I had to fight back tears at the hair salon today.
Nancy asked about my mom, about how I was doing.
The last time I sat in her chair I talked excitedly about our Christmas plans. How the kids and I we were flying out the following day. How my parents would be shocked to see that I chopped off more than eight inches of my hair. How we would have two weeks with my family. How we hadn't been able to fly back the previous Christmas because of money and jobs and time. I told her the way my kids clung to the hope that we might suddenly buy last minute tickets to Oklahoma or that my parents would load up in Dad's navy blue Ford Escape and show up on our doorstep. She knew it all.
People tell a lot to their hairdresser.
I was relieved when a mutual friend shared the news with Nancy. I sometimes forget that there are people who don't know my mom died.
They don't know I accompanied her to a doctor's appointment two days after our plane landed. They don't know the nurse manager who walked in, took her vitals and returned with the on-call doctor. They didn't hear the doctor walk in and say "Joan, you look like hell." They didn't hear Mom say she was ready to be admitted to Hospice.
Some people don't know that Mom turned to me and said, "Well, you better call your father and your sister." That I sent my sister the news in a text, which she read in the midst of my nephew's class Christmas parties. They didn't hear me call my Dad and tell him while my hand rested on Mom's back. They don't know I managed to hold it together until he said, "Ok, I'll call your brother." They didn't see me burst into tears or see the Nurse Manager, who I'd only just met wrap her arms around me as I sobbed into her shoulder.
They didn't see my mom inching her walker towards the elevator, calling out to the staff to enjoy their Christmas.
They didn't hear her doctor say, "We're going to try to get you thru Christmas."
Nancy asked about my mom, about how I was doing.
The last time I sat in her chair I talked excitedly about our Christmas plans. How the kids and I we were flying out the following day. How my parents would be shocked to see that I chopped off more than eight inches of my hair. How we would have two weeks with my family. How we hadn't been able to fly back the previous Christmas because of money and jobs and time. I told her the way my kids clung to the hope that we might suddenly buy last minute tickets to Oklahoma or that my parents would load up in Dad's navy blue Ford Escape and show up on our doorstep. She knew it all.
People tell a lot to their hairdresser.
I was relieved when a mutual friend shared the news with Nancy. I sometimes forget that there are people who don't know my mom died.
They don't know I accompanied her to a doctor's appointment two days after our plane landed. They don't know the nurse manager who walked in, took her vitals and returned with the on-call doctor. They didn't hear the doctor walk in and say "Joan, you look like hell." They didn't hear Mom say she was ready to be admitted to Hospice.
Some people don't know that Mom turned to me and said, "Well, you better call your father and your sister." That I sent my sister the news in a text, which she read in the midst of my nephew's class Christmas parties. They didn't hear me call my Dad and tell him while my hand rested on Mom's back. They don't know I managed to hold it together until he said, "Ok, I'll call your brother." They didn't see me burst into tears or see the Nurse Manager, who I'd only just met wrap her arms around me as I sobbed into her shoulder.
They didn't see my mom inching her walker towards the elevator, calling out to the staff to enjoy their Christmas.
They didn't hear her doctor say, "We're going to try to get you thru Christmas."
7 comments:
I'm so sorry.
My father died right before Hannukah/Christmas in 2012. I was 6 months pregnant when I signed the hospice orders because he was in a coma and an infection was destroying his organs.
I'm not sure you ever "get over" things like this. They say that time heals but.. we will always miss our parents.
Oh, Robbie. Sending you huge, huge hugs.
Hope your family were all able to gather during her final days. Sad for you. Holding you in the light.
I know I share a lot of myself within the walls of the salon. I've gone to the same hairdresser for over 25 years.
You are right we will always miss our parents. So sorry for your loss.
Thank Kathleen your hugs are appreciated!
We were able to gather during her final times and though it was difficult there were some beautiful moments & memories.
You never totally get over a loos like this. You just learn to cope. There will be good days and bad days but having those unforgettable memories will help get you through.
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