Well, it’s gone. My hair. I am bald. Really doesn’t feel that bad. In fact, I think I really like it. My scalp feels like it is finally breathing. It is tingling and I am enjoying experiencing all of the sensory overload. Just think, covered by all that hair forever and now exposed. I know I will have to be careful in the sun but it is fun feeling the coolness. It is like having my own personal breeze right on top of my head. Sylvia and Cheryl rubbed my old bald head yesterday and I have never felt anything like it. It was wonderful.

When I got home last night the only dog that seemed to notice was my sensitive guy, Zipper. I looked at him and he looked at me: ears up, head cocked to the side. “Hey, Zipper.” He looked and just focused on my head with a very puzzled look. “Hi, Zipper.” This time he seemed to relax and I think I saw him smile.

I washed my hands this morning and ran the cool water over my head. Wow – amazing. I think inside I am feeling very much like all those cells and nerve endings on the top of my head. Every experience new, exciting – and good. I know that just like with the little cells on my head, I need to be careful. I need to watch for things that might harm me, but not hide under a cap or scarf. Just put it out there for the world to see.

  It is starting. I feel it. The tingling, itching, and tenderness. The hair! Eyebrows and eyelashes, also.

I have decided to meet this one head on. I’m going to Marietta tonight, to an African hair shop owned by my friend Ramata. We will cut all of my hair and she will make me dreads. I have always wanted dreads, but how does a white redneck country girl get away with wearing dreads in the South?

Somehow this unexpected battle with cancer has either given me courage I never knew I had or has just brought out the “Screw you, it’s my life” attitude. Having spent most of my life trying to please and get approval from others, I often feel overwhelmed with this new sense of self.

Don’t think the folks will be fans of the dreads, but they have not been fans of a lot of the choices I have made in my life. One in particular I am sure they see as a choice, but it isn’t and never was; it is just who I am. A lesbian. Not a choice but born this way. When I dream, I never dream of men. I was naive enough to think, “My folks love me today; what difference should it make if they know?” So I told them. Funny thing: it did make a difference. Know what? It wasn’t me that changed. I was the same person, with the same feelings and the same love for them that I had before and after I told my truth. I did not change, but something did.

So, like the changes happening with my hair, I am sure we will not see eye to eye but we will avoid some of the hard parts, because being a part of each other’s lives means something to us. I want them to accept and love me for who I am, so I have to do the same for them. Reflect back to them love and acceptance. I do love them, my mom and pops.

I saw a warrior stumbling today, armor all but removed. It was hard, sad, and scary. If you are around my age or older with my sense of humor, you probably watched The Carol Burnett Show. I loved that show. A favorite of mine was the Tim Conway character who shuffled his feet everywhere. He could not even lift his feet enough to step on a rug. It was funny and Conway made you laugh.

The warrior I see is walking almost like that character and it isn’t funny. He is an older gentleman and one of the technicians is walking beside him, holding his hand. The old man has an oxygen tank in a bag that he carries over his shoulder. The tech gets him to the first sofa in the waiting room. The man struggles to sit on the sofa; he finally makes it and leans forward, fighting to breathe. His wife sits beside him and gently pats his hand.

I look over at him and see how white he looks. I see his face; I have never seen that color of white before. I turn away because tears are filling my eyes. I shake my head. This shit is getting too real. People die from this, from cancer, every single day. It is really just beginning to sink in for me. I think I have been working through the shock and going through the motions. But now it is becoming real.

I am called for my appointment. I am becoming more warrior-like with each new visit to the clinic. I laugh and talk to the techs and nurses. I tease my doctor when he walks in the room, winks and says, “You still have your hair!”

“Come on, man,” I say.

He responds, “I must not have given you enough.”

I love this banter but we soon get more serious and talk about my treatments. As I walk back into the waiting room I can see an ambulance, lights blinking, outside the front door. I look toward the sofa – he isn’t there. I look at Lorene. They are taking him to the hospital. Godspeed, Warrior Brother.

June 7, 2013

I meet my angel today on the way to the medical oncologist. My friend Lorene picks me up so she can take me to my appointment. She has been quite an angel herself. She is an ex who is now more like family. She has cooked, cleaned, cared for, and pampered me since I was diagnosed. I have had several relationships throughout my life and have always felt that if I loved you, just because we break up it doesn’t mean that I don’t still love you. Lorene has been a complete demonstration of that reflected back at me.

It has been hard for me to understand. I actually had to call her and ask why she was doing these kind things for me. Know what she said? Because of who you are. What??? What does that mean??? I have never been able to see the things in me that other people see. I have focused on others. When you meet me I will ask a million questions about you, so you never really get to see me. I focus on you and most people seem to be happy with the way that works.

I jump in Lorene’s Tribute and off we go. Leave my work driveway and turn left onto College Station Road, a rather busy road in Athens, GA.

As soon as we turn, we see him lumbering onto the shoulder of the road. Lorene looks at me with panic in her eyes. “We can’t,” I say. “He is a snapping turtle – we don’t have anything.” But we are already on the side of the road and I find myself running back toward the monster with a roll of plastic fencing in my hands.

What the hell am I doing? Traffic whizzing by on the four-lane road and there he is. He decides to make a run for it and so do I. Running with the fencing under one arm and the other arm over my head, trying to get the drivers’ attention. Oh God, please don’t hit him—I am so close.

He has made it across the shoulder and into the first lane. I call some guys from work – Come help! Just then two women in a white van stop to help shield my new nemesis. Then we have him, me with my fencing, one lady with a white umbrella. I try to shove him with the fence roll, but he lunges and bites. I try putting the fencing on his shell and pushing him backwards, anything to get this fool and us out of the middle of traffic. It is lunchtime in Athens, and we are on a main road leading to the eating places.

I try again, and again he snaps and grabs the fence roll. This is not working. Lorene is directing traffic, while the two other animal nuts and I are in the middle of the road, waving our fencing and umbrella. Call the guys again, and finally I see them. As Troy and John arrive, another vehicle pulls up. They tell us, “You have to grab it by the tail.” They are finally able to do just that and there he goes. Head facing down, mouth open as they run back across the road. They will put him in the river and that will be that.

Sigh of relief from all the rescuers, who’ll go home with funny stories to tell. We all jump back in our vehicles to resume our day. My faith in the goodness of humanity is restored. But how can this mean, nasty ass snapping turtle be my angel of the day? As I think about valiantly trying to save this monster, my mind drifts to my most recent significant other. The one who, on my birthday, returned everything I had given her with the words, “Sorry this didn’t work out, but I hope you have a happy birthday anyway . . . Excuse me – What?? Just like that turtle that I was trying to help: Given half a chance, he would have taken a chunk out of me. She had the chance, and she did. With her shell tightly secured around herself, she whipped around and took not only a huge chunk of my heart but also a huge chunk out of who and what I am. I am a helper, a rescuer. I will put myself out there, put myself in danger just trying to help. Just trying to help you get to the other side of the road – Damn it!

I was able to help the turtle and that feels good. I was not able to help my ex because she really did not want my help . . . but I can help myself. Really that is about all I can do: take care of myself. I will always be a helper, a rescuer, but hopefully I have learned: Pick it up by the tail and hold it our away from your body so you don’t get bitten.

June 6, 2013

I meet today’s angels while making a quick stop to grab some lunch. I have to eat even if I cannot taste anything I put in my mouth. My teeth ache and my gums are super sore. With every bite there is a little pain, a little reminder of the battle taking place within my body. The chemo destroys cells that divide rapidly, like cancer cells, but cancer cells are not the only rapidly dividing cells in the body. These cells include skin cells, cells of the gastrointestinal tract, and blood cells produced in the bone marrow. So the chemo does a number on a lot of the good guys while it is searching for and battling cancer cells.

I had been trying to leave work for a while but something always comes up to keep me there a little longer. My coworker Johnny is deeply concerned for my well-being and finally says, “Just go; it’s getting late.” “But nothing tastes good.” He says, “Eat anyway.”

I decide on pizza so I make a quick stop at Pizza Hut to grab a pizza I can take back and eat at work. Park the truck, jump out. Crap, I will never make it back to work before it starts raining. Of course, I park about as far away from Pizza Hut as possible. As soon as I shut the door, I hear “Excuse me.”

I turn around and see a middle-aged black couple approaching me. I say hello, ask how things are going. They need directions to Wal-Mart. I can do that. As I am giving the directions, I study them. He is tall; I might reach the top of his shoulders. She is shorter than I am with beautiful golden dreads that hang below her waist. And then I see her eyes. Those are the most amazing eyes – we lock eyes. I am transfixed, and feel she can see right into my soul. I want to keep gazing into her eyes but know that would seem odd; then I realize she is still staring into my soul.

Then suddenly we are back in the parking lot repeating directions to each other. “You got it?” he asks her. “Yeah, I got it.” He looks at her, “You got it?” “I got it,” she says. We separate. I hear him say to her, “You got it?” She says, “I got it” and at the same moment I yell over my shoulder, “She got it!”

Now no way I am making it back to work before the downpour. Take time . . . order pizza . . . wait 15 minutes enjoying a smoothie while my pizza cooks. Time’s up. Grab the pizza, walk out the door. Downpour! I get soaking wet walking back to the truck with the pizza, my smoothie, and a huge, warm heart. This world – the people in it – how lucky I am to be able to experience moments like this. The kindness of strangers – a black couple, a white woman in the South, feeling totally soul connected. Life and God are good.

June 5, 2013

Rushing to get home after work – still have to stop for some things. Groceries for me and also for the goats – both dogs and cats are fine for today.

Run into Publix to take care of my needs then plan a quick stop at Tractor Supply, then home. As I load my goods in the back of the truck, I notice a confused-looking woman walking across the parking lot. She is older, bag hung across her lower arm, pizza box firmly held with both hands and trying to balance an open orange soda as she walks. She doesn’t look homeless but poor. Sweating, hair wet. She looks at me.

“Do you need any help?”

“I am trying to get over there.”

I think I can carry her stuff for her. “Where?”

“Athena.”

I quickly look at all the store signs. No Athena. She looks puzzled. “Do you need help?” Then I realize she is trying to get home. “Need a ride?” I can see she really wants to say yes, but pauses. With each step she takes orange soda jiggles out of the bottle. “Come on – I will give you a ride.”

“Okay. That would be nice of you.” I finish loading my wares as she tries to get the pizza, purse, and orange soda into the passenger’s side of the truck. She is finally in, after jiggling orange soda on the seat of the truck, which upsets her. I say, “Don’t worry about it.”

I look at her. “I won’t be afraid of you and you don’t be afraid of me.” She says, “Don’t worry; I’m not that way.” I laugh to myself because the first thing that popped into my head was “lesbian.”

Okay, we are both in and ready to go. She lives no more than three blocks from Publix, but as I am pulling out I realize we are now going the opposite way from the direction she was walking. I think, “Shit. I bet she was trying to make it to the liquor store.” So I asked. If she really needed to go then I would take her. “Why were you walking that way when I stopped you?” She was going to try a shortcut through the woods to make it back home.

The truck is moving but not out of the lot yet. She sits up and says, “Do you know anything about rats or mice?” Way to go, genius – pick up a crazy just trying to be nice. In my mind I see huge rats running across some slumlord’s shithole. “A little –you having problems?”

“Yeah. I was at Rite Aid looking for some poison.” So we laugh and talk about this rat/mouse problem that no one at her housing believes she has. It’s not funny, though; either she or the mouse will have to go. “Okay, I’ll see if I can find something for you and drop it by, since now I will know where you live.”

Pull up in front of a nice older apartment building; I think the sign says something about church housing for older citizens. She is finally able to get the purse, pizza, and orange soda out of the truck. She turns around and thanks me. “I would give you some money but I don’t have any.”

“That’s okay. Do you shop in that center often?”

“Yes. Maybe I will see you sometime.”

“I hope so,” I say.

“By the way, what’s your name?”

“Melissa.”

“Mine is Judy.”

As Judy is shutting the door, I say, “It is very nice to meet you, Judy.” Laugh and shake my head all the way home.

Jan. 1 – Spent alone while my significant other fucked with my head.

February – My birthday. Same significant other showed up at my house to return everything I had given her. Gave me a birthday card with the words “Love Ya” whited out. Other offenses too numerous to mention.

March – Diagnosed with breast cancer

April – Lumpectomy surgery and the beginning of the breast cancer conveyor belt.

May – Trying to make some decisions about treatment. What to do? Am I making the right choice? Start the chemo dance. Begin becoming a chemo warrior.

I watch the people walk through the doors in the morning at the cancer care center. Most eyes forward: head held high, armor fully engaged. Time to battle another day. IVs started; premeds followed by the poisons. Poisons that will hopefully find the enemy and destroy. As in any battle, you always lose part of yourself. Treatment room full of laughter full of support; also part of the armor.

At the end of this day’s battle, the warriors shuffle home, armor slightly leaning off one shoulder or the other. Striving just to make it home—shed the armor—sit in the nude for a brief second and shiver. The only place the scared one inside the warrior feels safe to come out. There are only a few people in the world whom the warrior allows to see this space.

The warrior knows that most people in their life are unable (no – I think it is too uncomfortable) to see the warrior struggle. To see the warrior stumble. To see the warrior cry.  So we, the warriors, awake the next morning, put the armor on again, and head back to the battlefield.  Some of us only to get shots to stimulate the white blood cell count; others to face the poison for another round.

The second day is hard, even for those of us only getting the shots.  I watch as others walk past the injection room and back for another round of chemo.  One warrior in particular caught my eye yesterday.  An older female with short gray hair—I assume short because of previous battles with chemo.  Yesterday, she entered with two female friends, but it was clear who was there for battle.  There is something that gives it away. No, it is not the hair; it is the way she enters the clinic—head high, eyes forward—and mentions to the lady behind the desk that she’s glad to see her back from vacation.  She walked in owning that place.  I was blown away.

We were called back at about the same time to have blood drawn and vitals recorded.  We smiled and laughed because the techs were having trouble getting enough blood from us. She smiled at me and said, “I am surprised I have any left.”  That is the thing about warriors: we have a connection just because—we know.  We know what it is like to hear the words.  To have a doctor call you at work and say, “Is this a good time?” Hell no—it is not a good time because I now know what you are going to say.  I have had skin cancer so I have heard the C word before but this time—this time you are going to say breast cancer. So hell no; now is not a good time.  I am having a life over here.  This was not in the plan.  That is what the scared one inside is thinking but the warrior says, “Now would be just fine.”

So the older warrior and I are sent to our battle stations.  She goes to the group treatment room but since it is my first time I go to a private room.  They hook her up and she gets started while I must be visited by the doctor and nurses.  They try to shake the armor, listing the reactions that might occur during the infusion process, but the warrior is ready: Bring it. Through the door of my room, open just a crack, it sounds like a wild party in the group room.  Nurses running from IV to IV.  Warriors talking and laughing.  I cannot see my new warrior hero because the door blocks my view.

During the treatment, warriors must find a way to tow the new sword that is now attached to their body (through an IV or through a port that was installed to make it easier to get the treatment).  We might look silly to you, trying to get in and out of the bathroom or up and down the hall rolling that thing around. But that, my friend, is now an important part of our battle paraphernalia. And goddamn it—we earned it.

My infusion last a little over three hours and before I am done I hear the nurse say to a warrior, “You are done! You slept through the whole treatment.” I see the warrior stand. Yeah, you guessed it: my new chemo hero.

Second day for me.  I walk in, sit down, look to my left and there she is, this time with a younger man—I am guessing her son.  My night was not too bad.  A little uncomfortable, but okay.  Another warrior sits down beside me.  An older woman who looks like a sweet farm wife.  She looks at me sideways and says, “Are you here with somebody or here for yourself?”  I tell her for myself.  She looks at my long blond hair and says, “You ain’t lost your hair yet.” I tell her I had my first treatment yesterday.  She had her second yesterday and her hair fell out the second week after the first treatment.  Great!  Two more weeks.  All the non-warriors are telling me what I should do with my hair.  Cut it now. Cut it a little at a time so it will not be such a big shock. Hello . . . I have breast cancer. Now there is a shocker.  I am ready to shave it already but some non-warriors say, maybe you will be one of the ones that does not have that side effect.  People: I seriously made a decision about whether or not to cut my breast off. My fucking hair will grow back.