When I was a kid, my mom sold Mary Kay makeup. She was a “professional beauty consultant” and I took that so seriously I put it on my school paperwork under “mother’s profession.” My dad wasn’t nearly as proud as I was.

I learned all kinds of things from her time with Mary Kay. Things like: Every time you wear makeup to bed, your skin ages three days (three days!). And you should stroke up your face, never down, because we fight gravity, we don’t help it along. I learned that the ring finger on each hand is the weakest, so use that to apply makeup under your eye, where the skin is soft and fragile.

Mom, from a small town in the era of stockings and the Chicken Fat workout on a 45 record, has never owned a t-shirt or pair of sweatpants in her life. The women of that small town drove in dresses down dusty farm roads to the small grocery, because you never knew who you’d see.

Mom did well enough at Mary Kay to win a few trips and jewelry. She never won the pink Cadillac, but she did well.  

And she taught me the routine and discipline of skincare at an early age. Through the years the products have changed but I have never gone to bed with makeup on, not even once, not even when I was drunk for the first time and had my sister wash my face for me.

I have a daughter who needs no makeup to be strikingly beautiful. Her hair is her crowning jewel, rivaled only by the adorable freckles on her face. Marie has perfect, strawberry blonde hair. She’s in her 20s now so I’m used to seeing her with makeup, particularly that bold eyeliner look which I try to copy. But I still prefer her face bare. It’s the best.

Marie has a mini-me, Vera, who follows her around and tells her exactly what to do. The child knows her own mind. She’s full of spunk.  

One night in a new apartment, Marie made an almost deadly mistake. She locked herself out on the balcony while Vera was asleep inside. All Marie could think was that Vera was inside, she was outside, and the front door was unlocked. In that moment of panic she thought she could lower herself to the first floor balcony, and then drop to the ground. In the dark it didn’t seem too far and so she went for it, and missed. It was a long way down.

After the 30-foot fall, Marie, determined to reach her child, got up and struggled around the building, up the stairs and to the phone where she called me. She sounded like an animal. I called an ambulance as my date and I drove like mad to get to her.

While the paramedics worked on her mother, Vera slept a child’s deep sleep. My date stayed with Vera and I followed the ambulance to the hospital.

It was the worst pain I have ever seen. In an ER there are so many things you need and so many people needing more, all while you manage the pain of five broken ribs and the panic of a punctured lung.

My mind was in overdrive: How do I help her? How do I get Vera to a family member before she wakes up? When should I call Marie’s dad and brother? Between asking for pain meds and bedpans and wet washcloths to counteract Marie’s nausea, and praying to counteract my own fear, my mind was not exactly clear. But I finally came up with the right person to call.

Mom.

She saw the phone on a middle-of-the night jog to the bathroom. It was 1:30 a.m. and she said she’d be right there.

About an hour later, there she was, my mother at 77 years old, walking into Vanderbilt’s emergency room at 2:30 in the morning. In full makeup. Not a hair out of place.

I said, “You look great.” She had color-coordinated her lavender eye shadow with the lavender flowers in her jacket.

Mom left to retrieve Vera and I stayed with my daughter, alternating the cool cloth between her face and mine. I battled a spinning room and nausea while Marie fought to breathe and bore the pain.

When Mom visited us a couple days later I said, “Hey Mom, the other night, did you take a shower before you came to the hospital?”

Without blinking Mom said, “Well, I didn’t know how long I’d be there, and you never know who you’re going to see.”

Some things you just can’t make up.