Shedding

For a few years I've been shedding hair at what, to me, feels an alarming rate. But I still have a lot on my head and each strand I lose seems to be quickly replaced by a short, wiry, grey strand that sticks straight up for a few weeks before falling in line with its brethren.

My last haircut was about a month before Oli died, and every so often I pick up one of my discards (usually from something I'm cooking or eating) and hold it to the light for a moment, pondering the history along its length.

The shedding could be simply older age, or my thyroid condition, or stress, or binding this unruly mess too tightly as I invariably wind it into a bun several times a day. I suppose the source doesn't matter. But bit by bit I'm losing pieces of me all over my bed, shower, carpets, kitchen, car. Like a breadcrumb trail of my physical disregard.

Do I feel lighter? I guess I'm hoping not because that will mean I'm headed toward a bald head and I still care enough to not wish that upon myself. But I'll deal with it if it comes. I'm more curious about how easily I let go of my hair but not the past it represents.

Yesterday Leal spent the morning at a neighborhood-wide yard sale in a parking lot down the hill from his friend's home. It was the perfect spot for us to shed some things from our vast treasure trove of stuff without neighbors shuddering at the idea they might be picking up something that once belonged to a dead child. Still, we didn't bring any toys. I didn't bring anything that I remembered Oli even knowing about. I dug deep into the closets for things never used and never cherished. And letting them go felt good. So good Leal suggested we should do this again, soon, with more of our things.

We'll need another anonymous venue, but I can imagine starting to dip into the toys, the boxes containing emotional landmines, the Thomas trains, and other playthings of a bygone era. His friend was discarding many such items and he brought in quite a haul with all the little kids gathered to turn old treasures new. Watching families visit other tables and trek back to cars with strollers, baby-wearing gear, exersaucers, and toddler playthings was like watching a parade of echoes of my own past. "It goes by so fast!" I wanted to shout to one pregnant mother. One bought two of our old and rarely used advent calendars - one for each of her twins, now 3, and I fell asleep thinking of what it would be like to share that Christmas magic with a child again.

If I let myself acknowledge the work it takes every day to not spend every minute longing for the past - I believe I would fall apart. So I keep pushing forward pretending like I'm okay with the present in which my teenage son barely tolerates my presence and the spirit of my dead son is more of a companion to me than any of the humans I live with. Any physical interaction I have is with dogs, and my body hurts each morning because I spend the whole night curled in the fetal position trying to keep the truth at bay.

Alas, my hair cares little for my charade. So it falls out, sometimes by the fistful. And quietly it transforms, leading to a day when it will show the toll of pretending in a way I can't ignore.

I want to shed this clinging to things, this emotional significance placed on stuff that doesn't matter anymore. I want someone to tell me I will always be a mother of children even when they are grown or gone beyond recognition. I want someone to say, you will be beautiful with silver hair or no hair at all. But nobody says these things, because nobody knows these are my fears and maybe none of this is true.

Dogs shed to better acclimate themselves to the change of seasons. They do so without ceremony, leaving the leavings of what once served them but no longer does in a trail all around. Perhaps in some small way, I'm doing that, starting with my hair, and one day the heavier things that are harder to lose will fall out too. I suppose there is some hope in that.