Phew! Wait a moment while I step off the hamster-wheel-of-doom in my black patent stilettos (arms cartwheeling, spindly heels teetering). I have news on the home front, happy news. Scary Disney-like variety news…
I waited until posting it because well…it has finally sunk in and I was waiting (procrastinating is more like it) until additional tasty bites of my life could be snacked upon.
In February, BFF got the fantastic news that she was officially in remission (thank you Dr. Lentz…yes…you are a ROCKSTAR!)
Six months of crappy chemo, the scary BIG nausea pill she had to take, our hearts clenching at every set-back, and whammo, it’s been zapped like Raid on a cockroach.
I am expelling a deep breath.
But I can’t help but feel like a deflated balloon all in the same instance. A melting relief and a tidal wave of feelings escaping me. BFF is feeling it as well.
This past weekend, we were like well…what’s next? When is it going to end? Has it ended?
And it got to me to thinking…what was of the utmost priority for Miss Shorn Head?
Hair care and lots of it.
As soon as BFF was all in the clear, her focus was fixed on one of two long-term goals: growing back her lovely locks. Secondly, losing all the flub she gained from the “eat-all-you-want-while-you-are-on-chemo-diet.”
Then she started with the texting. First I started getting “My hair is growing in blond. See the fuzz?”
And this would be accompanied by a picture where she was pointing out a few strands, and I had to squint to see the fuzz. (squinting) Then more mobile pictures started to come in…every other day…because every millimetre of fuzz had to be documented.
Two weeks ago, I got a text from her stating, “I dyed my hair!”
…HUH?! What hair?
My zany BFF had put that Just for Men stuff on her fuzz just to see how much hair growth was actually happening. I had to see it to believe it. I read her text at work and just giggled shaking my head. .
But I have to say that I actually got used to the shorn head.
Sometimes it’s like it wasn’t even there, and other times, that bald pate set me on edge, a boom colliding straight into my denial. Those times looking at her became synonymous with “My friend is sick. I could lose her.” Those emotions and thoughts would skitter off into my stomach and then I not wanting to face the reality of the situation…would just end up tucking it away.
Most of the time, it’s just her face that I see. Looking at her, this person who has been like a sister to me since I was fourteen, who has a great personality and tons of verve to boot is just irrepressible. No amount of shorn hair is going to detract from that. And the true testament to this was how many times that I had to bite my tongue from mentioning new hair colors I had discovered and hair products. (I am a hair-care products whore and I cannot deny it)
I would stop myself and then realize belatedly, “Crap…she’s not going to care about that new flat iron spray I discovered.” Why? Cos she's got NO hair!
All her insecurities about the head her lack of hair, and her trusty bandanna have been an appendage for us for the past six months. For her it was like the elephant in the room, the one we rarely talked about.
And for me…well it was a symbol that she was really sick. We tried to joke it off, and I would call her baldy, all the while ignoring the darker currents that swirled under the surface of our conversation. Dangerous currents that we didn’t want to acknowledge.
Last night I got glamour shots of her in big 80s glasses and red lips solarized, her new “I’m back” profile picture. I laughed my ass off. I love it.
And I am ecstatic, filled to the brim happy that she is celebrating. Coming back to life and if it is just focusing on her hair…well who the crap cares? My friend is back and sporting a nice V-worthy Natalie Portman do, and it’s the best news in the world.
~Miz Fiendishly (I've included a picture of us at Runyon Canyon two weeks ago. She is on the mend and so am I)