability to handle the death of my mother or my dad's illness.

I alone have to deal with the fact that I dropped the ball with my dad.  I can only hope that I can some day forgive myself and make it up to him. 

There was a time when I prayed that God would take my dad so he would find some peace. 

Now, when I visit him and see him smile, all I want is for him to live a long and restful life so I can continue to have more time with him, even if one day I'm just a nice lady that comes to visit. 

Sex over fifty! Fact or Fiction?

Sex over fifty.  Three wonderful words that women across the globe chant as they get closer and closer to that magic number.

Now, I'm not saying all women can relate to what I am talking about, but enough of you can, and those that can't; well, I'm jealous, pure and simple. 

I had always assumed that once I went through menopause my sex life would go through the roof.  No more worrying about becoming pregnant. Never having to say no because it was "that time" again.  Nope, sex was going to fun, spontaneous and frequent.

I have had numerous fantasies about it.  Now I could seduce my husband on a whim.  Sex before work, sex after work, sex sex sex.  That would be us. It would be no holds barred...  Sex in the kitchen, car, floor; you name it, we would do it. 

Well, maybe not everywhere.  I don't think there is a man alive who could hoist me up onto the kitchen counter like in the movie Fatal Attraction.  Great scene, but, not for this lady.

Our kids would be off living their own lives and we would be alone; ready to let ourselves go and explore the magical wonderful life of sex without restrictions.

I could not wait!!

Oh dear God was I wrong. I am beginning to think that this myth was brought about by older women who were jealous of their younger sisters and didn't want to feel they were being one-upped.  Or, a fantasy to tell the younger girls and then watch them as they neared that age and realized that sex over 50 was something women could only dream about.

Sex, I'm not sure I know how to do it anymore. They say it's like riding a bicycle, you never forget, but I'm not so sure.  56 years old and fumbling around in the bedroom like a naive teenager. 

So when all is said and done, I am by all practical purposes, a virgin again.

What to do, what to do? 

I could seduce my husband saschaing across the bedroom in a sexy-slutty outfit.  I don't own anything like that but I could buy one.

First stop, Fredrick's of Hollywood plus size department.  Does Frederick's have a plus size department.....SHOULD they have a plus sized department? 

Anyway, I would search for that perfect outfit.  One that would make me look thinner than I am, take years off my life and positively guarantee that my husband and I would enjoy hours upon hours of sexual satisfaction and pleasure.

What to buy?

Thong or little shorts.  Decisions decisions.

Neither is a good choice for my particular body type, but when you are trying to be a vixen, you just have to suck it up and go for it.

I could purchase a leotard, but I believe that would be much too much spandex.  Besides the fact that it would take hours trying to stuff myself into them, once my husband tried to take them off of me, the force of my flesh escaping from the elastic could quite possibly kill one of us, or at the very least, take out an eye.

Thongs.  I could certainly put a thong on but I don't think I would ever find it again.  Thong - out.

Little shorts.  With thighs like mine, and ladies you know what I'm talking about, the inside of the shorts would ride up in my crotch while the outside of my shorts would be where they belonged. Not very attractive.  Little shorts - out.

How about a long gown flowing and elegant. I don't think that would work either.  All that material could prove to be hazardous; we could choke to death if we got caught up in all that fabric.

I think I'll go with pajama pants.  I'll use silk; at least that's sexy.

The top.  For sure, it would have to have a build-in bra.  Each breast would need it's own section.  Otherwise, while I was seductively walking across the room to my man, by boobs would be swaying in the wind just beneath the hem of my teddy.  Flapping and swaying breasts does not a happy me make.

Not attractive and down right uncomfortable. 

Pajama top it is.

For decades, I wore high heels to work and out to play in the evening.  Because of this, I have a beautifully deformed foot that will not allow me to wear heels for longer than one second.  Heels, out.

To make things all the more exciting, I guess I could bring toys into the mix, but if you have read my other post about sex toys, you already know that the mere whirring sound of a battery sends me running in fear.  Sex toys, out.

Where does this leave me?  In my pajamas, shuffling across the room in my fluffy slippers to my husband, no toys and no heels and most likely, no sex. 

The only thing left to do is...........

Wake him up.

Happy love making everyone