Alisa Childress
To Mom of Eight Years Ago,
I often wonder what you would think of yourself now. Of you have become. You are almost unrecognizable. You have always been the woman who took pride in her appearance. You never left the house without drawing on your eyebrows. You hated not having eyebrows. When you were pregnant with me, you prayed, not that I would be smart, or healthy, or have all my fingers and toes. You prayed that I would have eyebrows.
After you and Dad divorced, you wanted to be a nun. You talked to the nuns at my school and our church. You asked if you could join the convent after I was grown and out of the house, asking if you could be a nun, even though you had a child. When you found out that was allowed, you asked about your eyebrow pencil. Being able to wear your eyebrows was non-negotiable. Luckily, that was allowed as well.
When you met Mike, all thoughts of becoming a nun flew away. You have been married for nearly 30 years now, even though you don’t remember having a husband unless he is directly in front of you. And even then, sometimes not.
I have not seen your eyebrows in years. You no longer wear makeup or brush your hair. Mike brushes it for you, but only when you have to leave the house. And he cannot ever get it to lay flat in the back. It is permanently flattened and pushed out in all directions from resting your head on the back of the recliner all day.
You would be so angry that I let you leave the house looking like you do. Even more so, that I, myself, take you out of the house this way.
I silently begged forgiveness from your true self as I took you to Walgreens for your flu shot and COVID booster. You were sporting bright pink spotted pajama pants and a Halloween sweatshirt. Even though it was November. It had a jelly stain left from your lunch. I apologize to the former you because I do not feel like fighting with the current you to change clothes. I wipe off as much of the jelly as I can and help you with your coat.
You do not want to leave. You never want to leave anymore. Your former self would shop with your friends all day, only to break for a long lunch. You loved to tell the story of my niece shopping with her dad when she was four. She told him that he was doing it wrong because he did not pick everything up, turn it around, look at it, and put it back as Nana does.
I lie to you just to get you into the car, something you could always see through when I was a child. I tell you that I have to go to the doctor and that I need you to help me. You will still do anything for me, just as I will always do for my son. I wonder how he will handle it when, like you, I am a shadow of my former self.
I help you with your seatbelt and start a playlist of music I thought you would like. Music from when you were a young mother. You hum along, which always makes me smile. I am sorry that I did not appreciate you as you were. I am sorry that we butted heads. That, as a child, I ignored you and, as a teenager, I talked back to you. I am sorry that you always felt like I loved my dad more. I am happy that you are no longer capable of these feelings and then I feel guilty about being happy.
I catch glimmers of your real self in Walgreens. It takes us nearly fifteen minutes to walk to the pharmacy because you have to stop and say hi to every child. You tell the boys they are handsome and the girls they are pretty. This is the you that loved your child care job; happily spending your days surrounded by babies. The you that would spoil your grandchildren, feeding my son all the sweets he wanted on your watch, until he became sick, always on my watch.
You always looked impeccable. Perfect hair, perfect makeup, nice clothes. As a fat, awkward teenager, I could never live up. I hate trying on clothes and I loathe makeup. I spent most of my life listening to you ask, “Are you going to wear that?” Or telling me I should put on some makeup, fix my hair, put on a top that covers my hips better. I do not miss these comments, something else to feel guilty about.
And as I have these conversations with your current and your former self, I think of the indignities of aging. I plead with my future self not to do this to my son. I think of all the women in our family who gradually, or quickly, seemed to lose themselves. I think of the 23andMe test that says I carry the gene for Alzheimer’s, and I say a silent apology to my son. I think of your fading eyebrows, and I wonder what is the small thing he will see in me, that will let him know I am no longer myself.
Alisa Childress writes creative nonfiction and personal essays. She has an MS in clinical psychology and now works as a case manager for persons with developmental disabilities. A proud nerd, multi-hobbyist and empty nester, she lives with her husband and animal menagerie in Louisville, KY. Her work has appeared in the Potato Soup Journal, Adult Children: Being One, Having One & What Goes In-Between A Wising Up Anthology, Open Door Magazine and several Medium publications.