In retrospect, five straight days of chemo, dripping into my port and throughout all of my organ systems, 24/7, landed such a heavy handed, sucker punch to my body that Monday, Dec. 9th, offered up the first day I could walk more than a step or two without reaching for a nearby bed or couch or easy chair upon which to lean against, catch my breath and free myself of lightheadedness as though to create brain space for insight to reconnect my sense of wholeness so that, having steadied myself to stand on my own, I’d feel at one with clarity, lucidity and productivity concerning my capacity to focus ever more objectively upon the person I choose to grow to be, each and every day.
If we back up a bit to Sat. Dec. 7th, I arrived home from the hospital just in time to celebrate my 76th B/D on the 8th, which popped up as naturally as if we’d turned the page in a pop up book, showcasing my treasured family marching naturally, one by one, into my bedroom where circling round, they’d smiled so gaily while I blew out the candles on my cake as to make me feel as if the circus elephants had all lined up in readiness to dance, round and round, inside my noggin where, trunks wrapping round tails, they’d welcomed the arrival of a preschool leader, whose insight concerning how best to create a simplistic, harmonic celebration was utterly natural when, otherwise, adult mindsets may have remained focused upon crises looming directly ahead, leading every spirit straight down into the dumps—not my style, right? And not Ravi’s either! You see, each time I envision a happy, golden haired child leading my loved ones around my bedside in a waltz-like fashion, somehow, my natural connection to courage revives.
Earlier that day, I’d asked Will, who continues to grow into a heartfelt caregiver extraordinaire, to drive me to have my hair shampooed, and you can believe me when I say that getting myself into the car, salon, and over to the shampoo bowl had felt like empowering myself to shimmy up my own personal flag staff after having scaled the peak of Mt. Everest. On the other hand, just imagine how great I’d felt as each shaft of my hair was shampooed and blown dry straight down from my scalp so as to swing freely round my shoulders after it had not been cleansed for ten days. As to how I’d felt after mustering the courage to ask Tina to come in on a Sunday to which she’d replied—Of course. What time? I’d felt my king sized bed magically transform into a magic carpet just as years ago it had served as the family’s playpen when three abdominal surgeries (following an auto accident) saw me pretty much bed bound for close to two years when my three sons were small. Why not wait till Monday for the shampoo? The salon is closed Sundays and Mondays. And as I had appointments lined up at the clinic on Monday and Tuesday, waiting till Wednesday would have stretched my patience, concerning personal hygiene, beyond my endurance.
Guess what I’m actually saying is this: Boy, did it feel great to have a good hair day, last week! And that statement proved exceptionally true since, this week sees me having a no hair day, every day—Just a bit of dark humor to ready myself to experience that which the doctor compassionately cautioned his dark haired patient to expect. You see, over the long run, I’ve been a long haired gal, so my scalp and I are bound to miss our ‘little buddy’ being that we three have been teammates for more than 3/4 of a century, and though I’ve been assured that ‘she’s’ bound to grow back, I may have trouble recognizing her as my own, since, before molting, she’d always been brunette; however upon re-emergence, I’m expecting her to be as white as a swan, sprouting short feathers, and as she and I have enjoyed a long feathered friendship since graduation from high school, that too will be quite a change.
Quite a change to get used to—right?—on the other hand, set a swan free, and if it flies back, it was yours all along—so perhaps the same is true of each strand of hair that’s been set free, meaning that upon leaving the window to my soul open, who knows what may surprise my eyes when the unexpected comes home to roost?
Rather than brunette and thick, or feather light and white, who knows what my scalp will feel readied to sprout, next; I mean, seriously, each time my subconscious has sent an intuitive message to tango with my conscious awareness, some portion of my connection to solid complacency has been rocked to its core, so let’s not be shocked if I sprout a purple spiked do, and here’s why that could be true: If there’s one thing I’ve learned about life, time after time, it’s this: Whenever I choose to walk over the threshold of a new doorway with positive focus intact, surprises await, none of which are boring.
No comments:
Post a Comment