When the doctor tells us that my mother has stage four lung cancer which has spread through her pancreas, liver, and bones, we do not have a movie-like family embrace. The doctor is abrupt and cold, delivering the news and then quickly exiting the room.
When he leaves, Mom is trembling, crying. My dad tries to take her hand. “No!” she yells, batting his hand away. “Go over there and let me calm down.” He stays by her side but does not reach for her hand again.
After a few moments, she asks, “Are Annie and Rich still here?” My dad says yes. I’m huddled in the corner, positioned where she can’t see me, can’t watch me fall apart; my brother is beside me. “I can’t see them, I want to make sure they’re okay,” she says. “They’re not upset, are they?” I think she can hear my muffled cries in the corner. “They’re okay,” my dad lies. “They’re okay.”
Later that afternoon, my dad says he’d like a few hours alone with Mom. I remember I have a hair appointment and tell them I’ll head to the hair salon, then go home and get fresh clothes, come back later. We’ve been living in this hospital room for days.
“What are you doing to your hair?” Mom asks. “You’re not going red again, are you?” I laugh, tell her I had actually been thinking red. “No,” she says, “I hate it red, don’t go red.” I lower myself into the chair beside her bed, take her hand, and lay my head on her arm, thinking of all the times growing up when we made decisions about my hair together. She says nothing, just gently squeezes my hand and does what only a mother can do – just lets me break down.
As a child, I did whatever she wanted me to do with my hair. In fifth grade, she insisted on giving me a perm that turned my hair green, but Mom had assured me she would fix it and then, when she couldn’t, that it was “cool.” As I got older, we decided together – she would spray Sun-In on my hair as I lay on my beach towel as a teenager on our annual family trip, or squeeze lemons around my roots by the pool in our backyard. Later, when she wouldn’t let me dye my hair, I snuck a box of Nice-n-Easy into the bathroom and dyed it myself, then was grounded for a week. I think back on the last few years. Had I even asked her for advice on my hair?
“What do you want me to do with it?” I ask her, lifting my head up.
“I’ve always liked you as a brunette,” she says. I nod like I always do, whether I’m going to take her advice or not; I really have my heart set on red. Moms like to think you’ll always listen to what they say. I squeeze her hand, she squeezes back. Then we just sit there, crying together, as we’ve done so many times in the past for so many reasons – because my hair turned green, because the boy I wanted to go to prom with had another date, because I was leaving for college.
“I’m sorry,” Mom says. “I’m sorry I messed up your world.” I’m not sure what she’s apologizing for. Having cancer? My anxiety? Our relationship? That she’s dying?
Earlier that day I had messaged friends and family, letting them know Mom was in the hospital. Most had responded to me with, “you’re all in my prayers,” or “let me know if you need anything.” But one friend had texted me and said, “Don’t leave anything left unsaid.” I think of all the things I’ve wanted to say but never have – the things I hate her for, the things I love her for, the things I can’t forgive her for. But in this moment, all I want to do is tell her I love her, tell her it’s okay.
“Mom,” I say, “you didn’t mess up my world. You gave me my world.” She cries out, squeezes my hand. She speaks no words but in her cry I hear relief, love, absolution.
I arrive at my hairstylist and she asks how I’m doing. She’s been dyeing and cutting and curling and fluffing my hair for over a decade. Usually I tell her about some drama at work, or some funny thing that happened on my last trip. Today I tell her, “My mom is in the hospital. I think she might die.” She gives me a long hug, asks what I need. I tell her I just need hair therapy before I go back to the hospital. “I can take care of that,” she says. “What do you want to do with it today?” She’s running her fingers through my hair, holding the blonde strands out as she studies the frayed ends.
I’m watching in the mirror, looking at my reflection, the face looking back at me that looks just like my mother’s. “Let’s go brunette,” I say.
The next morning, I wake up in the hospital room to my mother’s voice calling my name. “Annie,” she is whispering, “Annie.” I move to her bedside, grab her hand, not gently enough, and she is startled. “Mom, I’m here. What do you need?” I ask. Anything, I think, I’ll do anything. “I want to leave,” she cries. Her right arm reaches up to her face, pulling at the oxygen cord feeding into her nose. “I want to leave.” I stretch out my arm, grasp her hand in mine. “No, Mom, you can’t,” I say, “calm down.” She is still fidgeting, fighting me. “Mom, stop,” I say, but still she is anxiously moving, struggling for breaths. “I love you,” I say. She settles slightly, but there is still a tension in her grip. I repeat it a few times, slowly. “I love you.” She lies still, rests her hand back down beside her. “Your hair,” she says. I had forgotten about the color, that I’d done what she asked. “It’s pretty,” she says. “Thank you.”