Take 2!

Two more days to go until my second chemotherapy session. I don't know if its a good thing or a bad thing to be prepared and know what's coming.

The basin in my room, a now permanent fixture beside my bed, is full of hair. I put it to one side and have been avoiding throwing it in the bin. It feels like binning a dead pet or something.  Sentimentality can make fools of the best of us.

We decide to go to the sea.

But secretly, I have hatched a sub-plan to our little adventure.

No hat on today either and my head is cold but free. When we get out of the car, the wind is high and the clouds are low. A perfect sea day. There are many people on the boardwalk, many people with many things happening in their lives. I look at some of them, and feel envious. The only thing that seems to be happening in my life is a disease which is slowly and resolutely taking things over.

I put my hand in the pocket of my coat and check one last time.

All accounted for, 'Let's go right down to the waves', I demand.  I half drag my boyfriend, slipping on the slime covered rocks and shells till we get to the edge. Waves, petite and frothy, tickle the shore, nudging pebbles, shells and strings of seaweed back along the beach. I, of course, would prefer hurricane spawned gargantuan waves, beating into the coast for this particular task (a reflection of my mood) but I have to make do with what I have. We are alone on the edge of the sea and I take out the bag from  my pocket.

Hair.

Lots of it, glossy and full.

I look at it a bit sheepishly, it seemed a good idea at the time, but now I'm not so sure.  Bit by bit I pick it apart and let it float from my fingers on to the wind. It dances off, free.

In my Buddhist moment of rational, I hope that somewhere a bird will find some and line it's nest for the Winter, keeping it warm against the cold chills. In reality, it will probably drop in to the water, get soggy and matted and cling to the slimy, green rocks like an alien, sub species. Maybe a crab will stumble upon it and eat it or something. Somehow, I try to convince myself, my hair will go on to be a productive member of society and someone/thing else on this planet will benefit from my follical reduction.

I think the excess air buzzing around my cranium has affected my brain cells.

'Does it bother you that I don't go out with my wig on?' The question has been annoying me for days. He would never say anything but the way he automatically fixed my hat on my head at the beginning of our sea side walk makes me think he's trying to hide my baldy.

There is a moment's silence. I know the answer. I just need to hear it from him.

'Ya, a little.'

Oh well, at least we're being honest. I try to explain, in halting tones how I'm done with hiding, how I'm done with the prospect of this thing taking over my life. I will not let it dictate to me what I should wear, when I should hide, how I should pretend.

I agree not to turn up to his Christmas party commando or to the office on a Friday evening to pick him up without due 'Wig Consideration'. I do have some sense of decorum, but the gloves are off.  All else is open war fare!

On Sunday night, my mother arrives. It's almost Chemo Day. Her arrival heralds anxiety and mini fear but I'm glad she is with me. I've decided to get a PICC line in and don't sleep a wink the night before, whether in fear or nervousness. Either way, I roll out of bed, in my usual undignified post mastectomy surgery manner and greet the day with less than enthusiasm.

Unfortunately I don't feel like a newbie this morning, I roll into the cancer ward and know exactly where I'm going. I know the ropes. What a sad thing, to be familiar with a cancer ward.
The staff are lovely, as always, as they stick needles in you and inflict pain. At least they have smiles on their faces.

I wait in chairs for a while.  There's all sorts (except licorice! ha ha...see what I did there?) in the waiting area, mostly older, mostly women but all shapes and sizes, backgrounds, colours and most of them I notice with a sharp eye are wearing wigs. I appreciate them all and wonder at the amazing service the hairdressers provide. Most of the ladies look fabulous and you would never tell that their hair is not their own.

I get special cream on my arm for the PICC insertion and wonder at it, as it numbs the sensation along my upper arm. I lie on a bed and watch the ceiling flicker as they insert a plastic tube into my upper arm and pass it along up my shoulder and down to a major vein in my chest.

They lied.

They said it wouldn't hurt. I felt every minute of it.

When I was done my mother was waiting for me and I was the colour of a pale whitewashed sheet. I don't know who was more surprised.

After that ordeal, I get my chemo, quick this time, shoved in through my PICC line. No monkey business, no feeding the syringe through tiny veins, ever so slowly. I feel like crap and want to crawl into a hole and die.

My mother takes me home and puts me to bed.



After several days of feeling like rubbish things get a bit better. I get fresh food every day, home cooked and I must admit it makes me feel better. I struggle to the end of week one of chemo cycle, greener pastures are within reach.