Grief But Make It Fashion: The Lynn Barrie Edition

Otherwise known as "chemo chic."

*Prefer to listen? I got you. Below is a narration of the piece by yours truly—no creepy AI robot!

It’s the morning of my mother’s first oncology appointment and I’m standing in my closet naked and furrow-browed, staring at my clothes with big, serious eyes.

My clothes stare back at me with matching intensity.

It’s a Texas showdown—me vs. everything I own.

I eye-sex a mocha brown workout set that looks and feels exorbitant and luxe but is just from Amazon. She bats her lashes and flirts back. "Nothing oozes numbness and sociopathic ease like rocking athleisure at the chemo consultation," she purrs, wickedly.

“I’d like to be numb enough to take medical notes without getting swept up in emotion—but like not so numb that I'm sociopathic," I explain. "Plus, it’s south Sarasota. In LA workout clothes read as rich bitch. In Florida," I pause for drama, "I'd just look like the lazy daughter with an opioid problem."

“True dat,” the workout set agrees.

I go out of my way to avoid eye contact with my amazing new denim boiler suit.

I'm obsessed with the boiler suit and know if we catch eyes, I'll break down and wear her to the chemo consultation. But she’s long-sleeved and thick in fabric, which is not conducive to the Florida heat.

Plus, her ~fabulosity~ might be a little too distracting—after all: I don’t want to upstage the bride.

By which I mean my stylish mother.

She’s the one with cancer.

It’s only fair that she gets to be the outfit star the nurses fawn over. During my brother’s chemo sessions, the young nurses would always drop by our little chemo cubicle to check out what “Lynn was wearing”—and I think the attention made her feel a bit better.

Cancer sucks, indeed. But it sucks worse in sweats and less in chunky white Prada fisherman sandals and an arm full of Cartier—doesn’t it darling?

A leather mini-skirt I’m the temporary owner of via my monthly Rent the Runway subscription beams at me from the far corner of my closet. Dopamine downpours my brain.

I don’t need her to convince me that she’s the perfect thing to wear to an emotionally charged appointment at a medical facility—I know in my gut she’s the one.

The leather mini-skirt sits low on the hip and no shirt is long enough to meet her belt loop.

So I decide to pair her with a nude leotard (fab Skims dupe—also from Amazon) because it's against my fashion ethos to reveal leg and midriff at the same time. Which is the only Republican thing about me.

I throw half of my un-styled mop of hair into a haphazard bun and leave the rest in a wavy tangle so long it spills past my lower rib tattoo.

I accessorize with the Chanel costume jewelry I inherited the other day from my Auntie Frances. "I'm done wearing costume jewelry," she explained, clutching a flute of champagne. I nodded in solemn agreement as if I’d ever known anything but costume jewelry.

My mash-up of bracelets and necklaces clank against each other as I stomp down the stairs in heavy Dr. Martens. I tap my oxblood nails against the kitchen counter and shout, “Where is everyone? Don’t we need to go?"

My mother and father are unfazed by my shouting; they know it's not real shouting, it's just the natural crescendo possessed by all Barries. We don't speak in my family, we project to the back of the theatre.

My brother was easily the loudest of all of us, though he’d argue that I am. “Your voice sounds like a fog horn," he once told me. "A Jewish fog horn."

I meander into the living room. “Where is everyone?” I tisk.

My dad rushes from the bathroom and looks at his watch, frantically. Nothing dysregulates my father more than the threat of potential lateness. “We’re fine," he assures, panic evaporating like subway steam, "but we do need to be out the door by 10:04. Latest.”

I sigh. 10:04 is eleven minutes away, but I’m itching to go NOW. Not because I’m particularly punctual but because I have an Instagram Caption to write. The oncologist is a half-hour drive from our house, and I plan on crafting it en route.

The caption is to go alongside a video of my mom revealing for the first time that three weeks after losing her son to pancreatic cancer, she’s been diagnosed with ovarian cancer.

I want my mother to talk openly about what she's going through on social media because I believe in the magical healing powers of raw vulnerability, babe. Additionally, it doesn’t hurt that she happens to be impossibly gorgeous and fiercely magnetic and spends more hours on Instagram a day than an ambitious teen trapped in the sticks.

I’ve been trying to get her to become an influencer for years now and while she’s always been game, we kept putting it off.

But there’s no more putting it off.

The stakes are too high.

There’s no more putting anything off anymore.

Due to the slew of unforeseen events that have unfolded over the last year—Mom and I both understand the fragility of this one wild and precious life, a little too well.

We both agree that I should spearhead the whole thing—and if you've ever worked with me, you know: when I mean business, I mean business. She will go viral and impact the lives of thousands under my leadership. She has to.

“At least you have an angle now,” I darkly commented the other night over a glass of Sauv Blanc. She darkly agreed with me.

However, I do feel a bit like Kris Jenner when she famously and problematically spoke about her daughter, Kim’s sex tape. “As a mother, I wanted to kill her. But as her manager…” wink, wink. Smirk, smirk.

As her daughter I was devastated, but as her manager…

I pace around the house for five minutes, on edge. Finally, my English mother waltzes out of her regal lair and fox-trots into the living room.

Her dress lightly graces the top of her signature white Prada sandals. I was curious as to what outfit she'd choose for the occasion. My eyes hungrily paw at the dress which is stunning and expensive-looking. It’s got a mock turtleneck; is sleeveless and slinky and the color of martini olives.

My mother’s hair is as straight as a midtown sports bar and is the color of champagne. It hangs like two shiny curtains against her carved cheekbones. Her eyes are clear as crystals and her lashes as thick as thieves.

She doesn't look like she has cancer.

She looks radiant.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“What do you think?” my mother preens into the big colorful mirror that hangs by the front door. She frowns at her reflection and asks, “Is this dress too voom, voom?"

I get it. I also question whether I look too “voom, voom,’” whenever I wear anything tight in the hip.

I shake my head, no. “It’s perfect,” I declare.

It is.

She assesses me and my outfit of choice for a solid minute, her eyes darting like bats. I cherish being studied by her. It’s a privilege to be grandfathered into having the undivided attention of the most glamorous woman alive. Just by virtue of my birth, I get to take up the most space in Lynn's stylish orbit. It's a high-level position to be in, one coveted by every fashion gay this side of the Mississippi. I don’t take it lightly.

“You look fabulous,” my mother finally concludes, her eyebrow arched high to the ceiling.

I high-five my black leather mini-skirt. Slay, girl, slay.

Six minutes later we all march out the front door, single file, army-style, my father leading the troop.

I squash into the backseat of the car.

Vroom. Vroom. My dad revs the engine like we're about to race in the Grand Prix in Monte Carlo.

My mum swings her head and stares at me from the front seat. “I do think your hair would look better with more VOLUME on top,” she finalizes.

Noted.

Dad peels out of the driveway and speeds toward the chemo facility.

I spend the drive there perfecting the Instagram caption. I add my mother as a collaborator and press “post” right as my dad parks the car. “The reel is live,” I smug to mum, slamming the car door behind me.

“Go easy on the car door! You don’t need to slam it. Jesus!” My dad snaps, irked. He’s been irked about this my whole life and has only told me to go "easy on the car door" three million times—but for whatever reason, it doesn’t stick.

The Barrie family always delivers; a chemo consultation is no exception. The moment we set foot in the static cancer office, we're a show.

"I took half of one of Auntie Marie's anxiety pills," my mother loudly whispers to me in the waiting room. She never takes anything—ever—and as the self-proclaimed “Head of Pharmacologist” of the Barrie family at large—I'm thrilled.

“Did I tell you I was a competitive crew rower?” she asks the nurse, the physician's assistant, the oncologist several times. She's not exactly high, she’s looser than usual thanks to Aunt Marie’s anxiety pill. They all smile shyly at her and nod their heads, “Yes.”

With her velvety English accent, slinky long dress, and glittering charisma, it's blazingly clear: They've never met anyone like my mother. She's an unequivocal hit.

Again, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

The conversation quickly fades away from Lynn's respective rowing and modeling careers and into something far less sparkly: reality. She is visibly emotional when the oncologist breaks down the chemo action plan and goes over the results of last week's biopsy.

"She's triggered," I warn the oncologist, "my brother died a month ago from pancreatic cancer."

He already knows this, and I can tell by the twinkle in his seawater eyes, we're in good hands.

I furiously take notes, my fingers pounding into the keyboard of my MacBook Pro.

My dad sits stoically in a pastel tee shirt that highlights his horse-riders tan. My heart breaks when I notice the subtle quiver in his leg, so I shift my focus back to the screen.

I’m famous for my copious, flawless note-taking. My brother used to call me his "white-house aid" ‘cause I'd follow him around the hospital like a shadow, dutifully taking notes whenever a doctor appeared. It’s my instinct as a trained journalist—but also a way to detach.

We talk genealogy—apparently, there’s a link between pancreatic cancer and ovarian cancer they want to see if my mother has a BRCA gene.

"We'll test you for it too,” the doctor gently lilts, “and if you have it—we'll discuss preventive measures. Though you might want to freeze your eggs first."

"I plan on doing that this year, anyway" I proudly chirp, always the teacher's perfect pet.

"It's better to freeze an embryo—but I get it, if you don’t have a husband yet it's complic—"

"I'm a lesbian," I interrupt, swooping the loose part of my hair up, into a melodramatic bun.

The doctor’s eyes widen. He's surprised I’m a dyke. Men always are.

"Okay!" he exclaims with great enthusiasm.

I get it. A lesbian is a rare treat.

I link arms with Mum as we catwalk out the door and into the parking lot. I can tell by the faraway look in her eyes she’s been hit with a wash of sadness. I understand: Grief comes in waves.

We pile into the car and I check my Instagram.

"Oh my God, Mom," I squeal, "You're a hit."

"Really?" she asks, her forlorn eyes suddenly lighting up like Christmas trees.

"Really," I promise holding up my phone for her to see to hundreds of comments, likes, and shares she’s accumulated so quickly.

My dad revs the engine and speeds us home.