A lot can be said and learned by a person's hands. Some people notice eyes or smiles, which at times, I do. I also take notice and inventory when I see someone's hands during their life, how they hold my hand in theirs when we greet, and how they move during our conversation. Do they hide them in their pockets as we speak, possibly showing their shyness, maybe insecure or hiding something else. Do they keep them at their side or plant them on their hips? As an observer of people, it fascinates me and I am curious about what most might consider trivial. Much comfort, strength, care, parenting, life choices, and love permeates through the hands. Why is it that I can recall so clearly the details of my loved ones' hands, but I can easily forget the shape of their eyes or face? Quite possibly losing memory of their face could be the shield we need to protect us from our deep heartache. That heartache of wanting them right here in the flesh. The hands tell a story, but it doesn't put the face right there in front of us. The face that may have experienced so much suffering during their stay in this world. My mom did endure a tremendous amount of suffering. Far more than anyone should have to endure. I choose to save that for another time.......another story.
The way my mom took care of her hands and nails was absolutely down to a science during her lifetime. My mom was a casual, very involved mom who wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty. At the same time, she loved to catch your attention by what she was wearing. She was a knockout as a young mother, and the years of sickneess had worn not only on her body but on her hands. She used her beautiful hands not only to feed and give us baths, but to clean our home and our parish church at St. Catherine's where we grew up. She loved her fake nails from the Kmart, and often we would see her sizing up those little darlings and clipping them on with clothes pins while waiting for the glue to adhere ever so tightly to each fingernail. On rare occasions, one of those nails would get lost in our dinner, and each of us hoped it wouldn't turn up on our plates. Those hands were used for discipline on occasion and to show emotions but mostly when she was laughing or telling a good story. When I was younger, those hands held an occasional cigarette or two that spent most of its time burning in the ashtray. Only in passing during her phone conversations did I see her take a puff or two. She clicked those hands to a typewriter back in the day; working as a secretary up at our grade school. Often in her later years, as dad was dealing with his cancer struggles, you would hear her clicking those nails on the kitchen table....sensing her frustrations and worries. She did so much with those beautiful extremities that they became extensions of her personality. She was a beautiful, sassy soul with a great sense of humor and style, and the best cook and mom that I ever knew. She was that perfect mom in my eyes, and I thank God everyday for giving me that particular one....that mom.
I remember those same hands after she passed on to her new life. Taking hold of her hand after she died was my very first inclination, before anything else, and that may seem strange. Why wouldn't I go to kiss her or hug her? Now it all seems clear to me. That hand showed me so much care, love and attention during my life, and I suppose by touching and seeing her hand was evidence that it was her still body lying there on the hospital bed. I didn't want to believe it, and perhaps that hand was confirmation for me. She was my mom, one who had died far too early. A young mom who had just turned fifty. I had to bring her hand up to caress my face because I couldn't believe that she had left us. I was only twenty-two years old at the time, and my life was just beginning......how could she leave us?
I've seen many hands since then placed just so gently on the deceased bodies in their caskets. Maybe it's too difficult for me to look at their faces because they are covered by a great deal of make-up, which makes them look statuesque, almost unreal.....almost unfamiliar. Their hands tell the real story, though, or atleast gives us a partial glimpse as to who they were and are. Recently, a friend of Chrissy's passed on to her new life and her family chose to take a photo of their mother's hand holding a rosary before she had died because she loved the Mother Mary, and would often pray the rosary. They placed that photo on a prayer card. How appropriate and soulful is that for people to remember their dear loved one? I thought it was so powerful. You could see the wear and tear that she lived, through her hands, but she also lived with an enormous amount of faith. It didn't matter that the cancer had rocked her physical body; her soul continues to live on, and that photo of her hands was so poignant. Whether you knew her in life or not; you could see the strength and perserverance in those hands.
I've also seen hands that were far too young folded in their caskets. I recall approaching the casket of a very young soul, too young to pass to her new life; and again I was drawn to the hands. It touched me so deeply to view the young hands of this woman, only twenty-one years old whose hands appeared like that of a child's spirit. I had never met her in person, but I found myself whispering to Marty how very small and young those hands were. They were far too young and perfect to leave this earth.
When your loved one is dying, as my sister Chrissy was, you find yourself trying to memorize every action, every body movement and every word they say, especially during their final days, because you don't want to forget them. Amongst her many traits, her characteristics, her body mannerisms and her words......I found myself searching her hands, hoping and praying I wouldn't forget them, and I haven't. Hers were long fingers, which were perfect for the piano keyboards that also resembled my dad's hands. At times they were full of color, shape and promise; giving care and protection to her kids and embracing those around her. Towards the end of her earthly life, they revealed the strain of this disease, the cancer. Knowing full well her life story filled with smiles and joy giving friendship and laughter; I also saw the story of pain and suffering that overcame but did not prevail. I may lose sight of her face at times, as grief tends to do, but those hands will be the one thing I will not forget as the days progress as I deal with this grief. I may need to search the scrapbooks filled with her photos or retrieve her emails and cards to recall her words, but I will never forget her hands. The hands of my sister.
"When the doors of perception are cleansed man will see things as they truly are, infinite."
-William Blake
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