So much of what is going on feels out of my control, I'm just doing what I'm told because, well, I don't want to die just yet. Mom and I always had a very open, good relationship. She was my best friend, really, and for a long time, my only friend. There wasn't much we wouldn't share with each other, nothing was off limits. But her cancer, was very private for her.
I had to text my brother, because I couldn't remember if she shaved her head either time, and something about not being able to remember that made me feel horrible. I know that she would say how disgusted she was, waking up with literal mouthfuls of hair, and how she looked. But she never said much beyond that, and then one day she just didn't have any hair. My brother told me she shaved it.
The first time, I didn't think much of it. She still looked like my mom to me, just bald. She still had her smile, still had her cackley laugh, she still felt like mom when I hugged her. The second time, I felt a deep sadness for her, because she was having to go through all of that hell one more time. For the last time. It never occurred to me how catching glimpses of herself in the mirror might feel foreign to her, shock her, or make her sad. That she might avoid her reflection, or how it feels like every visual thing that makes you look like a woman - is being taken away. Your hair, your breasts, your ability to have a child. Gone. All of it, just taken from you. Because you have no choice. Because something is trying to kill you. And it's likely that it won't ever stop trying.
I decided that I wanted to shave my hair before I started to lose it. I wanted to donate every inch of it I could so that something good could come out of this, so someone might find help in my loss. I wanted to lose my hair on my terms. Which some might say makes me sound brave, but I'm not. I'm a control freak in some regards, and it feels like so little is within my control. But this is. I can control how and when I lose my hair. So I did.
This is my support team, the ones who I share the hot mess of me with, the ones I can ugly cry in front of and not be judged, but held and reassured. They are there for me without question, always.
I've donated my hair plenty of times, without question, chop it off, regrow it, chop it off again. But it was different this time, I wasn't losing this hair out of choice, not because I was tired of having long hair, or wanted to mix things up and get a new style. I was losing my hair - because I'm going to lose my hair, outside of my choice, outside of my control. Because I have cancer.
I force a smile. Not because any part of me feels like smiling, but because my son and daughter are watching, and I want them to think I'm strong, that mom will be okay despite this. That I am still every ounce of there mom as I was before. But in this moment, I felt no smiles, I felt no strength, I felt loss and grief, I felt the wave of what my new life is like, of what it would take from me just to survive. To win. To win and then spend the rest of my life in fear that I would have to do it again. Like mom did, but only losing the battle the next time around.
When I took my shower this morning, I must have stared at myself in the mirror for I don't even know how long. Trying to convince myself that it was still me. That I'm still a woman. That in some sense, some part of me might still be pretty, might still look like a woman. That to my husband I still look like his wife. That to my kids, I still look like their mom. And I wondered, how long did my mom stand there, staring at the stranger looking back at her in the mirror. How long did she suffer and cry in the quiet of the night, alone.
I wish she was here now, for so many reasons I can't even begin to count, but also so I could tell her I understand now. I understand your fear, mom, that God will call you home before you're ready to leave. I understand the hurt, the pain, the loss of yourself, dignity, and any sliver of beauty or pride. I understand now, mom, and I'm sorry that I didn't truly understand before. I wish that you had unlocked the bathroom door when you were crying, so I could do more than press my hand to the outside of the door in silence. I wish you let me in, so I could hold you, cry with you, and be there for you. I would have shaved my head with you, for you. I wish you would have shared your hurt with me.
I can't share this hurt with my mom, and she didn't share it with me. She kept it private, to herself, her own inner battle. Which I understand now too, because at the end of it yesterday, I smiled. Not for me, or because I felt like smiling, but for the comfort of those around me. So they know I'll be okay, but maybe I'm just a little bit broken right now, and that's okay too.
I had to text my brother, because I couldn't remember if she shaved her head either time, and something about not being able to remember that made me feel horrible. I know that she would say how disgusted she was, waking up with literal mouthfuls of hair, and how she looked. But she never said much beyond that, and then one day she just didn't have any hair. My brother told me she shaved it.
The first time, I didn't think much of it. She still looked like my mom to me, just bald. She still had her smile, still had her cackley laugh, she still felt like mom when I hugged her. The second time, I felt a deep sadness for her, because she was having to go through all of that hell one more time. For the last time. It never occurred to me how catching glimpses of herself in the mirror might feel foreign to her, shock her, or make her sad. That she might avoid her reflection, or how it feels like every visual thing that makes you look like a woman - is being taken away. Your hair, your breasts, your ability to have a child. Gone. All of it, just taken from you. Because you have no choice. Because something is trying to kill you. And it's likely that it won't ever stop trying.
I decided that I wanted to shave my hair before I started to lose it. I wanted to donate every inch of it I could so that something good could come out of this, so someone might find help in my loss. I wanted to lose my hair on my terms. Which some might say makes me sound brave, but I'm not. I'm a control freak in some regards, and it feels like so little is within my control. But this is. I can control how and when I lose my hair. So I did.
This is my support team, the ones who I share the hot mess of me with, the ones I can ugly cry in front of and not be judged, but held and reassured. They are there for me without question, always.
I've donated my hair plenty of times, without question, chop it off, regrow it, chop it off again. But it was different this time, I wasn't losing this hair out of choice, not because I was tired of having long hair, or wanted to mix things up and get a new style. I was losing my hair - because I'm going to lose my hair, outside of my choice, outside of my control. Because I have cancer.
I force a smile. Not because any part of me feels like smiling, but because my son and daughter are watching, and I want them to think I'm strong, that mom will be okay despite this. That I am still every ounce of there mom as I was before. But in this moment, I felt no smiles, I felt no strength, I felt loss and grief, I felt the wave of what my new life is like, of what it would take from me just to survive. To win. To win and then spend the rest of my life in fear that I would have to do it again. Like mom did, but only losing the battle the next time around.
When I took my shower this morning, I must have stared at myself in the mirror for I don't even know how long. Trying to convince myself that it was still me. That I'm still a woman. That in some sense, some part of me might still be pretty, might still look like a woman. That to my husband I still look like his wife. That to my kids, I still look like their mom. And I wondered, how long did my mom stand there, staring at the stranger looking back at her in the mirror. How long did she suffer and cry in the quiet of the night, alone.
I wish she was here now, for so many reasons I can't even begin to count, but also so I could tell her I understand now. I understand your fear, mom, that God will call you home before you're ready to leave. I understand the hurt, the pain, the loss of yourself, dignity, and any sliver of beauty or pride. I understand now, mom, and I'm sorry that I didn't truly understand before. I wish that you had unlocked the bathroom door when you were crying, so I could do more than press my hand to the outside of the door in silence. I wish you let me in, so I could hold you, cry with you, and be there for you. I would have shaved my head with you, for you. I wish you would have shared your hurt with me.
I can't share this hurt with my mom, and she didn't share it with me. She kept it private, to herself, her own inner battle. Which I understand now too, because at the end of it yesterday, I smiled. Not for me, or because I felt like smiling, but for the comfort of those around me. So they know I'll be okay, but maybe I'm just a little bit broken right now, and that's okay too.
i’m choosing only enough words so you know you’re heard ... and covered in prayer.
ReplyDeleteYour beautiful.
ReplyDeleteDarian, I am so sorry you are going through this. I know there is really nothing I can say, even though I so want to say something that will bring some sort of comfort. I will be praying for you, for strength, for healing, for comfort when it seems impossible. Thank you for sharing your journey with others.
ReplyDelete