Communing with Mom & Dad Through My Aging Face

​I am turning 55 in a few weeks.  It's a whole new box to check on certain forms . . . "55 or older."  It doesn't really bother me. On some levels, I've always been perfectly happy to "age gracefully," especially after healing from a cancer diagnosis.  My father, who has my same genetic mutations for cancer, somehow survived inoperable, stage-four cancer in his liver three years ago.  I'm serious . . . three years ago, he was given a few months to live, and four months later, his cancer was gone.  So recently, as we'd chat about increasing medical appointments, creaky joints and the other things that come with an aging body, he'd say, "Well, getting old sure beats the alternative."  Like all survivors, we both had a whole new perspective on birthdays. 

As many of you know, my father left this earth very suddenly and unexpectedly six weeks ago.  We always figured cancer would come back to get both of us, but we were always "kicking the can down the road."  Cancer did not get that opportunity with Dad.  On Friday, March 28th, at 4:00 in the morning, his heart just stopped.  He was healthy, his most recent scans were still perfectly clean, he'd been on a bike ride Thursday, he was good.  Sure, he experienced some shortness of breath occasionally because his lungs took a little bit of a beating from the immunotherapy and chemotherapy that successfully treated his cancer, but overall he was a strong, slim 80- year old man who ate healthy and was more active than most 40-year old Americans. But over the years, he had replaced his knees a bunch of times, broken his neck skiing, he had AFib and, oh yeah, he'd survived "terminal" cancer.  So perhaps, as my good friend Eva gently suggested, his heart just got tired.  One minute we had him, the next we didn't.  When I got the call that he wasn't breathing, they put the phone to his ear, and I sobbed and told him how much I love him.  When the call ended, I hit the floor and begged God not to take him.  As we sped to Richmond to meet his wife and ambulance at the hospital, my prayers changed.  God, please do what is best for Dad.  An hour later I said goodbye to him.  My father would NOT have wanted to fade away, needing to be taken care of.  He was proud and a little vain.  I am like him, more on that in a moment (and the whole point of this post).  Nevertheless, the grief has been overwhelming.  I know I got 55 years with him, I know we all want to die in our sleep, I know I was blessed to have such a close relationship with him, to experience that kind of love, that kind of parent.  I don't care, I still want to hang out with him.

My mother had left this earth eleven months earlier.  Hers was a years-long, agonizing physical and mental decline, and in the end, she was in a hospital bed unable to move on her own or swallow.  She had a feeding tube that went directly into her stomach, she couldn't even handle water by mouth.  My vibrant, stunningly beautiful, slightly crazy, force of nature mother had been reduced to a nearly vegetative state.  It was heart-breaking.  I had sat with her, holding her rigid arm which stuck straight up in the air.  I had to lean way way in, my ear to her mouth, to talk with her, and what a talk we had. We sang and laughed and cried and forgave each other . . .  our relationship had been fraught, and much forgiveness and grace were needed.  She asked if she could leave, and I said, "Yes, Mom, go. Everyone's waiting for you.  We are fine."  The next morning, back at home, I stood at the counter with my black coffee.  We all love coffee.  I literally go to bed at night excited for the coffee I'll be having in the morning, and I inherited that from my parents.  As I stood there, I thought, "God, my mother can't even have her beloved cup of coffee.  Please bring her home.  End her pain, end this prison she's in."  She was gone a few weeks later.

I imagine many experienced what I did when I received a breast cancer diagnosis eight years ago:  I can't believe I ever cared about the cellulite on my thighs, my God, I love this body, please God, help me heal it.  But, over time, that sharp, crystal-clear perspective fades.  I find myself occasionally wrinkling my nose at my saggy knees, a function of fat being moved from one place to another to build new breasts.  I scowl (ironically) at the wrinkles in my neck and face, some of it natural aging, some of it the result of elasticity that rapidly disappeared after I went through early, surgical menopause at age 47.  I've started buying expensive serums.  I tried Botox once, just a few vials, to "keep it natural."  I might as well have lit $300 on fire, I metabolized it in less than a month.  For a few brief weeks, I didn't have the number 11 between my eyebrows.  It was back in no time.

It seems like a lot of women around me are having things tightened or touched up, and I admit, I've felt envious at times.  It's not something that's in the budget with two boys in out-of-state colleges, plus I've had eight necessary surgeries, it seems silly to do an unnecessary procedure or set of injections at this point.  But still, the thoughts creep in.

A few years ago, I was talking to my aunt, my father's sister.  We are very close.  And we were griping a little about aging and the effects of gravity.  I mentioned I have my father's hands and forearms ~ strong, sun-damaged, very veiny. My aunt laughed, and said about my father, "Sometimes I look in the mirror, and my brother looks back at me!"  

Now that my father is gone ~ and understand that this was not just a close father-daughter relationship, but a deep friendship, for reasons too numerous to go into right now ~  my relationship with the mirror has totally changed.  Actually, it's also a function of my mother being gone, for I love her more than ever ~ we're quite close now. 

When I see my darker skin (we're part Chinese, and I love the sun as much as my father did), the laugh lines that have migrated from the corners of my eyes down the sides of my cheeks, the tightness over my cheekbones, one slightly raised eyebrow, that little bump of scar tissue on my nose, the softness under my jaw line, the way my mouth turns down when I'm concentrating . . . I get to see Mom and Dad again.  They look right out at me, and I'm filled with love and a little amusement.  It's really quite amazing, isn't it?  Oh how I loved my parents' faces.  Now I get to see them again.  Sometimes they whisper to me.  A word of love.  A bit of advice.  A reminder to be kind to myself and others.

So for now, all desire to change that face has disappeared.  I wouldn't trade it for the world.  Who knows if this feeling will last.  If my fellow 50-somethings keep tuning things up, and I'm left standing by like a leather saddlebag, perhaps I'll feel differently.  If there's one thing I've learned in 55 years, it's to avoid saying "I would never . . ."  But for now, I love every single part of it.