The Daily Ritual
Each morning of late, I awaken from my Rip Van Winkle-like slumber, surprised to find yet another day waiting for me. I slowly raise my head from the pillow, for the former seems to be glued to the latter, then pry my body up and away from the mattress, like metal from a magnet.
I have made it to the sitting position now, but the after-effects of chemo are trying to drag me back down, urging me to return to dreamland. But there is no solace there, for my dreams have been vivid lately and scary.
My eyes adjust to the light filtering in from outside, but I’m so blind I cannot begin to tell what time it is, even from the light. I grab my glasses from the bed stand and put them on. Then I reach over for the blessed cup of coffee my wife has made for me, like an angel who grants unspoken wishes. I take a sip and then it’s time to clear my nasal passages, which have been abused all night by Avastin, a medication I receive twice a month.
It’s about at this point that reality sets in, and I remember.
Oh yeah, I think. I’m dying.
After that, it’s hello to the wife and hello to the bathroom, but not necessarily in that order. My brain is beginning to make sense of things now, so I think of the day and what I’m supposed to accomplish. I let the dog and cat out, then return to bed, hoping to gain more strength with a little more rest and coffee.
I’m about to grab the pillows and place them comfortably behind me, but I notice they are covered in hair.
How gross, I think. I can’t sit against those hairy things. Even though it’s my own hair, I still find it disgusting. So I try to dust the hairs off the pillows, but for some reason this produces a gagging effect and I have to just shake them instead.
At some point, I stagger over to the shower, unsure if my knees will buckle along the way and I will fall, conking my head on the toilet.
“Nope, it weren’t the cancer that got him,” I imagine someone’s grandfather will say. “It was the durned toilet!”
I turn on the water and wait for it to get hot, then adjust it downward, to a temperature that will keep me from barfing or shivering, a fine line I assure you. Then I step into the shower, all the while keeping my lone hand on the wall for balance.
Showers are no longer soothing. Blood drips from my nose and I can hardly breathe. Nausea comes and goes. I’m itchy. Plus, I feel wobbly, so I eventually sit down on the floor, just to be safe.
I grab the soap and shampoo, and sometimes the razor. I wash myself quickly, then contemplate the shampoo. Should I wash my hair? Washing it will surely cause me to lose at least a hundred more hairs. But not washing seems to be an even scarier choice.
I eventually put a little dab of Head and Shoulders in my hand, and scrub it around a bit, checking my hand every five seconds or so for lost soldiers. When too many have gathered at one time, I stick my head under the water and let the water rain down on me, as one who is watering a pot of flowers.
Afterward, while drying off and dressing, I sneak glimpses at my ever balding head in the mirror.
Oh God, I think. It’s getting really bad now. I’ve moved from Woody Allen to Art Garfunkal territory. Or, worse, Larry from the Three Stooges.
Meanwhile, I’m dabbing my head with the towel, being careful all the while to avoid ”friction.”
This is my daily ritual.
Which is a long-winded way of saying that I’m now accepting hats.
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Comments
Jim,
You’re an amazing individual, so talented. You’re in my thoughts.
Lisa
Sooner Spartan and 1984 BHS graduate
Been there once, hair grew back in, and now going there again. Losing my hair is more difficult that losing my breasts. Isn’t that odd? Maybe it’s because my breasts aren’t going to grow back and make me feel “normal” again. Cancer sucks. Accept hats if you must.
I think you’re an amazing man,you write with dignity & strength and I truly admire your grace.