The
woman's face was startling. It stopped me in my tracks. I stared. Who
is she? She was gaunt and vacant
-- dull eyes; drawn, dry skin; and no healthy glow about her. Her hair was pulled
back in a dry tangle. And wrinkles --
so many wrinkles.
It was me, my reflection, the face
of sadness and sorrow from a shattered heart and hurting soul -- the face of a
mom without her son. Without Jack. But it looked nothing like the me I vaguely remembered.
The bright, lively, younger-than-my-age look was gone, lost somewhere in the
deep abyss of grief.
I couldn't (and still can't)
remember most of the previous year since "the call" -- that
life-stopping, life-changing call from my son's best friend. Jack had suffered
a traumatic brain injury after a college assault and had what his neurosurgeon
called "a miraculous, rare and remarkable recovery."
After weeks on life support, two brain surgeries, months in the ICU and rehabilitation, Jack
was back at college -- an occasional seizure breaking through. We were flying
to spend a weekend with him. I was super-excited. We landed, and my phone rang.
"Nic, I'm so, so, so sorry. It's
Jack. He's gone."
For that next year, I remember only the sensation of falling
in the dark, curled up in a fetal position, holding my knees, rocking and
sobbing. Then after some weeks, it may have been months, progressing to sitting
-- for hours and hours -- just gazing into the distance, thinking of nothing
but Jack, my oldest son, my best friend, who was never going to walk through our
door again.
Tragedy in all forms is
debilitating. You literally do not care about anything, nothing at all -- least
of all what you look like. For a year and a half, I didn't brush my hair let
alone do my daily routine: cleanse, tone, moisturize, a light swipe of mascara,
a little lip gloss, a spritz of scent and good-to-go. My husband had to tell me
to take a shower, walk me to the bathroom, turn on the water, help me step in and
wait with a towel after I just stood there, motionless.
Staring in the mirror at this sad-eyed, haggard, aged me, I
slowly remembered that that light-touch beauty routine had always uplifted me,
made me walk a little taller, helped me feel confident at work -- even had me
winking at my reflection, happy with how I looked. I knew I would never,
ever get back to happy, or
winking at myself, but I decided it was time to listen to all of the voices
surrounding me: "
You have to start
taking care of yourself. It will help you feel better."
Until that moment, my unspoken response screamed in my head,
How dare you think that I will
ever feel better! But that day, I saw something else in the
mirror, the motivation I needed to help me understand that I needed to start
caring about me, for my own health. I saw Jack, his arm slung over my shoulder as
it always was."You look great, Mom. Loveyabunches." He squeezed me, kissed my head, and I decided it was time.
I was nervous standing at my
bathroom vanity. I felt guilty confliction
: Your son is gone -- how dare
you put on a pretty face when you're crying and dying inside.... But you must.
Jack would want you to take care of yourself. He wouldn't want to see you this
way.
With a deep breath and shaky hands, locking eyes with the
woman in the mirror, I very slowly massaged my face with cleansing foam,
splashed water, and with a cotton pad wiped away the dirt of constant tears. My
face felt warm and it felt good. I'd been cold, very cold for a very long time
-- the icy grip of grief. I used some toner, moisturized, and stood back.
That's
all today. Maybe more tomorrow.
...Or the next day. Or the next. Or, in reality, only the days
I ventured out. I'd manage to muster a little concealer and light mascara, very
slowly, looking at my reflection like I was 14 and doing it for the first time.
I truly believe the eyes
are the window to the soul, and while my eyes still told my story, I began to
see a glimmer grow.
I started taking long baths,
sinking into the deep and luxurious bubbles, lights low, candles lit. The water
and foam hugged me -- a cocoon of warmth wrapping around my broken heart and
tender soul. I went on a shopping spree for essential oils, soothing scrubs, calming
masks, shine shampoos, luscious leave-in conditioners for my dry, brittle hair
-- and minimalist makeup treats.
This was the medicine I started to crave. One day, I
confessed to my therapist that my beauty indulgences were starting to feel like
an obsession. "That's OK," she said, putting her hand on mine. "It's
helping to heal you. You deserve it in so, so many ways. And Jack is smiling at
you right now, at his beautiful mom. He lovesyabunches."
Over time, I've slowly felt at peace with more -- a swipe of blush, subtle eye shadow, a little lip gloss. Those who know
me know that my makeup is more about hiding the burden inside than looking
gorgeous. But they know it's helping me. I look healthier -- regardless of the ongoing struggle on
the inside -- and that makes them happy.
I'm never going to slap on the glitter shadow, long false
lashes and bright red rouge. But I've personally proved the power of self-care
and how a little lip gloss can go a long way in helping you cope.
It's been 992 days since the call. My husband and I are
sitting, sipping cocktails and watching a Southern California sunset. He leans
over and in.
"You look beautiful. It's
lovely to have you back. You look great. Loveyabunches."
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