Shopping for scarves

It has taken me three posts to write about my Thursdays with Mom. This one, this one, and now this one. Thank you, Lord, for all of these memories!

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K-Market, Wal-Market, and Belks. These were the usual places I took Mom on our Thursday evenings together--to the cosmetics section for whatever new product she'd seen advertised that week and to the hair accessories to see what new scarves had come in.

Scarves. They were her trademark. She wore one around her head every day for 16 years, the radiation treatments killing hair follicles in route to cancer cells. The hair from the crown of her head back was her own. From the crown forward, she wore a halo of hair to cover the bald and the scar and the portacath site where she'd earlier received chemo from a clinical trial. And around the halo, she'd tie a scarf (bandanas on casual days, silk to church), turning cancer's hair cut into a fashion statement like only she could. (I'll never forget her insistence on wearing silk scarves to church, even though they were a pain to tie, and the knot at the top of her head always came loose. She'd say: "Tell me if I'm ever [she'd motion a peace sign near the top of her head, signifying the bunny flaps she feared if the knot came loose]. I promised to always tell her.)

Cancer's hairdo is why we frequented the accessories sections of K-Mart, Wal-Mart, and Belks. Invariably, we always left with something: A new scarf, a tube of lip satchel, or if a holiday was near, she'd stock up on treats she wanted to give Drew, Ashley, Ryan, and me. She gave us Easter baskets and Valentines right up until the year she passed.

After shopping or nail painting, we'd pick up sandwiches to take home for dinner. By the time we got home, Dad was back, and we'd eat dinner at the table together. On some occasions, Ryan would meet us at Mom and Dad's after he finished work for the day.

"Hi, Martha," Ryan would say to Mom when he walked in the door.
"Hi, Howard," Mom would reply.

Every time they saw each other, that was their greeting. Don't ask us who Martha and Howard are. We don't know. It just fit. Some days, Mom would hardly talk at all, but if Ryan walked through the door and greeted her, she'd utter her first two words of the day: Hi, Howard.

We topped dinner off with dessert, and then I'd pack up my computer and linger as long as I could before heading home myself. I never liked saying goodbye, always knowing in the back of my mind that our Thursdays wouldn't last forever. I kissed her scarfed head and told her I loved her probably ten times before actually getting out the door. It wasn't morbid or dramatic, even though it might sound that way. It was just what we did. But I think we both knew why we did it.

Every time I pulled out of Mom and Dad's driveway on Thursday nights, I'd ask the Lord to keep both of them until next time, and I'd ask Him to cement the day in my memory and never let me forget the time I'd had. (See, I've always been worried about that.)

I guess this is that cement.

Thank you, Lord, for couch afternoons and Key West Coral, scarf-shopping evenings.

Thank you, Lord, for Thursdays.

 

 

April 2011