Margaret Rhodes (Brown)

October 12, 1927 — January 6, 2016

I want to tell you a story about being beautiful. When I was a little girl, I would sit and watch my mother put on her makeup. She would sit by a window and put on loose powder, a hint of blush, attend to her eyebrows, add some long length mascara, and her favorite warm apricot, almost a burnt rose, lip color. I would talk to her about life, old stories, mostly everything, and I would watch her, all the while thinking how beautiful she was.

When I turned sixteen, my mom bought me Erno Laszlo skincare. She used it and swore it was the secret to beautiful and healthy skin. It was a ritual. I would put Phelityl Oil on my face, and then wash with Sea Mud Soap, then rinse thirty times in the same water in a big blue bowl. It was a secret we shared. Few people knew about Erno Laszlo. I continued to use it until I realized it was not considered free of a few questionable ingredients. I switched to clean skincare. Even so, Laszlo was a habit that was hard to break. I think it was a connection to my mother. We intentionally become so much of those we consider to be beloved.

I still love skincare and makeup and clothes and textures and colors. I can redo a room in a few minutes. It is all in my head. The creative yearning of a painter, of words, of style, of beautiful things. Tennessee Williams once said:

“Love what you love and make no apologies.”

My mom continued this ritual of self expression, even with dementia. She always said, “I like to see myself in the mirror, but only the person I can recognize.” That moment of awareness, when we are walking down a city street and we catch our reflection in the window, and we think, “Hey, that’s me…” Surprised as we meet ourselves, as if for the very first time. We look again, amazed at the miracle we are observing.

One night, shortly after I first arrived at her house and started caring for her, we drove over to Charlotte. We were in Nordstrom, one of her favorite stores. She was very confused most of the time, but clearly knew exactly where she was at the time. She wandered through the makeup counters, found her brand, and was enjoying a chat with the makeup specialist. By the time I arrived at the counter, she had her favorite product sitting in front of her, ready to purchase. It was an eighty dollar purchase, and I was not sure it was wise to buy it. She had things hidden all over the house, and I could not find them, and she forgot where she put them. Her story about the missing items was that someone was breaking into the house and hiding her most favorite things. I decided it best to wait on the purchase. My mom became very angry with me. She would not speak to me on the drive back to her house. During the trip, I felt absolutely horrible. Why didn’t I buy it for her? Why didn’t I allow her to feel beautiful? A few days later, I bought her lots of makeup at the local drugstore. She ignored it. She may have had dementia, but she still knew the things she liked. This moment at Nordstrom continues to haunt me. I was wretched and lacked empathy. I was being reasonable, but love is never reasonable. Never.

The days lingered on. I lost my mother a little bit, in minutes, in hours. She would carry a stack of photos held by a rubber band and constantly look at them, lay them down on a table, and often, she would point to one and ask me, “Is this Raymond?” Raymond was one of her brothers. She knew exactly in her mind who he was, yet in photos, things had changed. She could not recognize an older version of him. In fact, sometimes, she did not really seem to recognize herself.

Once my mother’s condition worsened to the point I could not leave her alone, I began the sad search for another level of care. I had dreaded this moment. It felt so much like an empty chapter in waiting, the closing of a memoir still being written. I found a place in a small town nearby. My mom knew a few folks there, and the drive was relatively easy. The day before she moved in was her last day in the kitchen where she had made many cups of coffee, and the bedroom where she slept after my dad passed. I cannot express the ache in my chest when I walked her to the car. There was a death of the life we knew, all that we were accustomed to.

Once there, her confusion worsened. It became clear rather quickly that my mother would receive little care. The first problem was dining. No one would help her in selecting dining options. Then it was the baths. Instead of telling my mom it was time for a bath, they would ask her if she wanted a bath. She had no idea if she wanted a bath, so she told them, “No.” So my mom would not receive a bath for days. I would discuss the problem with them, and they would tell me that my mom had rights, and if she said no to a bath, they had to honor her wish. I was my mom’s POA, and I wanted her to have a bath. They told me to do the baths myself. I explained, the reason she was there was for care, and ironically, they did not care. I finally realized, my mom was in the wrong place. They did not even pretend to show concern about my mom’s wellbeing…her right to eat, to feel clean, to be happy, to feel beautiful inside and out, the staff had not a single concern regarding my mother.

I had no choice but to move her. I called the ombudsman in the area and asked if there was a facility that had no negative assessments. The representative told me she could not discuss that question, but that she could tell me that one facility had zero infractions. She told me that people stay there, and die there, and so there is a long waiting list. However, she encouraged me to contact them, and so I did. The small place with twelve residents was located at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I drove past a few farms and up a winding drive to a small, unassuming, well-maintained building. When I walked inside, I felt a calm, a sincerity that was unmistakable. There was a view of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the place where my mother was born. I knew this place was unique, a hidden treasure, and I wanted my mom to be in their care.

So the day arrived for Mom to finally move. Her hair was dirty. She looked disheveled. She was confused. We found unwashed clothes thrown in her closet. Cups of juice sitting on tables for no telling how long. A day or two? I was unable to visit her every day, and any day I missed left more reasons why the move was truly a safety necessity. When we arrived on top of the hill overlooking green pastures, my mom stopped and looked over the mountains. She smiled and nodded her head. She went inside, and she was unusually calm. She was greeted as a human suffering a very sad human condition. They took her arm and walked her down the short hallway to her room. It was large with a huge window overlooking a pasture with three horses grazing. The walls were a soft blue, and my mom immediately walked to the window to see the view. Something felt different here. My mom was a person, not a commodity. I felt good when I got ready to leave. She was sitting in the den with another lady. I kissed her and told her I would see her tomorrow. She looked up and said, “Okay.” She continued talking to this newfound friend. I walked outside, it was getting dark. Lights were twinkling over the Blue Ridge Mountains, the sky was so clear. The stars were twinkling, and yet I could not tell where the stars ended and the lights began. I stopped and took a deep breath and whispered to myself, “Wow, the sky is divinely beautiful from here.” I walked to the car and climbed inside. At that moment, I questioned God, “Why do people decline and then die? Why do they eventually disappear?”

I returned to visit my mom the next day. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when I arrived. When I walked in, she was sitting by the fireplace. Her hair was washed and styled. She had on mascara and blush, and a hint of her warm apricot lipstick. She looked up and smiled at me. She held her head higher, she beckoned me to come over and sit with her. She never once had forgotten who I was. I walked over and kissed her cheek, I smiled at her, and told her, “You are so beautiful.” I grabbed her hand. I knew our time was limited, her time was limited. And it was. On our very last Christmas together, she told me with certainty, that. angels were in her room. A week later, she fell and broke her hip. She stopped eating, a symptom of dementia. A week later, I knew without question that any day soon, I could lose her. On a cold January night, the stars twinkled brilliantly over the mountains, the lights were shimmering from the clusters of houses and life far off in the distance, her soul left her body and swirled around me, not once, but twice, and she took wings and flew away into the darkness. It was a beautiful night for her to travel. I lost her. I could have never predicted the enormity of grief that overwhelmed me, the emptiness of losing her.

And now still, I carry on the ritual. I sit by the window, a little mascara, a hint of blush, my favorite lipstick. The gift I give myself. I asked my son,”Is this ridiculous that I do all this?” He shook his head no, and said, “I love that you take time to care for yourself.” I guess beautiful is mostly the way we feel true to ourselves, comfortable in our own skin. My mother. The woman my dad carefully escorted down the front steps to the car, arm in arm, smiling at her, so glad she was his. He would wink, smile, and say to her, “Margaret, you look so beautiful tonight.” When I was a little girl, I watched all this play over and over many times. I blushed, I smiled. I decided there really is no love, no life, no definition of beautiful that is truly definitive. We define it in who we are on the inside, and it radiates from there. But what is truly beautiful, is the reason, the magic of why we are here. The exquisite uniqueness that only we can comprehend, that which makes us truly divine, a one of a kind, kind of beautiful. The word beautiful will always be synonymous with my mother.

• Patty Brown

“She was beautiful, but not like those girls in magazines. She was beautiful, for the way she thought. She was beautiful, for the sparkle in her eyes when she talked about something she loved.

She was beautiful, for her ability to make other people smile, even if she was sad. No, she wasn’t beautiful for something as temporary as her looks.

She was beautiful, deep down to her soul.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald