7 October 2011

Return of the Russian Nurse. October 7

My Russian Nurse came by today to give me my post-chemo shot. He'd been my daily visitor for three weeks following my lumpectomy,  so we’d already got to know each other a little bit. And I mean a bit. He got to see me droopy and half naked, while I barely got to see him crack a smile. He’s very good looking, in a tall blond tennis player kind of way. But he’s got the steely glare, and the Russian accent, which makes him the kind of villainous tennis player in a James Bond Film who’d lob a 300 mph tennis ball at Bond's head, in order to temporarily stun him so he could be taken, live, onto the Russian yacht for questioning.

"Why you wear wig?” The nurse demands.  I tell him that I have no hair. He nods impatiently, then asks why I’m wearing it at home. I mutter something, and he says he’d like to see my head. Since he’s already seen so much of me, I take off my wig and beanie. “Much better. More stylish,” says he. As a compromise, I leave off the wig, but replace the beanie. Firstly, my head is cold. And secondly, I’m reluctant to take fashion advise from a man whose country has rarely produced a figure skating outfit that isn’t covered in fake diamonds and fur.

6 October 2011

Jim Does Not Fit in my Handbag. October 6

I no longer travel lightly. Round two of chemo so I had to cram my bag for my day at the hospital. Here’s what I took today
• Pink filefolder, jam packed with drug info, a giant appointment book, receipts. • Ipad with Sex and the City, cus I need Samantha Jones (though not so keen on Carrie) • Orange juice, water, & coconut juice cus it’s super duper for rehydrating • Sunglasses.( For style, and light sensitivity) • Paperback • Journal (Just because)  • Anti nausea pills (Just in case it is all about  Carrie) • Secret make-up bag • Wallet • Lip gloss • (Burts Bees. Highly recommended, by me) • Sea salt. (To repel bad energy, Seriously) • Hat • Phone
• Jim. (Does not fit in bag. Walked alongside)

The day went well though. And by 'well' I mean that the nurse asked if  I still had my my own hair. I smiled coyly. "Why no! It's a wig."

5 October 2011

Om! October 5.

My Toes
Feeling feisty this morning so I thought I’d go to a yoga class.  Slapped on the wig, and did a few experimental forward bends at home. It flopped around a bit, but stayed on fairly well. For extra security I put on a little beanie. The guy at the wig shop (Wig Guy) said that beanie’s are de rigueur for bald people.  Unfortunately, today was warm and sunny, and the yoga studio had the heat cranked up to one thousand degrees. I noticed a few woman sweating and gulping their water, and I worried that I might be in danger of over –heating from my excessive headgear, and pass out mid downward dog, sans cheveux,  with my wig landing at the end of my mat. But I made it through intact. 

Another tiny hurdle. Om!

4 October 2011

The Exodus. October 4.

Here’s what they don’t tell you in chemo-school. Once your hair is ready to fall out, it falls our ALL AT ONCE. I entered the shower with my GI Joe hair, and left with only a few bristles standing. I’m not exaggerating. Perhaps my hat had been holding everything in place, but there was a sudden, well-executed, mass exodus of the bristles. The remaining few I shaved off.

In a cruel twist of fate, and after fully examining my big egghead in the mirror, I discovered a new black chin hair. Interestingly, my moustache also remains fully intact.

3 October 2011

The Debut. October 2

Time to debut my wig. Her official name is Julie (according to her tag at the store), and I’ve haven’t thought of anything better. She is a brown bob, of course. She’s been freshly washed and blow dried, and is making her debut at a gallery opening.

With my girl posse forming a protective shield, the evening went very well. There was just one delicate moment when my bangs slid dangerously low over my eyes, but the ladies tore themselves away from the cheese table just long enough to slide it back into position. The art, by the way, was stunning.

The Buzz. October 1.

With a glass of Moet in one hand, and an electric razor in the other, Jim shaved off my hair. After months of anticipation, it wasn’t as traumatic as I thought. Granted, I’m not completely bald. My hair is about quarter inch, or whatever is the equivalent to the length of hair on a GI Joe doll, or a hamster.
In my secret fantasies, my almost bald head would look like Natalie Portman in ‘V is for Vendetta’.  I was somewhat astonished to find out that, without hair, my head looks like an upside down egg.