Red Hair and A Smile

For all of our brave and proud team members who so graciously and willingly lost their SL locks of hair this week all to raise money for the fight against cancer, I would like to share a story that I wrote years ago while helping my mom deal with her diagnosis.  I want you to see kinda firsthand just how much your support means to those fighting this terrifying battle.  I am so honored and proud to be associated with people who give such a large part of their heart to help.

 

RED HAIR AND A SMILE

 

 

A gentle breeze from the open window stirred the scent of perfume and powder around the room. The sweet smell mixed with the steamed aroma of spiced tea from the cup on the bedside table. Mom leaned back against the bed pillows and a collection of teddy bears. On the wall behind her hung an assortment of family pictures, pictures of her parents and her kids.

Mom's right hand gripped a silver hairbrush against her chest, the brush

I gave her for Mother's Day. Her other hand reached up and pulled another clump of blonde hair from her head.

"Mom!" I rushed over and sat next to her, holding her frail body close like a scared child. She was experiencing the side effects of chemotherapy.

A few months prior, Mom was diagnosed with cancer. I held her trembling hand while the doctor explained chemotherapy. The treatments would make her feel sick. He explained she would lose her hair as well, but the reality was still a numbing shock.

My heart ached. I wanted to scare away her fears like the monsters she chased from my childhood nightmares. She reached for the spiced tea and I watched as she held the warm cup between trembling hands.

"Don't move," I insisted, wiping away her frightened tears. "I'll be right back, okay?" She only nodded, her hollow blue eyes following me as I left the room. I went into the other room and returned half an hour later to find her still resting on the bed. This time she looked up and smiled.

There I stood wearing a tie-dyed blouse, orange bell-bottom pants and a wig of red hair that hung to my elbows. Grinning at her, I held out a matching wig.

"Your turn to get dressed," I urged. "We're going to the mall." Mom's sad eyes studied the wig. She reached forward to touch the long red strands. A smile warmed her pale lips as she finally took it from my hand.

I walked into the living room as Mom got up and opened her closet. Soon she emerged from the bedroom like a butterfly from a cocoon. The clothes hung from her tiny frame, but laughter filled her eyes as she swung the red hair over one shoulder. She wore a tie-dye dress with sandals. She had an ankle bracelet as well, but she had been wearing the tiny chain on her leg for as long as I could remember.

Elvis Presley belted out the lyrics of "Blue Suede Shoes" from the stereo of my old Buick as we pulled into a parking space near the main entrance of the shopping mall. The monsters were forgotten. We were just two carefree redheads, cruising the shops like a couple of teenagers. Our sixties-era appearance did turn a few heads, but that just added to the fun.

An arcade brimming with teenagers greeted us just inside the front entrance. Mom wandered through the maze of flashing lights and electronic sounds to the nearest pinball machine while I followed behind. Soon the TILT light was flashing as she pounded the paddle control buttons. It wasn't long before her high score topped the list.

I followed her from game to game as she defeated the ghosts in Pac Man and shot all the bouncing spiders in Centipede. When we reached the air hockey table, she turned to me.

“Up for a game?” she grinned, sliding a striker my direction.

“You’re on!” I laughed. She obviously didn’t remember the air hockey table we used to visit at our hometown arcade. As a teenager, I gave that table quite a beating. She was challenging a champion from the old days. I figured maybe I should go easy on her.

That attitude changed soon after the air started seeping through the surface of the table. Mom grabbed her striker. This was no weak cancer patient. This was a redhead bent on winning, and she did 4-0. Then, refusing a rematch, she skipped out of the room and headed for the pet store next to the arcade.

“Doesn’t he look like Grandpa Bob?” Mom laughed, holding up a guinea pig when I caught up with her. The clerk behind the counter glared at us. Mom answered her irritated gaze with a mischievous grin.

“Oh definitely! He could be a distant cousin!” I laughed. Then I spotted a bright green parrot perched nearby. “Polly wanna stick of gum?” I asked the bird, digging in my purse for a treat.

“Don’t feed the pets,” the clerk growled from behind the counter.

Mom turned to the puppies encased in glass cages with labels indicating their breed. “Are you pets?” She giggled, tapping on the glass until she had all of them barking.

When I picked up an iguana, walked next to the fish tanks and asked if iguanas could swim, the clerk lost her customer service attitude completely. “I am afraid I need to ask you ladies to leave!” She barked.

My stomach was growling and Mom looked a little tired, so I bought a couple

of ice cream cones from the food court. Then we headed for the car. Mom settled into the passenger seat and began to lick the melting ice cream.

“You definitely look like a red-headed teenager,” I laughed, watching her tongue chase the sweet goop down the back of her hand.

Mom touched the red strands and smiled. “I always wanted to be an exciting redhead growing up, instead of a dirty dishwater blonde. How did you know?”

“You told me once,” I grinned, “and frankly, I think it suits you.”

Mom dozed off as I drove her home, the wig still in place. My heart ached a little less, seeing the smile still on her face. I remembered some of the good times she had given me growing up and all the monsters she had chased away. At least, for one

afternoon, the monster in her life was forgotten.

Although Mom fought a brave battle, the monster won a couple of months later. Her cancer spread from the lymph nodes and into her bones. From there it spread to her brain, leaving her unable to speak.

During her last days I would sit on the edge of the hospital bed with her frail hand in mine, telling her stories of the old days. She always loved the story about the day we managed to chase away the monster together for one afternoon with what I had to give: red hair and a smile.