About 4 years ago just before the holidays, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. She quickly underwent a mastectomy and opted for removing both breasts. She didn't want to have to go through this again, so she took the road less traveled.
I live in another part of the country and at the holidays, money was too tight to fly home and be with her. My sister and brother were there for the surgery and just before Christmas she started Chemo. It broke my heart not to be there for her when she spent her life being there for me.
For Christmas, my then father-in-law gifted me with a plane ticket home. He said, "You don't know how long you're going to have her." I cried.
I flew home two days after Christmas and embraced her--flat chest and all. The next day we took a trip to the cancer center at the hospital. Mom had made an appointment to pick out a wig. She knew her hair would fall out and although not a vain woman, she wanted to have something ready so the grandkids wouldn't freak out at Gramma's bald head.
I sat in the tiny cramped office with my flat-chested mother looking so strong in the face of this horrible disease. She'd always been a fighter--I wasn't worried about her coming through this on the winning end. I just wanted to be there holding her hand as the battle raged.
There I sat as she chose a few humdrum wigs--looking as much like herself as she ever did. She tucked her natural hair under the scratchy caps and peered at herself in the mirror. I couldn't tell what was going on behind her blue/green eyes, but I sensed she was trying not so much to think about being bald as she was trying not to think of losing her hair to the disease feeling like she would be letting it win.
I made her try on a HUGE blonde wig with piles of curls. Then a black bob. A red 'come and get me' style. Eventually, after fits of laughter, we settled on what we knew was perfect. A golden brown pixie cut with a bit of a lift that fit her to a T. She looked young, vivacious, impish...and confident.
After choosing a couple of bandanas and trying on a few funny hats to keep the spirit light, we departed and thanked our new friend Kari.
The next morning over coffee, mom set her cup down on the table and fingered the clippers in front of her. I wiped the sleep out of my eyes and fumbled with the creamer. She looked up and said, "I want you to shave my head this morining."
I damn near dropped my spoon. What? My fingers shook slightly as I slowly stirred the dark liquid in my cup and watched as the creamer melted away into a tan pool. I considered what she'd said and knew she needed me to respond. I also knew if I didn't do the deed, she would.
She lifted her cup, took a long sip and swallowed slowly as she explained, "I don't want to wake up in the morning with clumps of hair on my pillow."
Looking up, I caught her gaze and at that moment, my mother was most decidedly the bravest person I'd thought many others to be--all of them falling so short of her in so many ways. I was honored that she asked me to be the one to share that intimate moment with her.
We pulled a chair into the kitchen, grabbed a towel, and I plugged in the device. We removed the guard that she used to cut dad's hair down to a short, raised crew cut. I turned the machine on and we listened to the quiet whir for a moment before I gently ran my fingers through her soft waves.
Starting at the top, I took my first swipe. She couldn't see the curls that fell at my feet and I was glad. Her scalp was white and smooth underneath. The warm scent of her filled me with such tenderness. This woman had birthed me, fed me, tended to my hurts and loved me all of my life. In truth, she did not deserve this. In truth, what woman does?
I worked steadily. At first I asked her for guidance, but soon I knew what to do.
Love her. Love her and care for her and be tender to her. For the rest of her days...and for the rest of mine.
My mother's breasts were removed. She lost her hair. She lost her appetite. She lost her sense of smell. She sometimes lost her lunch. She lost her energy and freedom. She lost so much...but she never, ever, ever lost her will to live.
Today my mother is a little bit thinner, a little bit flatter, and has a few less curls on her little head. She is a wife, a mother of three, and a grandmother of 8. She is a passionate gardener and enjoys fishing, gathering nuts and berries in the woods, and creating culinary masterpieces in the kitchen I grew up in.
She is a survivor. I am humbled in her shadow.
