Beautiful Dreamer
For my thirteenth birthday my sister Kathe, 15, gave me nail polish, and a lecture that boys would like me more if I didn’t play in the dirt with them and was more lady-like. Kathe practiced what she was preached: matching shoes and purse, fashionable clothes, perfect black curly hair, careful make-up and freshly manicured nails. She danced gracefully to Bobby Vinton tunes, and knew enough French to sound intriguing while teasing the boys.
The polish sat unopened on my dresser for years. My short, bare nails suffered from building tree houses with boys. I wore jeans most of the time. Nothing matched. I danced wildly as I listened to The Rolling Stones. My unruly blond hair was usually tucked behind my ears. Instead of flirty foreign phrases, I swore at the injustices I saw around me. I never quite made it to the level of sophistication that Kathe achieved and recommended for me. It took both of us until we reached adulthood to realize our differences, accept our individual personalities, and celebrate the women we had become.
Years later when she was dying of cancer, we laughed a lot about her efforts to civilize me. At 49 she was facing death with a level of grace and sophistication that was familiar to her, while I was struggling with all of my raw and untamed forces that wanted to stop the world, turn back time and erase the awfulness of the present.
Kathe was hospitalized several times during the year of her illness. Janie Kemper, RN became one of the most important people in her life. Her many years as an oncology nurse resulted in her ability to give her patients the things they need the most to face a life-threatening or life-changing illness or prepare for death.
Janie noticed early that beauty and femininity were Kathe’s life blood. She would announce her arrival to Kathe’s room by saying something like “Girl that polish has got to go! It does not match your scarf!”, or “You have got to check out this wig! It is so you that it scared me when I saw it!” Then Janie would open the box of manicure supplies she brought in with her, or pull a wig out of her pocket. She and Kathe would be transported to a beauty parlor where Kathe felt womanly, alive, artistic and healthy. Kathe would be able to leave cancer and her baldness behind for a while. They would gab, giggle, and be girly— familiar and necessary parts of who Kathe had always been. Janie gave Kathe opportunities to preserve her dignity and her sense of self. Following Janie’s lead, several other nursing staff comforted Kathe by massaging her with her favorite lotions during the night, her most challenging and scary time.
Several times Kathe was gravely ill, hardly responding to us. Janie would arrive and Kathe would rally, wanting to talk about hair, nails, perfume and bubble baths. Kathe knew she was dying, talked about it freely and wanted to know that she would not lose that important part of herself in the process.
Janie taught us, Kathe’s whole family, to tap into her needs and provide her an environment that gave her control to be as beautiful and dignified as possible. She encouraged us to bring in anything that would help Kathe continue her role as beauty consultant. For years Kathe had been involved in the Miss Missouri pageant, acting as sponsor and assistant to the contestants. Kathe’s hospital room became a beauty queen’s haven, ripe with colorful scarves, mirrors, make-up, exotic clothes, dance music, jewelry, flowers and boxes of chocolate.
One evening Kathe’s daughter dressed my husband in wild scarves and paraded him down the hospital corridor. That led to other patients being curious about what was going on in her room. Soon patients, families, nursing staff and housekeeping staff stopped by and discussed their fashion and beauty needs with Kathe. She advised them, sharing her wisdom and experience with them, always stressing their best features and how to highlight them.
Janie gave Kathe, and all of us, a priceless gift by understanding what Kathe needed, in addition to all of the cancer treatments available. She needed to maintain her self-identity as a woman with a mission to beautify the world. Her job wasn’t finished yet and cancer didn’t need to end that part of her persona. Janie’s insight into that need, her ability to use humor and honestly communicate with all of us resulted in Kathe dying with perfectly manicured nails, a wig that looked like her own gorgeous curls, and smelling like Channel Number 5, her favorite fragrance. Most important though, she had the peacefulness that she had done what she was here to do—make the world a more beautiful place. One of my favorite photographs was taken by Janie a few months before Kathe’s death. She captured Kathe’s vitality and glamour while surrounded by her three sisters and our mother.
Janie didn’t have to give what she did. She could have focused on Kathe’s illness, rather than on her life. It is challenging to be with someone who is dying and it is easy for clinicians to avoid tough topics. I will be forever grateful to Janie for her approach. And occasionally I paint my nails and smile.
Klara, Kelli, Mom/Luci, Kristy, Kathe
