While I no longer live in A Lifetime I Could Not Imagine, I have recently felt a need to write about one particular aspect from that time. That feeling tells me someone out there needs this information and they need it now. I hope what I have to say helps…
Back, way back, almost to the beginning of my grieving journey, I became acutely aware of grief’s influence on my reflective image — you know — what you see when you look at yourself in a mirror. It took me a little while to notice this change because I was so inward focused, looking for signs of Kalei’s spirit, I could not comprehend or acknowledge much if anything in the regular universe. For a while it was like my physical self — or image — ceased to exist. Then, it happened.
One day, while blow drying my hair, I made eye contact with myself in the mirror and…I…HATED IT! I asked myself, “How is it possible that my image still exists when my child’s cannot? Shouldn’t there be a bleeping law about that!” I hated seeing the unspeakable pain in my eyes and knowing what it meant. I hated knowing that Kalei’s image would never again be a reflection in a mirror. But most of all, I hated seeing me in that mirror for it was an in-your-face reminder that she was dead and I, well, I was still alive.
From that moment on I made the decision to never make eye contact with myself. I could look in a mirror if absolutely necessary, but acknowledge my image, no, that was not going to happen ever again. It got so bad, during the worst of the worst grief periods; I removed all the mirrors and stored them in the garage. I even covered the mirrors I could not remove, like those affixed to bathroom walls, with sheets. I could not stand being reminded of my own existence. I would live like that until I knew someone was coming over to the house. To avoid a family circling-of-the-wagons Lorene event, I would put the mirrors back up and remove the sheets so no one would know about that part of my secret world. They would stay that way…for a while.
This particular grief behavior did eventually create some interesting consequences. One of which came from a hairdresser I will call Bill. Almost from the moment of her death, Bill announced he was going to take care of me. He had done Kalei’s hair a couple of times when he still worked out of a salon, and he used that information when he called and asked me to become his client in his cash only home based operation. It never occurred to me to say no. He might just as well been telling me to roll over or go fetch, because once he talked of his connection to Kalei I was putty in his hands. That and the fact that I no longer cared what I looked like just made it all so very easy for him.
Over a period of several years, I walked out of Bill apartment each month hundreds of dollars poorer and looking well, shall we say, interesting. You see he often ran out of money and by default product, dyes and what not, which left him in a bit of a pickle — don’t dye my greying hair or make do with whatever he had on hand. A part of me knew something wasn’t quite right, mostly because of the weird looks I received at work and from my friends after each and every hair appointment, but I just did not care enough to give the thought more than a passing glance.
That changed one day when I stopped at Devin’s house on my way home from my latest appointment. His parents, Megan and Brendan, just on their way out, came over to my car to chat while I waited for Devin to come out of the house. While Megan seemed okay, Brendan was acting very odd. For some reason, every time he started talking to me he would stop mid-sentence, turn away and make this kind of choking sound. While I was still emotionally grief-stunted, and not really capable of picking up on social cues, I did think his behavior was a bit odd. It was not until I got home that I realized the choking sound was in fact suppressed laughter. Apparently the only hair color Bill had left was a bright florescent pink. I did not take the mirrors down again after that.
It was not until 2008, seven years after Kalei died, that I was strong enough to actually look, and I mean look, at my reflection again. To say I was shocked with what I saw is an understatement. Bill’s less than stellar hairdressing skills aside, by not watching me physically change during all those years I did not recognize the person I saw in the mirror. The stranger’s image that stared back at me was not the Lorene I remembered. Not only had she gotten so, well, old, but there was a defeated look in her eyes that made me very sad. That day was the first time I came to appreciate what people saw in my image when they looked at me…grief…hard core, unimaginable grief. No wonder they their faces always used to take on that ate-something-rotten look when they encountered me.
Yes, I still hate knowing Kalei’s face will never appear alongside mine and yes, looking in the mirror and being reminded of my life when my child’s is over still sucks, but I have learned to look and sigh rather than avert my eyes completely. Like so much in this grieving journey, even little things — like mirrors — take on an unimaginable importance.
