The Scarf...

When my mother found out that her cancer had returned, and that she would have to endure endless rounds of toxic chemotherapy, she was overcome with dread.

She didn't dread the inevitable nausea and the complete exhaustion. She didn't dread the needles piercing her skin. And she didn't even dread the daily trips to the hospital that she would have to make for weeks on end. She took all of that in stride—it was her burden to bear. The price to pay for a glimmer of hope.

What my mother did dread was losing her hair.

I remember seeing tears in her eyes when she told me that this new form of chemo would not only cause her to lose her hair on her head, but her eyebrows, too. Everything...rapidly.

I immediately suggested that she look into purchasing a wig, no matter what the cost. I also proposed that she shave off all of her hair before she started to lose it in large clumps. My mother agreed. In a sense, this was her way of taking control.

A few days before my mother took an electric razor to her head, she visited a boutique that specialized in providing wigs for those battling cancer. My mother brought her best friend, and together they found the perfect match.

The day after my mom bought her wig, I visited my parents' house. My mother and father had just returned home from a shopping trip, and when my mom walked up the stairs to the living room, she broke out in a radiant smile. I can still remember that smile...

It had been ages since my mother had looked happy...a by-product of this horrible disease.
Her wig was perfect. She looked terrific...and, for once, everything seemed to be "normal". Life was perfect in that moment.

A few months after this "perfect day", the wig stood on a stand on her bureau. There it remained; a constant reminder of how this disease can change a life at a moment's notice.
My mom's health rapidly decreased in the months to follow, and a new headscarf took its place on my mom's head, and in her heart.

Too embarrassed to be seen without anything adorning her bare head, my mom invested in a colorful patchwork fleece scarf. It was a rare moment when she didn't have it on. It was serving a special purpose: to keep her warm, but more importantly, to keep her dignity preserved.

The night before my mother passed away, she was wearing her scarf. As she clung to life in that dreadful hospital room, she was still clinging to her dignity. In the breaking light of morning, after hours of sitting by her side, my brother and I agreed that it was time to remove the scarf. Without it, she was vulnerable and exposed...yet, there seemed to be a beautiful truth to this picture.

In that moment, my mother was real, and true, and human, and she valiantly showed her scars and the effects of cancer to the world. I couldn't think of a more fitting tribute to her dignity.

The morning my mother died, I left the hospital with her scarf in my hand. On the way home, I used it to wipe away my tears. Later, when I lay in my bed, I clutched that scarf in my hand.
It's an amazing fact that certain smells can call to mind powerful memories.

My mother's scarf carried a certain smell...and even without holding it in my hand at this moment...I can pick up the scent. It's almost impossible to explain the particular scent. The scarf doesn't smell like roses, or perfume, or a floral lotion. It smells like the years of a long-fought battle and the struggle that existed for so long. It smells like sleep, and hospitals, and pain. It smells like tears, and fear, and hope. It smells like courage and bravery. It smells just like my mom.

For months, I kept that scarf in bed with me. It then moved to a drawer by my bedside. Now, its permanent home is in my mother's memory box. The other night I opened the box to make sure that the scent was still there.

As I brought the scarf up to my face, my heart pounded with fear that I wouldn't be able to capture the fading smell.

Awash with relief, I realized that it was still there. And while it is fading, I know that the memory of my mother never will.