Beauty redefined

As a young girl, I quickly recognized that I was different (you’ve heard this part before). Curly red hair, dark eyebrows and a funny name. My mother was a knockout beauty. A runway model, thin as a rail. Regal and yet, fragile. She had a closet full of Pucci, dyed Ferragamos to match. Sandy could choose a dress, tease her hair and heads would turn. My first memory of how different we looked came on a stroll through Central Park. My mother and I sat on a bench. A woman sat down beside us and made a comment about my curls. She then said, “your daughter looks nothing like you.” My mother’s response “I fear she is going to look just like her grandmother. She did not get my genes.” I was five years old.

Five years later, my mother’s prediction came true. I was built exactly like my grandmother. A little stocky, always about 10–15 pounds heavier than other girls my age. The dark eyebrows, a prominent feature, often elicited comments from my mother’s Junior League friends. “You should dye those. They are too dark for her skin.” My grandmother had those eyebrows (the German side of the family), and that was the second time I realized I was different. It was also the first time I understood the world’s definition of beauty. I’d look in the mirror and wonder, why did I not get my mom’s lean and lanky figure? Why are all my friends so thin? Why is my hair this red color?

Zaftig. I heard that word during a secret conversation between my mother and grandmother. My grandmother said I was destined to be exactly like her. It was the genes from her side of the family. My mother got my grandfather’s genes. Nana said “Leave her alone. Let her flourish. Don’t make her count every calorie. Get rid of the scales (we had 5).” Thus began the rift between my mother and grandmother.

At 17, Nana was diagnosed with Stage 4 ovarian cancer (yes, I was not kidding-cancer is in the genes). She took one round of chemo and declared “enough.” She said she’d rather live out her days surrounded by those she loved in her home. Always the effervescent Cora, matching Chanel housecoats (dyed shoes to match), she corralled an army. Hairdresser, Manicurist, Chef and her family. No one saw her without her face on. She was a force. In her last days, she summoned me to the house (I spent most afternoons there), and we had a fashion show. She had my try on all of her St. John suits and all of her shoes. They all fit, like a glove. She said, “Honey, you are not like anyone else. The reason you inherited my genes is your strength. You need big shoulders to carry your beauty. We are made of strong stock. Remember that.” Little did I know, seven years later, I would rely on that strength to fight my first battle.

The scars. The first surgeries. Hair loss (all of it…eyebrows, eyelashes, the works). Skin color. The effect on my teeth. Hair loss a second time. More scars. Big ones. My skin. Age. Love. Loss.

My mother and I reconciled many years later, and I understood the value of the difference between us. The strength my grandmother mentioned, those many years ago, was again put to the test as I took care of my mother in her final days. Her illness brought on by the ravages of poor choices. A once beautiful and regal presence, reduced to a mere shadow. Those last 18 months, we had many conversations about our differences. I did not turn out the way she’d hoped. I did not follow the path she chose for me. I did not follow in her footsteps. I chose my own path. A path, first of defiance and then of curiosity. I forgave. So did she. Glorious closure. Acceptance.

Acceptance of the person staring back in the mirror, now 50 years old.

Beauty redefined. Beauty not measured by appearance. Beauty measured by strength, perseverance, and openness. The beauty in allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Beauty in celebrating your scars. They are, after all, signs. Signs of healing. The beauty in responsibility. The responsibility that comes with surviving. Beauty redefined.

Today, I hear both of their voices, as clear as day, every day.

#cancer #itsalwayssomething