Annonymous

My eyelashes are filling back in. I never lost them all. There were a few that stubbornly stood by and supported me as I vainly (both in conceit and in futility) worked the mascara wand. Now those soldiers have fresh recruits.

Cute on the dog, dumb on the girl.

I ran in the local market because I needed peppercorns for a recipe and saw a friend picking up a last minute corn-bread mix. She said she didn't recognize me in my red-head hat, which I pulled off showing my 'do to her widening-eyes. She remembers me with long blonde locks.

My hair is coming in, too. It's thick and soft like moss, and dark and light in patches that look really cool close-cropped but may make me look like a crazed Australian shepherd as it grows out.

A colleague walked by me without recognition--three times. Even after I tapped his arm.

I am seeing the world the same as it ever was, but others are not seeing me in the same world.

Am I moving on too fast? Are the people around me trying to tell me something? Am I missing some important meaning?

My hair is showing itself to be curly--and unruly at that. I see some of it sticking up and out. I don't think that I have any product that can tame it.

Spring has finally broken through. After three miserable weeks of Sunday-Monday snow in a row, it looks like the bad weather is behind us. Today was glorious. Stuff all a-bloom, the sunshine warm and welcome. I decided to go to the driving range rather than watch golf on TV.

I had a new obnoxiously aqua/turquoise golf-skirt to wear with my bright lime shirt and joker shoes to satisfy my personal rule that golf clothes must be ugly. I went to my urban golf hideout with my 9-iron.

I'm always a lousy golfer, but I wasn't even sure that I could swing my club. I got a little bucket of balls.

I stood on my little square of green carpet. It was crowded so I had to take the stall without a tee. That seemed good. Less pressure. I just had the one club with me, and I took it in two hands and stretched it over my head and behind my back. Rolled a ball onto my plot and set my feet. Placed the club across my left palm and met it with my right hand. Looked at that white dimpled ball and wondered if everyone was looking at me.

Seriously. I did. Like everyone knew my secret--as if I had a secret.

Why would anyone look? They had their own balls to hit. Their own grips to adjust. Their own club to blame for that slice. What was curbing me?

I thought the strangers could see me and knew that this was my first swing since my treatment.

But they weren't looking. They didn't see me either, but they didn't know who I was before.

People ask me what I am going to do with my hair. Keep it short? Grow it out? I don't know. I don't know what it will be like. I don't need to decide today.

I do know that I am grateful that it is coming back. And for alot of other things, too.

Hating Waiting

A friend asked me if I saw things differently since I found out that I had stupid cancer. I said that it doesn't make sense to wait. Do things now. Remodel the kitchen? Cool trip? Just do it. My friend called it the tyranny of now.

But that really isn't true. I've been waiting.

Time is suspended during treatment. There's a treatment plan, but you have to wait to see if it's working. You need to see if it knocks you out. Or not.

Do I start something that I might not be able to finish? Do I end up either having to push too much--setting myself back--or throw in the towel because I can't do something?

So, I kind of hang back. Suspended in time. Waiting for this to be done.

I'm not tyrannized by any "now." My tyranny is this stupid illness. It's stopping me. But, I always knew there was an end, and, right now, I think I can see it.

One of the first parts of my treatment was to have the stupid tumor tattooed. I had to go to the hospital and have it done under general anesthesia.

When you go under general you can't wear makeup or nail polish. And you can't wear any jewelry. Not earrings. And not rings. Not a wedding ring.

My wedding ring is a small, simple gold band. I never took it off. And it was very comfortable on my finger. Very comfortable--in like it didn't want to come off. The pre-op nurse and I bonded over the fight we had getting the ring off my finger. After we wrestled it off, she put it in a small bag. It was marked bio-hazard. She handed it to my spouse for safekeeping.

The next part of my treatment was the chemo, but I knew that surgery would follow. Since I had such grief getting the ring off, I decided to wait to put it back on until I was done.

A few weeks ago I had surgery to remove the tumor. Tomorrow I have another surgery to remove some lymph nodes. Then this stupid cancer should be gone.

I am bringing my wedding ring to the hospital. And I am putting it back on. Then I will be done waiting.

Real or Not?

Today I am thinking about denial. Or maybe disbelief. Tomorrow I am having my surgery, and, for the life of me, I don't know why.

I mean, of course I know why. There's this cancer thing in my mouth. And the surgeon is going to cut it out. But I don't really believe that I have cancer. 

I've been through three rounds of chemotherapy. And I lost most of my hair. (Thank God I kept my brows and lashes.) But I kind of feel like I am in a cancer daze. 

Like why do I have cancer? Okay, why questions are always stupid. 

How come I don't feel like I have cancer? Shoot, what does feeling cancer feel like? 

The surgery should be the end of my cancer. I guess I'll have to be monitored for the rest of my life. Even when this cancer is a distant memory--like my broken ankle that I can't even remember how long ago--six years? Seven?--it will follow me. 

So tomorrow I go to the hospital at 8 am. Surgery scheduled for 10 am. Should be done in about 4 hours. 3-7 days in the hospital. Then 6-8 weeks of recovery. A timeline makes it more real. There is something to do. 

I don't really believe that I have cancer, but I'm going to do the stuff as if I do. 

Wish me luck. 

Almost Cut My Hair

I washed my hairs today.

Normally, I wash my hair. But I don't have enough left to call it hair. Hair is a bunch of hair. Hair is a pony tail. Hair can be braided. Hair whips around your face when the windows are down in the car in the summertime.

Hair takes in and gives off the smell of shampoo, of a campfire, of the scent of your partner.

Hair is something you flip when you have an attitude. When you dismiss someone. Or when you're flirting.

Hair is something I play with when I'm thinking. I tuck it behind my ears. I brush it away from my face. Not so much twirling it, but placing it. I've seen this annoyance on video. I bet the experts would tell me to stop.

Hairs is all I have left. The hair came out in huge swaths. It seems that everything in the house now has a clump of golden locks on it. It's tiresome.

But it's my mane. Was my mane. Is now in the trash.

Time for a clean sweep and a new beginning. I will miss my hair, but not so much my hairs.