Hair today, here tomorrow

Two friends shared cancer and chemo, enduring, in tandem, the ebb and grow of hair. R’s grew back in darling ringlets; K sent new growth up in fright wig style.

Waiting for haircuts, a tweenager stared at K and nudged his mom: “That’s how I want my hair to look.”

K roared with laughter, survivor style.

The last dance

Grandma’s cancer showed up first as a clot in her leg. Two months to diagnosis and a year to her death.

Mary showed me tender red cords on the back of her leg; she was scheduled to dance in ballet class later that day. One week to diagnosis--thanks to Grandma-- and a year to her death.

Not so bad after all

It’s lung carcinoma.”

I was crying in the rain, drenched in bad news,  phone pressed to ear. Not surprised by the diagnosis yet completely speechless.

The surgeon was puzzled by my tears: “We did expect this”.

She smiled later as we talked, “Either I’ll die or I won’t.”

And she didn’t. Not for 17 years.

One count against him

Phone message at two a.m.:  Quest Labs calling with “critical results”.  Oh no, Mr. G. has a white blood cell count over 100,000.

Damn.

No point ruining his sleep.  Morning will come too soon enough.  Meanwhile, I’ll lie wide awake for both of us, thinking of this family man whose shortened life has changed forever.

A lump in my throat as well

I struggled to keep my expression neutral as I stared at her breast in disbelief.  Peau d’orange the picturesque name, the red skin tense, dimpled by cancer.

“Let’s get a surgical consult,” I said, my voice light. “Today.”

Ten years later, she brought me a bottle of fine red wine to toast the joy of her survival.

And I don't much like you either!

The surgeon exclaimed “I’m like you, let me die in the saddle!.  But I can fix this with a wide excision and bone grafts from your skull!”

Could he not see my husband’s face, pale and grimaced beneath the skin cancer on the bridge of his nose, body language screaming “I’m not like you at all.”

I've heard worse...

“I am so sorry to have to meet you under these circumstances.” The oncologist’s intro had been kind, the words that followed blunt: “undifferentiated carcinoma” “six months without treatment.”

Later, the waiter’s face was crestfallen.  “I’m afraid I have very bad news, we’re out of pate foie gras today.” We laughed so hard that we cried.

A touching story

He was doing a little dance on his feet like the college quarterback he probably once was. Then the doctor tackled a stool and sat with his hand on my husband’s knee, explaining the course of radiation therapy.

My husband’s folded arms and hunched shoulders screamed “Don’t touch me!”, unheard gestures in a cold, white room.