Dear Friends and Family,
After this morning’s update, I thought it best to lighten the mood with a story I’ve been meaning to relate to you.
“I’m going to be bald and beautiful,” Nancy declared out of the blue.
Though there is no doubt about the latter, the former has not seemed to be part of the picture. Then, all of a sudden last week, Nancy’s hair started falling out in clumps. For the longest time, we have been waiting, even expecting, this side effect from chemotherapy. Still, until Nancy’s statement, we have disregarded the inevitable.
In lots of ways, I am reminded of fall in the Utah Mountains, when I know snow is imminent. “Maybe this year it won’t snow until February,” I tell myself. “It was nearly seventy degrees today.” I know my logic is clouded by my desire for one last mountain bike ride on trails covered with fallen yellow aspen leaves, making them look like the Yellow Brick Road in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Then, the next morning, I awaken to two feet of white stuff and I’m searching the back of my closet looking for my warmest coat.
Many of you know that Nancy is a behind-the-scenes, seemingly laid-back kind of woman. She is always the one to stay and clean up after events. She organizes those around her, like me, in her all-encompassing southern style. “Maybe we should do the dishes real fast before we leave,” she whispers in my ear. (Translation: Start helping with the dishes if you want to get home tonight.)
It should not be surprising, then, to hear what happened to Nancy’s stylish blondish locks. I was at work and called Jayna, who had just returned from a run to the cafeteria.
“How’s Mom doing?” I asked, first thing first as always.
Jayna is a saint like her mom. She pretends not to mind me calling every hour or so on the days I am at work.
“Different.”
I clutched the phone tightly, fearing the worst.
“What do you mean, Jayna?”
Jayna’s mischievous giggle tickled my ear and soothed my anxiety.
“I can’t believe it, Dadder. She did it while I was gone. Rebecca (one of our favorite certified nursing assistants) shaved Mom’s head. But she doesn’t look like Charles Barkley, like she hoped. She looks even better.”
And so it was that Nancy jumped into the fray, proudly proclaiming her arrival into the fraternity (or sorority, for that matter) of chemotherapy patients. Was her head shiny? A bump or lump here or there? Resolving bruises? I could hardly wait to see.
So why am I giving you details of an event I mentioned in a previous update?
I simply want to finish the details I omitted about Jaret.
As I alluded to you in previous notes, when Jaret was younger, he’d close his eyes as we passed a cemetery on the way to school. Part of his condition is a near phobia about bones and blood and most things medical. Why he chose me for a dad, I don’t know, but his mother has protected him well over the years from anything predictably unpleasant—like the bald head of a cancer patient.
Hence you can imagine the shock when Jaret entered the room and found his mom—hairless. Not surprisingly, Nancy was not wearing one of her many new hats (deepest thanks for those who have expanded her wardrobe) because of her fevers and resultant need to lose body heat.
“Uh, Mom . . . Uh, uh, what happened?”
“Oh, Jaret, I am so sorry. I forgot to tell you. I meant to wear a hat when you visited.”
Jaret didn’t scream. He didn’t run out the door. He didn’t do anything but hold his mom’s hand, and then he carefully touched the stubble that used to be long and soft and pretty.
“Uh, it looks good, Mom. You’re still beautiful.”
Though Jaret didn’t cry in the room, when I drove him back to his dorm room at Westminster College, he did shed a few tears. “Do you think Mom misses her hair?”
For some questions, I have no answers.
Summary: I knew I could find at least one positive amid today’s sobering events. Jaret is growing up daily.
Love from Jaret, Jayna, the bald lady and me,
Winnie