Monday Mimisms ~ The Face

Perhaps I didn't want to see the lines of tubes flowing into my body and the hands that were about to cause ....ouch...you weren't supposed to tell me when the stick would occur, Mr. Anesthesiologist... "Turn your head, look at me, squeeze my hand," said the nurse.  Kindness. 

Flashback to summer. I was tired of shots and tired of ups and downs and tired of finger sticks. Tired. Just tired. So back in August I began to let go...slowly...carefully...mindfully...let go. Before I knew it I was using less and less and less. My confidence grew more and more, until one day I didn't need a shot anymore. And the control I had over my glucose numbers were only controlled by what I chose to consume, or whether or not I exercised or how much sleep I allowed myself or how long I meditated on healing, or how many healthy choices I made in the kitchen.

 I didn't care what I had to do. I was tired of the swelling. I was tired of the struggle. 

I just wanted to be me again.

Day one...day two...day three...a month went by....I don't need it anymore.

I'm done. I threw it in the trash.

Soon after, I woke up one morning, walked past a mirror and stopped shocked in my tracks.  Who IS that? Tears. 

Who IS that girl? Finally. Finally! It's me.

She looks like me. It IS me. The old me. Her face is not swollen. Her eyes are alive. I touched my face. 

It's me.

More tears. 

Fast-forward October: It's hospital day. Time for my five-year screening procedure. Peering over the bed rails to my left were a pair of the kindest eyes I've seen in a good long while.   She was Korean. And lovely. Where have I seen this face before? She looked like a friend of my mother's, someone I met when I was a child in the sixties - her name was Kim. She'd married an American soldier during the Korean war, a friend of the family. He was killed just before the war ended, so she brought her small baby to the United States knowing nothing and no one but her newfound in-laws who took them in. She spoke not a word of English as my mother recalled. Tiny and afraid, clinging to the child she'd named after her soldier, she slept by his casket until she was picked up and carried out of the church. A scene that was talked about over and over in our small town. She would not speak to anyone for a long long time. She just sat and cried for her husband. 

Mama gave her clothes, shoes, makeup and a pair of earrings. My grandmother fed her dumplings and cake. The church supported and cared for her, but Mama said she looked so afraid, so lost in those days. And lonely. So very sad and lonely. Mama always said she had a beautiful face. 

 *Please take a deep breath, Miss Mimi. That's it...* Through eons of time, through spoils of war and peace between, I needed my mama, remembering her bracelet in my bag under the gurney brought me comfort..I would put it back on later. Distracted by four others doing this and that, I noticed she was wearing a UNC-Chapel Hill Carolina blue surgical hat and I thought of my father's love of Carolina basketball. Don't cry now, Mimi! Now is not the time! So when she stood by my bedside to start the oxygen flow - was it she? could it be? - I couldn't help but notice that even before the lava began to flow through my veins that past was meeting present, worlds were colliding and something out-of-this-world was about to happen. 

 I was so drawn to her. 

Do you believe that God sends angels to your side when you need them the most? 

"I need to start your oxygen. Let me remove your mask," she said.

And with a slow deliberate gentleness I won't soon forget, she carefully untangled forgotten gold hoops from strings of blue masks. It was like I knew her. Didn't I know her? Surely I know her.....I risk sounding vain when I tell you this part, oh, but I must tell you this part! It is the best part and when you hear it you will forgive my unabashed telling because it wrapped its way full circle around the journey I've been on and the reasons for my summer struggle suddenly made sense, though admittedly rooted in vanity, they were also immersed in the road back to me - the real me - the one I'd missed for so long. Without missing a beat and as if she only came to tell me this one thing today, like it was her mission, she removed my mask and softly said,  

"You have a beautiful face."

Monitoring stopped. Arm taping stopped. Medicines halted. Two nurses turned around to see. The surgeon smiled at me. Then looked at her with admiration. Because truly, can you imagine a more wonderful human being than to say such a lovely thing to a frightened anxious patient?  
The mirror moment came flooding back. I remembered that I am strong and that I would be just fine. "Thank you," I said. And because only the two of us (I'm convinced) really knew what that statement meant to the whole of me, my eyes filled up and my heart was full because I knew that this day and this team - and especially this woman - were meant to take care of me - the whole me - this day. 
I think it was one of the kindest moments of my life. 

I don't remember seeing her again. Soon the warm wave of propofol overtook me and I drifted into nothingness. But I do remember the tender way she untangled my hoops and straightened the covers, the way my mother's hands must have helped a fragile war bride get ready for her husband's funeral, the way my mother's hands would have patted my blanket.  

 

The way others see us is not what makes us whole. It is the way we see ourselves.And for one small moment of bedside kindness, a frightened girl named Kim (I'm convinced) helped me remember that my view is all that matters. The strength of a woman is in the way she sees herself - and that is a beautiful thing.

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Monday Mimisms ~ Mama's Lipstick

It was the purses

and maybe because I never got to see her things....

or know the name of the last lipstick she used

or pick up the hairbrush from the oval tray in her bedroom

and brush my hair with the combs of life left from mama

perhaps it was the lingering smell of giggly laughs

we tossed about

on summer days of shopping

 'round the thrift markets

the way she would bid

the way she would fight

for what she wanted

and laugh

when she got

what

she

wanted

The roses were lovely

in the market today

on the face of the painting

she would have loved

so I fought

and I bought

it

thinking it was for me

when it really was for her

"I know that box," she would have said.
"Pick it up, my girl, and we will take it home to our treasure pile." 

Oh, how she would have loved the Lillian Vernon pink. And the lining. And the way it fell from her slender shoulders, prancing around in the store of trinkets like a Queen sitting high on the Nile with no one to judge and no one to care. I picked it up three times and felt the silk way down on the inside before I put it in my basket. There was something about the way my hands knew the cloth. Inside the deep well of the purse I felt my mother's hands..only realizing later that's why I kept picking it up and putting it down...so much like our complicated way with each other 

so I bought it

 thinking all along it was mine; when all along, I knew it was hers. Always hers.

She loved purses

and priss

and me

"Isn't that print just the finest? she'd say. "I know just where I'll put it and it matches the roses in my garden. The ones on the bush you gave me for Mother's Day that's grown so tall and full of you, my girl. I think of you and pray for you when I see them bloom," she'd say.

So I bought it

for me

And I gave it

to her 

And no one would believe - not even I - that she had shopped with me today

Until some time later

 in the evening

when I needed her in a moment of pain

 for no reason I can logically explain

 she knew

and she came

into my room

carrying

this perfumed

purse

 and all the exquisite days with her

came flooding back with her presence

 and it no longer mattered what lipsticks

she left behind

and suddenly I remembered

a kiss

placed on my lips 

by my mother

on the day I was born

It was the shade she wore

and 

I

will

 always

always

wear 

it

    

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