When I was growing up, my mom went to the “beauty shop” every week to get her “hair done.”
That meant she went to Beth’s, the neighborhood salon, and Beth shampooed, conditioned and towel-dried her hair. Then, she wrapped her wet hair around rollers, and sat her in a chair under a hooded hair dryer.
Think Truvy in Steel Magnolias.
After sitting under the hair dryer, probably reading a romance novel, Beth styled mom’s hair and sprayed enough hair spray on it to last for the next week.
Then, Mom slept on a pillow with a satin pillow case to keep it from getting messed up.
Last week I had the pleasure of going with my mom to “get her hair done” at Helen’s, a salon she’s probably been going to since Beth died many years ago.
I had so much fun walking around that salon that my mom worried I’d offended Helen.
I couldn’t help myself.
It was a step back in time.
It made me think of Dolly Parton as Truvy saying, “I don’t trust anyone that does their own hair. I don’t think it’s normal.” Or, “The bigger the hair, the closer to God.”
I didn’t mean to be rude, I was just fascinated and impressed.
The thing about Helen’s and other salons like this is that they are not just places to get your hair done, they’re places of friendship and conversation that span decades, even generations.
Not only has Helen done my mom’s hair, she did my Grandma’s and two of my aunts’ hair. She knows a lot about my family.
She asked my mom about my aunt, who is now in a memory care unit of an assisted living facility.
“I miss her,” she said. “I remember when she started to get dementia. I was out of town and she called me and said, ‘Helen, where are you? I went to get my hair done and you weren’t there.'”
Helen said, “I’m on vacation. Remember, I told you I’d be out of town?”
My aunt didn’t remember.
“That was the beginning,” Helen said. “Then it just got worse. It was hard watching her go downhill.”
Helen even styled my Grandma’s and another aunt’s hair when they died so that they would look beautiful for their viewings and funerals.
While touring the salon, I heard my mom telling Helen about something, and then she said, “Helen, what would mama have done?”
Who has that kind of relationship with their hair stylist?
Not many of us can ask our hair stylist about how our mothers would have handled a situation or a problem.
It struck me as unique and beautiful that my family has “roots” (pun intended) with Helen’s hair salon.
My visits to the hair salon are never as personal or friendly as my mom’s visits to Helen’s.
The guy who does my hair is just that… a guy who does my hair.
I like him. I know he’s from Turkey and that he’s married and has a young daughter. But that’s the extent of our relationship. He doesn’t know my mom, my sister, my family, or what my mom would do in any given situation. He just knows about my hair.
Helen’s may not be a high-end, fancy salon, and it might not make the historical register, but for many women, like my mom, Grandma and aunts, it has been a personally significant place where a woman named Helen dedicated her life not just to cutting and styling their hair, but to witnessing their lives, keeping their confidences, and being their friend.
From the clock with hands made of scissors to the “rain hats” for sale on a peg board, it was a charming salon, full of stories.
Someday I’m going back with a notebook and pen or a tape recorder and I’m going to say, “Helen, tell me everything you know about my family.”
So, watch for another blog on this topic because I sense that after years of doing my mom, grandma’s and aunts’ hair, Helen knows a lot more than how to style hair…
The day I’ve been looking forward to for 10 years.
I went to see my oncologist yesterday and she said, “Congratulations. You have graduated from oncology.”
Oncology — the study and treatment of tumors.
The field of medicine that is devoted to cancer.
About a month ago I went to the breast surgeon’s office and she said, “You don’t need to come back anymore unless it gives you peace of mind to keep coming.”
No thank you, I told her, I will not be back.
I am done with cancer.
I am done with the doctors, the drugs, and the anxiety that is caused by every visit to a medical facility.
I wonder if doctors understand the impact of their words when they tell a patient their cancer case is closed.
The sudden rush of emotion surprised me — so many memories flooded my mind.
Sitting across the desk from doctors talking to me about treatment options and survival rates.
Looking out the window of the doctor’s office at the trees for a brief mental and emotional escape from what I was hearing.
Sitting for hours hooked up to a chemo cart with bright red fluids infusing my body.
Friends streaming into my home with food, cards, flowers, and endless amounts of love and support.
Doug organizing my medications, running to the drug store at all hours of the night, and showing up unexpectedly for doctor appointments and chemo treatments.
“I never have to come back?” I asked her.
“Only if you want to come back or if there is another issue,” she said.
That worry will always haunt me, but for now, I will celebrate the end of the cancer era.
Ten years is a long time.
One minute everything was normal.
The next minute, I was processing words about invasive ductal cancer.
What have I learned in those 10 years?
I’m not sure I could cover the lessons of 10 years in one blog post, so let me name just a few…
I’m never alone. Even in the dark of the night when pain and anxiety will not subside and sleep will never come, I am not alone. I have God to “hear my soul’s complaint” as the church hymn goes. And, I have friends and family who astound me with their love, support, and kindness.
I am stronger than I think. I like what Elizabeth Taylor said about doing hard things. “You just do it. You force yourself to get up. You force yourself to put one foot in front of the other, and you refuse to let it get to you. You fight. You cry. You curse. Then you go about the business of living. That’s how I’ve done it. There’s no other way.” I would amend her list — you fight, you cry, you curse, you pray your heart out, and then you go about the business of living. It’s that prayer part that gives you the strength to go about the business of living. It might sound silly but from the day I was diagnosed, I promised myself I would never spend one day in my pajamas or in my bed. I would get up every morning, shower, put on my makeup and get dressed for the day. No. Matter. What. For some reason, those small daily routines made me feel stronger. I also decided I would always cover my bald head with a scarf or a wig because, for some reason, I felt less like a victim of cancer when my head was covered.
As I walked out of the doctor’s office yesterday, I stopped and texted my family to tell them the good news.
“I never expected this day to feel so HUGE,” I wrote.
Then, when I got into my car to come home, I cried.
Unbelievable relief washed over me.
I can never be sure cancer won’t terrorize my life again, but for now, after 10 years, I will celebrate that it’s finally part of my past; and I will move forward with profound respect for the magnitude and depth of the lessons it taught me.
I’ve enjoyed many graduations in my life, but this might be the best one yet.
After a busy, laughter-filled Thanksgiving week, I sit in a quiet beach house listening to the clock tick, the ceiling fan spin, and the ocean waves rhythmically, consistently roll in over the sand and back out into the water again
And I remember…
Only a few days ago, this house was filled with people busily baking pies, basting turkeys, and tying gold ribbons around napkins for a beautiful holiday table. The house was full of happy people working together to create another memorable Thanksgiving dinner.
After dinner, we lounged around the family room and reminisced.
We remembered the Thanksgiving we spent in a cabin in West Virginia when it snowed and we made makeshift sleds and sped down the hills, hiked back up and did it again.
We remembered our friend, Annette who recently died of cancer. We proposed a toast to her and laughed remembering the year we were cleaning up the Thanksgiving dinner dishes in the kitchen and she pointed at some leftover pie and said, “Who made that wretched pecan pie?”
“I did,” I said.
Her face turned fuchsia and she immediately tried to explain that she was talking about a different pie, a store-bought pie that was the wretched one, not my homemade pie, which, of course, was delicious.
Uh huh. That’s why she pointed at my pie.
What else could she do when she called my homemade pie “wretched” right to my face?
Now it’s an annual joke. “Who’s making the wretched pecan pie?”
Actually, I think we dropped pecan pie from our menu after that.
At least I know I never made it again.
And then there’s the driveway pie.
That’s the creamiest, most delicious coconut cream pie you’ll ever eat. And we only have it once a year.
Tragically, one year, while being carried into the house, it was dropped on the driveway – shattering the glass pie pan and splattering the custard all over the driveway.
We were so disappointed that we could only think of one thing to do – get spoons and eat it off the driveway, carefully picking out the shards of glass before ingesting.
I wish I could say I was kidding about that memory, but truly we found ourselves huddled around the splattered pie spooning out as many tastes as we could before giving up because we started spooning up pieces of glass.
We’ve celebrated Thanksgiving with this same group of friends for about 30 years.
After dinner Thursday, Doug thanked them for being part of every major event of our lives from our dating years to our marriage years, through the births of both of our daughters and every milestone in between and since.
When I moved to the Washington, D.C. area, my boss said one of his favorite things about living here was that friends became like family.
He said since most people in the DC area are transplants from someplace else, it’s like we’re all out on a limb together so we take care of each other.
That’s definitely proven to be true for us, particularly with this group of friends we met after first moving here.
We’ve supported each other through the deaths of parents and siblings, through dating relationships and breakups through marriages and parenting, illnesses and job changes and more.
Through it all, we’ve created memories that cement our friendships; and don’t friendships and relationships sustain our lives?
So as I sit here savoring the silence as the sun goes down on my last evening at the beach, I remember the loyal, true friends I’ve been blessed to know, the ones I don’t see often but the ones I know will always be there for me because they always have been.
D: Aaa, no thanks. That doesn’t really engender a lot of confidence in me when you say things like that. What if I said that when you were going to get your hair cut?
L: Well, that’s different…
L: Fine. Go to the barber to get your hair cut, but on your way, can you take this trash out?
D: You are such an add-on-task queen. You don’t believe in me ever just doing one thing at a time, do you?
L: Well, you’re going out. You might as well take the trash out while you’re going,
D: What else are you going to add-on to this errand? I know there’s something else you’re going to want me to do while I’m out.
L: Well, since you asked, want to stop at the grocery store? And, who is the movie villain voiced by Douglas Rain?
D: What do you need at the store? And, how am I supposed to know about that villain thing? I hate it when you ask me random crossword puzzle questions.
L: Whatever. You don’t hate it. He’s that Canadian actor that was the voice of that computer. Oh, you know, what’s it called?
D: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
L: It’s a three-letter word from that old space movie. Come on, you know!
D: No. I don’t know. And, I’m leaving to get my hair cut. And, don’t say, “How hard can it be!”
L: Don’t forget to take the trash!
So, in addition to talking and asking unanswerable questions during television programs; I also add-on tasks, say “how hard can it be?” every time he goes to get his hair cut; and I pressure him to help me solve obscure crossword puzzle clues.
I’d like to say I will try to improve in these areas, and that I am not going to ask him anymore questions during TV shows, but that would take the fun out of TV for me. I can’t just sit quietly and not react.
But, I’ve found a solution. Now, I text people and hope it’s less annoying.
And, at least I will promise never to try to cut Doug’s hair with the help of a youtube video even though I enjoy telling him that. I mean, seriously, how hard can it be?
Daniel Jones, the editor of the New York Times’ Modern Love column has read about 50,000 essays on love, and written a book called Love Illuminated — Exploring Life’s Most Mystifying Subject about what he’s learned.
When Jones talked to Katie Couric about the book, she said she thinks if you want to find someone, you need to put out an APB to everyone you know.
The hazard in doing that, according to Jones, is that you have to know what you want before you send out that APB or it won’t make a difference — and, most people don’t know what they want.
They think they do, but they really don’t.
I believe there’s some truth in that.
Before I married Doug, I thought I knew, but looking back, I didn’t have a clue.
Does anyone, really?
We might be able to list certain characteristics and values, but is it possible or even practical to suppose that we can really know who we will love (or who we can love) by just analyzing ourselves, our needs, and wants?
How do we know who or even what type of person we can build a life with before we actually meet and get to know that person?
I’ve always envied people who found love quickly and easily without ever having to even wonder about things like this.
One of life’s most mystifying subjects to me is why some people find love easily and early in life; some find it much later; some never find it at all; and some find it; and then, heartbreakingly, lose it.
Daniel Jones told Katie three things he’s learned about love:
You can’t hurry up fate. You can’t find someone fast AND have it be destiny. The two are incompatible.
You can’t get married and stay single. You have to give something up for marriage to succeed.
You can’t have love without the possibility of loss. You have to love fully, knowing it will end.
These are interesting conclusions.
On the first point, I agree that you can’t hurry fate. Sometimes two parallel universes need to be aligned and sometimes, that takes time, a lot of time.
But is love always the result of fate? Can love be a choice?
Not to take all the fun and romance out of it, but what if love could also be an investment, like a savings account you decide to open and build with regular, constant deposits to make it grow and thrive?
At first, I dismissed the second point because it seems so obvious — you can’t get married and stay single. But, one thing Doug and I have learned as “empty nesters,” (I hate that term…) is that without our kids to bring us together for games, concerts or family meals, we can easily go to our separate corners of the house, pursuing our own “single” activities, and quickly lose our points of connection.
He travels frequently and when he’s home, I might have evening meetings, dinners with friends, or be involved in projects of my own. We watch different television programs; read different books; and prefer different bedtimes. If we let that go on for very long, we start to feel more like roommates than husband and wife.
We’re consciously making more efforts to connect– like me joining him on an occasional business trip or me watching his mind-numbing TV shows. (In fairness, he says the same thing about mine. Take last night, for example, I wanted to watch Parenthood. He hates Parenthood because he thinks the characters always talk over each other. He wanted to watch endless CNN political talk shows, where they never talk over each other…)
But, back to writing about love…
In love, like most important things in life, there is no neutral. You are either moving forward or drifting backward.
Without effort, all relationships go adrift, and become purposeless. Unanchored, unmoored relationships cannot last; or at least, can’t be very fulfilling or satisfying. You need a destination, and you need to paddle.
To the third point, this one makes me sad, and would deter me from ever loving.
Except for two things:
1) You have to believe the relationship will be worth it. I remember when my dad died and the grieving was brutal. My mom said my grief was a testament to my love for him. “Would you have loved him less if you knew it would hurt this much to lose him?” Of course not. The love, the relationship was worth it.
2) Not all relationships have to end.
Some will end because one person may care more than another, or for a million other reasons, but I think we have to look for, invest in, and believe in lasting love.
Life ends, but relationships don’t.
Yes, there will be separations. One person will most likely die before another.
But, one of my core beliefs is that relationships don’t end when life ends.
Clearly, some relationships have to end for the well-being of one or both partners, but going into a marriage with the idea that it is temporary, automatically limits its success, depth, and potential for happiness.
Turns out I have a lot of thoughts on this topic and will likely follow up with my own ideas about love.
But, I’d like your ideas too.
Do you agree with Jones’ findings?
Are you paddling or drifting in your relationships?
Please share with me and help me illuminate this subject even more.
I’m not really writing my obituary, and I’m not dying.
I am, however, thinking about my eulogy and what I would want somebody to say about me at my funeral.
I know it sounds morbid, but stick with me.
A few days ago, I found out about a tragedy in the family of one of my dearest college friends.
His brother and sister-in-law died in a car accident while their 16-year-old daughter was driving.
She accidentally went off the edge of the highway and struck a road marker, which caused the car to slide sideways and overturn, coming to rest on its wheels in the desert. She and her 19-year-old sister survived the accident. Their 22-year-old sister was not with them on the trip.
Three young girls without their parents.
I attended the funeral yesterday, bracing myself for the depth of sorrow I would feel.
I came away uplifted, inspired, and wishing I had been best friends with or next door neighbors to this amazing family.
When the oldest daughter stood up to speak, I prayed silently for her to have the strength to get through her remarks.
She stood behind the microphone, looked out at the many friends and family that filled the church, and gave one of the most eloquent talks I’ve ever heard at a funeral.
I couldn’t believe she could stand there so poised and articulate at what had to be the worst moment of her young life.
One of the first quotes she shared was from LDS President Thomas S. Monson, “Choose your love and love your choice.”
She said that quote summarized her parents’ love for each other.
She spoke of a parents who never missed a game, concert, award ceremony or graduation; a father who made up sappy jokes that kept them all laughing, and a mother that cheered so loud and got so riled at the refs that she nearly got ejected from more than one game.
She remembers her mom laughing all the time, her dad giving what little money he had to someone else when it seemed like they needed it more.
She concluded by saying the best gift her parents ever gave her was their LDS Temple marriage which gave her hope that she and her sisters would be with them again as a family.
The bishop that presided at the funeral did not know the couple and their children, but he knew their extended family.
He said, “I didn’t need to know this couple because their last name tells me all I need to know about them.”
I left thinking about my own funeral and how I would like it to be just like that one.
I want people to know me by my last name because I have lived up to the honor, character, integrity and legacy of faith that is symbolized in my family name.
I want people to say of me what they said of this couple — that everybody that knew them felt like they were their best friends; and that everyone that ever spent time with them left feeling better about themselves.
I know funerals can be sad and depressing, but they can also be full of hope, strength and perspective.
Even though I didn’t personally know this couple, I know them now from the beautiful tributes I heard about them yesterday.
It made me think about what I want people to say about me when I die.
How can I live to earn the kinds of tributes I heard yesterday? How can I be as good as Kendall and Rebecca?
While it might seem morbid, imagine sitting in the pew at your own funeral.
Are you confident you would like what you might hear?
I want people to say of me what they said about this remarkable, loving couple.
That inspires me to be a better mother, daughter, wife, sister, and friend.