The Matron And Me

My daughter decided, very belatedly, that she wanted to go to the school homecoming dance. She borrowed a dress and looked gorgeous in it. (My daughter did not inherit her mother's lack-of-attractiveness.) But, as always happens in a case like this, there was a vital part missing from the ensemble and a trip to the store was necessary. Well, what's a mom to do?

I slapped on a baseball cap, gathered up the car keys and drove her to the "Insert Syllable Here-Mart". Yes, I know the 'Marts are endangering the small business owner and are a blight upon the face of the universe, but cut me some slack, okay? We went in, wandered through the aisles and found the necessary accessory, though we were not sure on the size needed.

So, off to the dressing room we went.

The Matron of the dressing room–possibly a retired prison warden, or maybe just a former accountant–carefully double checked my daughter's count of "three" items and indicated an available changing room.

"Want me to come with?" I casually asked.

"Sure," daughter replied. It's a girl thing, you know. Sometimes you need that second opinion.

Two steps later, the Matron blocked my path. Her eyes glowed with simmering disdain building into complete outrage and her mouth opened to cut me to pieces with I-don't-know-what, but then, she looked down. At my purse. Her eyes lingered for a second and she stepped back with a grunted, "Hmph. Okay then." And I was allowed to pass the sacred portal.

As my daughter tried things on and debated in the non-stop chattering way of teenage girls everywhere, I sat on the dressing room's benchlet in stunned silence. The thought kept repeating itself in my head. She thought you were a guy. She really thought you were a guy. Going into a woman's changing room. With a fifteen year old girl!

Crap on a biscuit!

I swung between hilarity and indignation. Did the Matron think I was a teenage boyfriend? (In which case, some latitude could be given. Heck, gender aside, it's been a long time since I've been mistaken for a kid!) Or did she think I was a forty-year old pervert?

Had my voice dropped a few octaves while I wasn't paying attention?

What if I hadn't been carrying my purse? I don't always.

What would I say to her when we went back out? Should I try something witty? Something cutting? Something dismissive? Should I thank her for protecting my daughter's virtue? Offer a recommendation for a decent optometrist? Should I lash out or extend the hand of friendship?

When we went out, the Matron was gone.

In retrospect, I'd like to think that she was as embarrassed as I was and beat a retreat because . . . I mean, what can you say in a case like that?

In retrospect, I'd like to think that I'd have let the unintended insult pass with good humor and the embarrassed smile of an almost-joke shared.

I'd like to think that I would not have used the occasion to let pent up fear and anger coalesce into a deadly beam of laser sharp hostility. I'd like to think I'm better than that.

In truth, I don't know what I would have done.

Follicle Follies

Two of the chemicals that get pumped into the ol' mortal bits on a regular basis have, amongst other side effects, the ability to make your hair abandon ship. Hair loss, particularly on a woman, is really the defining sign of the condition. I've received enough funny looks that I'm considering the addition to a "Yes, it's cancer doggone it!" sweatshirt to my regularly worn, "Cancer Sucks," baseball cap. It's a nice cap really; army green with green print. It's subtle enough that you have to work to read it, which makes me feel better about sporting a chapeau that uses a word that I discourage in my own kids.

But I digress.

A question that comes up in the mind of the non-informed regards the extent of the actual defoliation. A friend, on the phone, stammered and stuttered his way through the inquiry, with the air of one expecting a quick and decisive end to aforementioned friendship. After all, it really is quite the personal question. The answer is: it depends.

It depends on exactly what chemicals you're getting and how your body reacts to them. Some folks lose what's on the noggin, some lose what's on the legs too, some lose the entire enchilada. Speaking for myself, some of the hair has wandered off into the sunset, some decided to stick around, and most of what's left seems to be in a holding pattern. My eyebrows have thinned out, as have the lashes. I've shaved my legs once in the past month. Pits are not a problem. Other parts–well that's really none of your beeswax.

However, the hair on my head . . . oh, the hair on my head.

It's always been my blessing and my curse to sport a plentitude of the stuff. For whatever reason, I have always had the sort of hair that most women want. Okay, the color was never anything to write into a love sonnet, but thick and lush and luxuriant about covers it. The downside is that it's always been so thick that there's not much anyone could ever do to tame it. At least not since the eighties when gel and mousse were all the rage. And, as I've gotten a little older and the gray started to sprout a little more, it was getting coarse as well as thick. Thus, for most of my life, I've kept it short. Really short.

Until two years ago.

Out of curiosity and the desire to surprise the heck out of my mom, I let the hair grow. And grow. And grow. Once in a while, I got the ends trimmed for the sake of neatness, but as of August 2008, it was past my shoulders and could have housed a colony of hummingbirds. I wanted to cut it short again, but was vetoed by my daughter and best friend.




Imagine, then, the irony of losing it the chemo way.

Three weeks into the treatment, I noticed a certain . . . lack of follicular anchorage. The brush needed to be cleaned after every few swipes. The tub drain resembled a large drowned rodent after every shower. So, I got it cut short; to about an inch and a half. It was cute, really. Sort of perky and fun. I liked it.



That lasted for about a week.

Then it was wholesale shedding. There was hair on my pillow, in my eyes, in my mouth when I woke up in the morning. My bath towel needed a good scrubbing with a lint roller after every shampoo. It was gross, I kid you not.

So, back to my hair-cutting friend I went. With great respect for the blood-thinner I was taking, she simply buzzed my 'do into stubble. No one wanted me to have a bleeding scalp wound, least of all me, so we decided amiably that stubble it would remain until it fell out on its own.

Five cycles into the chemo, it still hasn't fallen out.

When I take off my hat and look in the mirror, a prime candidate for the Marine Corps looks back at me. My daughter compares me to Bruce Willis. (Demi Moore? Natalie Portman? Sigourney Weaver? Nooooooo, I have to look like John Friggin' McClane crawling through the duct-work at Nakatomi Tower.)



This leads me to the question: if I'd just kept combing my hair, would I have ended up with a reasonable, if somewhat thinned out, thatch? Did the hair that couldn't be tamed decide to get the last laugh in? Do I hear a cosmic little voice shouting, "Psyche! Just kidding! We weren't all going to fall out! Gotcha!"

Probably. I'm sort of contrary at the best of times. Why shouldn't my hair be?

The Complicated and the Simple

The complicated version is "Primary Mediastinal Diffuse Large B-Cell Lymphoma" (PMBCL). Slightly less complicated is the phrase: "Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma". The simplest term of all is "cancer".

The complicated version of my treatment regimen of the moment is: Rituximab, Cytoxan, Doxorubicin, Vincristine and Prednisone. Slightly less complicated is the acronym: R-CHOP. Simply put: "chemotherapy". Radiation will undoubtedly be a factor, but we're not there yet.

The complicated version is that I'm a forty-year old divorced mother of two teenaged kids. I have a full time job I'd like to get back to. I have a mortgage. I have hobbies, vocations and avocations. I have friends and family. I have responsibilities to myself and others. I'd like to think I have potential not yet realized.

Slightly less complicated is the phrase: I have quite a lot to live for.

Simply put: I don't actually want to die.

Elements and Intentions

This is a different sort of story for me. It's a story without an easily definable beginning. This is a story that won't have an ending until after, (hopefully long after,) the writing of it is finished. It's a memoir-ish story, which is an odd change of pace for someone who vastly prefers fiction and generally reserves the real life snippets for things like copyrights and writing contests.

In some ways, this story is admittedly tragic. In many ways, it's comedic. There's a protagonist and an antagonist, both residing in the same space. There's a stellar cast of supporting characters. There's conflict, danger, tests of endurance, stiff upper lips, laughing in the face of danger and moments of true despair, self-doubt and the occasional whisper of panic. It's a story that might be interesting or might seem to be self-serving and thus a dreadful bore. The elements are all here. I hope I do them justice.

If it's cathartic for the author, I'd prefer it to be equally worthy to the reader and not a complete waste of time. I would be happy indeed, if it gives comfort or help to those who need it the most. No, I'm not just referring to those of us who wear the "cranky chemo" hats. We have families, friends and acquaintances who certainly also have emotions invested. They are welcome to read this too. In fact, everyone is welcome.

All I ask is that you bear with me for a while. Ask questions if you like, but understand that I don't have all the answers. I just have cancer.

Don't worry. It's not contagious.