Glowing

Months ago, I asked F if she wanted to grow her hair out and donate it to cancer patients for wigs. In true middle child form, she shrugged her 7 1/2 year old shoulders and said, "sure". This past weekend, there was a Relay for Life in our area and they had a Pantene Beautiful Lengths collection for wig hair. I heard about it last minute and it never occurred to me to walk. Earlier in the day, I saw a girl who was going to donate her hair wearing a "Granddaughter of a Survivor" t-shirt. I said to F, "Oh, I wish I had thought to get you a shirt saying that, your Nannie had cancer (breast cancer), and she would like you wearing it.", F shrugged again. Suddenly, I realized, she could have "Daughter of a Survivor" on there too. It's hard for me to think of myself in those terms. I feel, comparatively to most, I'm a "mini" survivor. I got off easy with an early stage thyroid cancer, there is no radiation or chemotherapy to fix it, just radioactive iodine.

RI was what I was experiencing this time last year. The worst part of it, next to being crazy and depressed from the lack of thyroid hormone (they have to let it drop as low as possible for the treatment) was having to be isolated from my children during it, as I was "radioactive". Crazy, lonely, sad and radioactive in an empty cottage for nine days isn't much fun, but it beats chemo and radiation any day.

I remember the first time before my second surgery when a nurse referred to me as a "cancer patient", I almost corrected her saying, "No, you're mistaken, I have a cancerous tumor but I don't have cancer". In the past, cancer was not something I possessed, but something that was cut out of me. Suddenly, it seemed, I was supposed to be its owner. This tumor had done a little dance during pathology to show it could break outside the borders, and apparently when it's an actual gland that's affected, there's no unnecessary tissue or skin for it to spread to. When it goes, it goes for gusto to the necessary places. I had to wait until after the iodine treatment to see if it had wandered, it seemed it had not, and voila, here I am a mini survivor. And thus, here my F was, a daughter of one.

When my niece came over to borrow something that day, I said to her, "Hey, she could have 'Cousin of a Survivor' on there too!" My niece is a true survivor, but it was before her memory can access. She just smiled as she always does and said, "Yeah she could!". Three's the magic number right? So, out came the magic marker on the shirt. I was surprised to notice F on the floor highlighting all the letters after I wrote them, she was now past shrugging.



I was so proud of F as we stood in line to get her hair cut at the Relay for Life event. I also felt unexpected guilt at not walking myself as I looked around at all the people with their Relay t-shirts. But mostly, I felt a giddy comfort being in this giant space of carnival style celebration where the word cancer was not whispered or feared, where survivors were a sort of celebrity. I didn't feel a connection with that title here, both for the ease of my experiences and for my lack of participation in the event. The little narcissist in me did feel a tiny bit of pride that what I had gone through could somehow translate into increased light on F. Then I noticed the girl who we knew sitting in the chair waiting to have her hair cut. Her mother was beside her, face swollen with tears. Her grandmother stood behind her, post chemo hair coming through about a quarter of an inch. The crowd roared with applause as she cut her granddaughter's hair. I felt humbled.

The powers of the universe must have agreed, F was soon ushered into a chair to the side and back, where no one noticed her. The woman who sectioned her hair into ponytails asked me, "Do you know a survivor here?". I paused then nearly whispered, "yes, me". She asked me to wait for a picture and I heard her murmur into the photographer's ear "mother, survivor, daughter" and point before she handed me the scissors. I think she took a picture, I only saw the flash of my husband's camera. The people who clapped were our little family. The photographer never asked our names so she could use the photo. I think she somehow sensed from the smile and health of my face and the lack of commotion around us, whatever our story was, it wasn't newsworthy. I've never felt so grateful to be ignored.






F's hair is cute and suits her. She may have shrugged indifferently when I asked her, but she's hugged me about 10 times a day since the Relay. There is a new light of connection between us, this simple act has been bonding somehow. I can barely keep my hands off the baby softness of her new bob, she seems to fit better in my arms tucking surely under my chin. I'm pretty sure if you saw us, you'd notice a faint glow.

The Smallest of Thieves

This was from an email I sent to a friend who had just had a baby.


Edited from 2005 original

One of the weirdest experiences of life is having a newborn baby those first few days in the hospital. What a surreal feeling to be intimately bonded with this little stranger that has been growing inside of you. It’s a million times giddier than the experience after you're married and you refer to each other as wife and husband, and giggle thinking someone will correct you.

That feeling of calling for the nurse, saying, "I want my baby" with utter confidence when you really feel like you’ve just been handed the keys to a kingdom and no one has yet discovered that you’re really just a pauper. And the marvel when moments later they appear with this little thing that is yours, that is part of you, but hours ago, before they were born, you wouldn’t have been able to pick them out of a line up. That feeling of "Oh, there you are! That's who you are!" without actual recognition. It’s like having amnesia with your soul mate, and then having to and getting to know them all over again.

Sometimes when I'm doing G’s (my first’s) hair in the morning and her bare back is to me, I will touch her arms. They have these tiny bumps on them just like Chris’. I run my hands over their sandy surface as I stare at her back with its little dark hairs at the bottom, just breathing in the perfection of her imperfections and the beauty of her completeness as this little person. Yet it is still unfathomable that she is this grown, this absolute seven year old. I am still in awe that I made her, we made her—that once she was in me and now is growing out of me, but still is somehow half me. It's still a miracle when I have the time to slow it down enough to see it.

Linda

(You have to click on this picture to enlarge to get the full effect of those eyes!)