Shoes Tell a Story (Part 2)

In Shoes Tell a Story (Part 1), the theme was Connection. This next installment has to do with Identity.

(Time Period: About two months before my mother died)

Planning Ahead

Years before she had Alzheimer’s and while going through clothes in her closet one day, with a quick mention and point of her finger, Mom indicated the outfit that she wanted for her burial. It was the pink silk, two-piece dress that she had worn to my wedding. The day we shopped for it at Lord & Taylor, we both knew immediately it was the perfect choice and she had looked beautiful in it.

During the four years that Mom was in the care home, the dress hung in the closet, the one outfit that was different from the rest of her everyday comfy clothes. Perched on its special hangar, it waited patiently to be selected once again.

Mom and me on my wedding day

Preparation

In the last two months of Mom’s life when her final decline was apparent, I decided to take stock of the items I’d need to give the funeral home so that I wouldn’t have to scramble later. I realized her undergarments would no longer fit because she had lost so much weight. Her small frame had shrunken significantly. Since a bra was no longer necessary, I went in search of a camisole. It was a more challenging task than I expected. The camisoles were either slinky and of a material that I thought she’d be too cold in (and yes, this mattered to me even though it didn’t really matter) or too athletic, the kind that would show through the neckline of the dress.

I ended up selecting a camisole from my own bureau drawer. It was made of cotton but tapered like one you’d wear under a dress. The thought that it would fit her well and keep her warm made me very happy. There had been two of the same camisoles in my drawer and it pleased me that we would each have one. I knew rationally that I didn’t have to be so particular, but there was something about taking care of how her body would be treated that felt right and reverent. Besides, it was how she would have approached the task, with love and making things “nice.”

Other items put aside for her burial included a pair of rosary beads that I discovered in her night table drawer. It looked like the kind that she probably received in the mail for free, as a token of appreciation for donating to a charity. After opening the envelope-shaped case made of plastic to see that each bead was the shape of a light pink heart, I concluded right away, “These are the ones.”

Dress, check. Camisole and underwear, check. Lipstick that was our favorite shade, check. Rosary, check. All that remained were shoes. Oh no! I had donated all her dressy shoes early on, when she first moved to the care home.

I perused Zappos online. After eliminating the shoes that had too high a heel or were the kind of shoe Mom never would have worn, I narrowed it down to a few finalists. I texted three photos of cream-colored pumps to my friend Luisa who has always been able to give me spot-on fashion advice without having to see the item in person.

I called her to review the shoe photos. “I know I’m being a little silly about this and any of these will do, but, tell me, do they look like the right ones for this outfit? Which do you like the best?”

Luisa understood completely. Her response was priceless and alleviated my self-consciousness about giving so much thought to the shoe selection. “Well you don’t want her to be in uncomfortable shoes for eternity!”

She was exactly right. The search for comfortable shoes never ends.

Just As She Always Had

When I think of my mother now, I don’t think of her as being in the cemetery. I imagine her in spirit with a soul that is free, vibrant, and alive. For the record though, her earthly body was put to rest in comfortable shoes that coordinated with her outfit perfectly. She had helped shape the identities of her children, with insight into each of us as individuals, and with great care and attention to detail. In this small way, I wanted to honor her identity.

To my eyes, even in death and with a much smaller frame that was worn from having lived with Alzheimer’s, Mom looked beautiful, put together, just as she always had.