So Many Hats

For someone who hated hats, my sister Helen surely wore a lot of them.

Firstborn

The earliest hat of course, and one that many will recognize: the keeper of family rules, traditions, family history, and some of the family recipes.  You don’t choose to be the firstborn, the one the parents practice on, make mistakes with, and have the most time to cuddle and coddle, but she deserved every perk the birth order gave her.

Older Sibling

Some of us were close in age to her, and some of us came along when she was just about to leave her teen years, so her hats were different for each. This set of hats she wore with unwavering faithfulness and passion. Even when we were adults, if we were sick, she would call us every day for an update and a list of suggestions. That was partly the sibling hat and the nurse’s cap.

Nurse

Helen’s heart was always to help others. She rarely missed an opportunity to do that and felt so badly for the times when she couldn’t. Her heart for helping and healing called her into the art and science of nursing. When she began her studies, the profession was severe in its requirements, including what uniform to wear, what shoes, and oddly enough, what stockings. The culmination of nursing studies was the ‘Pinning and Capping” ceremony when the students were granted the right to wear the nursing pin, nurse’s cap, and ribbon. The style of the cap and ribbon was distinct for each nursing school so fellow nurses could easily identify where each colleague had trained. Helen’s cap and ribbon were from Holy Name Nursing school in Teaneck NJ, where she trained in the three-year program. As customs changed, slacks and blouses or scrubs replaced dresses and stockings, pins were stored and forgotten in jewelry boxes, and caps were stored on shelves. Helen missed wearing the cap most of all. It was a symbol, and a good one, of the work each nurse had done, of their commitment to a rigorous job with sometimes thankless, sometimes tragic outcomes. Helen always worked Christmas day by choice, so that other nurse colleagues could celebrate with their young children.  Children. She was proud of that hat and rightly so. She wore it with healthy pride and a compassionate heart.

Wife

Helen’s friends assured her she would meet Mr. Right someday, but she wasn’t ever so sure she would. And she didn’t until she was in her forties. When she met Nick, she was sure he was her soulmate, and at forty-two she married him. Helen was most surprised to wear this hat and most thankful for the chance to have more than 30 plus years she had with him. Nick predeceased her by 11 years. She missed this hat most of all, until the day she died.

Nanny

When Helen tossed the scrubs for good, she still had lots of energy left and found a new and surprising way to pour out her affections. She became a nanny to a baby boy who had been newly born to a professional couple. Here was her chance to continue to practice caring for a human life, but more than that, she had an opportunity to care for and nurture a child even though she had none of her own. That family expanded to 2 boys, and then three boys. She never blinked, and never wavered, in her affection for the boys and their parents. She always and evermore referred to them as her boys. Even when they outgrew the need for a nanny, she stayed in touch, and they visited her for a week every summer. That week was the highlight of every summer for Helen.

Grandmother

Grandmother was another hat Helen never thought she would wear, but Nick’s son had three children for Helen to cuddle and enjoy. Anytime they came into her home or her conversation, she was happy. This hat she felt most warmly about. 

Friend

If you were a friend of Helen, you had a cheerleader, confidant, and faithful friend. Her compassion and concern for you was deep. She always wanted the best for you and was happy to celebrate life’s good times, and more than willing to walk with you in times of trouble.

Auntie Hat

If you got to call her aunt, she loved you with care, and prayers, and knitted and sewed everything she could for your pleasure. Her hat in my children’s lives was one part Aunt and one part Grandma. She felt both roles needed to be filled for my children and she did that with pure joy.

The Unmatched Hat

So many hats and there were others as well, but the hat she wore for me was unmatched, unique, and ever evolving. For me, her hat was the oldest sibling, big sister, nurse, nurturer, cheerleader, friend, confidant, and teacher. My passion for knitting and all handcrafts is in large part because of her, as well as our mom. I’d often call her late in the evening and ask for help with a pattern. She could always help me past a challenging spot in the project purely by her describing to me on the phone how to do it.

 I would be remiss if I didn’t add the role of mother-figure. She and I struggled with this one, but she was 31 and I was 13 when our mother died. I always thought it ironic that our ages were mirror images.  As the oldest sibling, and the one still living at home, the hat was tossed to her. If she didn’t like it, she never let on, unlike me, who railed against it at every turn. My angst was not against her as much as it was against my reality of losing my mom so young. Helen understood that and bore the brunt. She nursed me through it all, from the first moment on. The night our mom died Helen curled up in my twin-sized bed and slept next to me. She might have said it was for her comfort too, but I think she knew that I could not have borne the weight of that first night without Mom in the next room.

The Last Hat

She wore so many hats so well. When her final days arrived it was my  privilege to be with her.  Dashing off to appointments, navigating the new normal, we did it with laughter, we did it with tears. At her kitchen table one evening, after talking about the past, the present, and the future, she grew quiet.

 After a moment or two, she quietly said, “I am dying. You know that, right? What’s happening to me is terrible. But I am grateful for the time it has given us to spend together.”

We ended up in a tangle of oxygen tubing, crying, and hugging.

A few days later, after another quiet spell, she commented, “When you think about the word terminal, we think it means the end. But when we travel by train, we travel to terminals. They’re just part of our journey, until we reach our destination. That’s not the end, that’s the beginning of the purpose of the journey. If I was a writer, I’d write about that.”

She meant that for herself as well as me.

In the Emergency room, a week or so before she passed away, she saw me fighting my tears and grabbed my hand.

“Don’t cry. It makes me sad. We have had so many good times. Remember them.”

“I want more of them.” I lost the fight against tears.

“I know. But the ones we have had are precious.”

I knew Helen had turned a corner that night. Her final battle had begun.

My sister was a woman of many hats. But the ones I am most grateful for, the ones which is my greatest privilege to have, the ones that will live in my heart forever, are the ones she wore for me.