My mom had very small hands. Yet, I was excited when my hands were as big as hers. Mom’s hands were dainty, but she didn’t like dainty jewelry. She preferred bold, “important” pieces. Her bold rings looked even more “important” on her tiny fingers. I had fun trying on her rings and bracelets.
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Mom and I started going to the theatre when I was little. The first show we saw was The Wizard of Oz. When the witch came screaming down the aisle, I ducked under my seat, terrified. Mom told me all about the show before we came, but she forgot and left out one part: the witch. After the show, we stood in line to meet the cast. I was afraid to see the witch up close, so Mom gently held my hand in hers. Other people wanted autographs; Mom wanted the witch to remove her long witchy nose to show me she was a real person underneath. The witch hesitated, but complied. Not even a witch could resist my mom.
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Mom was only five foot two. Soon, I was taller than she was. I felt so grown up, as if I’d accomplished something special. But Mom’s rings and bracelets no longer fit me.
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My mom loved a good manicure and pedicure, but she had diabetes. Her doctors recommended she see a podiatrist, not a manicurist, for any sort of foot grooming or toenail trimming. She might have followed the doctors’ advice, but podiatrists don’t polish your nails.
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Mom and I loved going to the theatre together. From musical comedies to dark dramas, from church basements to fancy theaters, we saw it all. Often, as we sat in the plush seats with matching armrests, Mom rested her hand on mine, her gleaming nails juxtaposed with my naked ones.
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I was in college when Mom took my sister and me to New York City to see our first Broadway show. We had a wonderful time. After that, we started making a yearly pilgrimage to check out the newest shows on The Great White Way.
As the years passed, it became more and more difficult for Mom to navigate the hustle and bustle of Times Square. I’d hold her hand tightly as we navigated crosscurrents of tourists on the way to our destination. The late spring weather was often hot or rainy, but as we sat together in the cool air of the theatre, and the lights began to dim, we knew we were just where we were supposed to be.
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Mom’s hands had always been small, but steady. As she aged, however, she developed a slight tremor in her right hand. I noticed her signature began to change, becoming more and more like that of my grandmother. Soon, the tremor made it difficult for her to eat soup without some of it spilling from the spoon. “The doctor says it’s because I’m old,” she said with a shrug. “There’s nothing they can do about it.”
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The weekend of Mom’s 93rd birthday we went to the symphony. At intermission, I was holding Mom’s hand, trying to help her up the stairs, when she tripped. I tried my best, but was unable to fully stop her fall. Luckily, she was okay. Before the end of intermission, a thoughtful usher found a place for us to sit that didn’t require traversing the stairs. As we sat side by side, transported by the majesty of the music, Mom gave my hand a little squeeze, letting me know how glad she was I was there celebrating with her.
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A month after Mom turned 93, she suffered a mild stroke. Fortunately, this didn’t result in any loss of language or paralysis, but the doctors recommended she go to rehab for a few weeks. During her stint in rehab, my mom, my sister, and I agreed it was no longer safe for Mom to live alone.
My sister made Mom’s apartment in assisted living feel as much like Mom’s condominium as possible. She had the walls painted the same colors as the condo and found clever ways to use mom’s furniture in the new space. She also did a beautiful job hanging Mom’s favorite paintings on the walls.
“Look, Mom,” I said handing her the center’s roster of events, “They have lots of activities, including live concerts and movies.” She seemed interested and began scanning the list.
“I heard they have a beauty parlor,” I told her a bit later. “They even have a manicurist, right in the building.”
Mom looked at me, raised an eyebrow, but said nothing; the look said it all.
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My sister and I took turns flying in to visit. When I visited, I often took Mom to medical appointments, followed by lunch at one of our favorite restaurants. We also went out to dinner, just for the fun of it. I learned how to order a wheelchair-accessible taxi and how to ensure our destinations could accommodate mom’s needs. These little adventures required a bit of planning and logistics, but Mom loved restaurants, good food, and being out on the town.
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Mom was hesitant to try the manicurist at the assisted living center. She’d grown fond of gel manicures, which she said lasted a full month. She also loved Kimmy, her favorite manicurist and the owner of her favorite salon. My sister, concerned Mom might trip or slip on icy winter sidewalks, wanted to limit the number of times Mom left the center. So, she persuaded Mom to try getting her nails done in-house, even though the manicurist didn’t do gel manicures.
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I flew in to spend Mother’s Day with Mom. Almost as soon as she saw me, she showed me her new in-house manicure and scrunched her face like she was sucking on a lemon. “This is the worst manicure I’ve ever had!” Looking down at her nails, I couldn’t disagree.
At the center’s Mother’s Day concert, I sat holding Mom’s hand in mine and couldn’t help but notice the unevenly applied polish. I vowed to myself that, when I returned in a few weeks, I’d take her to Kimmy’s for the gel manicure she loved.
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When I arrived in June, mom greeted me with a big smile and a warm hug. I was thrilled to see how well she was doing. As we chatted, I glanced down at her hands and saw ten perfectly manicured claret-red nails, not the messy mauve I’d seen in May.
“Mom, your nails look great!”
“Kimmy did them,” she said, delighted. “She did my toes, too.” I had to laugh. Mom still had a will, and she’d definitely found a way.
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I was still in town when a week later, shortly after breakfast, Mom became ill. We thought she’d eaten something that didn’t agree with her. In the hospital, we discovered her nausea was due to heart failure. My sister and her adult children flew in. We sat vigil at Mom’s bedside. In the wee hours of the morning, I was holding Mom’s hand as she peacefully slipped away.
It had been a long sad night. My niece and nephew left to get some rest. Holding back tears, my sister and I sat quietly, as two nurses, who had been especially kind to my mother and to us, prepared Mom’s body.
“She has such beautiful nails,” one of the nurses whispered. It was a fitting tribute, one last curtain call to applaud Mom’s final triumphant bow.
[1] This story was originally published in hardcopy in the Jarnal. Here’s the full reference:
Mages, W. K. (2023). My mother’s hands. In T. Campbell (Ed.) Jarnal Volume 3: Transitions, pp. 30-34. Mason Jar Press.