And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.
So last week, I completely forgot to do this blog. Good grief. It was the first day of the four-day AllWriters’ Annual Retreat, and I was up to my very happy neck in 18 writers coming from 7 different states, all ready to spend four days with me! I’m sorry I missed though. I realized it at about one in the morning, the next morning, so I just let it go.
But it turns out that what I wanted to write about dovetails with what I want to write about this week.
One weird facet of learning to live without Michael is this strange feeling that I’m supposed to be someone else now. The word “widow” has been added to my definition. I don’t like that word. I never have. It conjures up visions of spiders and old women with black nets over their faces, and shapeless black dresses, and rocking in creaky rocking chairs in the dark corners of empty rooms.
None of those things feel like me. But still, it’s what I was suddenly being called. On forms, I had to check a new box. And I was no longer one of two. I was just one. And I felt like had to change to fit this new role. I had to be different.
I certainly felt different. Sad. Lonely. Bereft.
One of the ways this new feeling came out was in my hair. I’ve been a redhead now for about twenty years. I always felt like a redhead. But my natural hair color is brown. When Olivia was five years old, I disappeared into a salon one morning when she was playing at summer school. I was 45 years old. And I did what many of us have probably dreamed of doing. “Change it,” I said of my cap of brown hair. “I don’t care what you do, but make it red.” I’d been seeing this hair stylist for years, and he’d been after me for a long time to make a change. He looked at me and cracked his knuckles, then waved my way to his chair, like it was a royal throne.
When I left a few hours later, my hair was red, very short, and punked. Olivia didn’t even recognize me. But here’s the thing.
I did.
As the years have passed, it’s become sort of a brand. I can’t tell you the number of people who have said to me, “I knew it was you! I saw your hair!” Some of these people have been complete strangers.
But then Michael died, and for a while there, I was a complete stranger to me too. I no longer recognized myself.
When I went in for the latest cut and color, I told my stylist (not my original – John died several years ago) to just cut. No color. I did that for two cycles. For the first time in twenty years, my hair was brown. And for the first time ever, there was gray.
Well, I thought, that’s fitting, isn’t it? For a widow?
I tolerated it for twelve weeks. I didn’t feel like me.
While I was in Oregon, that feeling just overflowed. At 3:30 in the morning, I picked up my phone and texted my stylist. “Giving you a head’s up – I want to return to red. Gray isn’t doing it for me.”
I don’t think she was surprised.
At the appointment, watching my hair go from dull to vibrant, I felt a rush of recognition. And I felt relief.
Not everything has to change.
And then there was this week, with the hand-in-hand event. I had to go in for my yearly physical, which much to my surprise, turned into what the clinic calls a “Welcome to Medicare” visit. I turn 65 on the 29th, and I was inducted into Medicare on July 1st. So along with the usual stuff, I had a few things added – a pneumonia shot, no charge. An EKG – I’m just fine, no sign of heart disease. And, my doctor said, tossing me a gown, “I want to see your skin. Gotta look for any skin cancers. Especially in my red-headed patients.”
This is someone who has known me for about thirty years. He and I are the same age.
“I’m not really a redhead,” I said, clinging to the dreaded gown.
“What?” My doctor stopped, looked back at me with wide eyes.
“I color my hair. It’s actually brown.” Maybe I should have kept it brown for another few weeks, to get out of this. If I’d only known.
He leaned against the door jamb, and then slowly began to smile. “You are such a redhead. You will always, always be a redhead to me.” He pointed at the gown. “Put it on. I’ll be back in a few.”
Even as I pulled the stupid gown on, I began to return his smile, even though he was no longer in the room. This doctor knew me before I knew Michael. He knew me during Michael. And he still knows me now, after Michael.
And he sees me as a redhead. Not even because of my hair color. But because of who I am.
Still me. I am such a redhead.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.
