... will be diagnosed with cancer in their lifetime. I've had this fact drilled into me during my first three weeks on the job at the Cancer Society.
Hailing from an immediate family of 5, I can safely say we're well on our way to proving this statistic correct. My dear Mom, as I've touched on in past posts, learned she had the disease just a couple of months ago. As I type this, chances are good that she's tentatively pulling the hair out of her head with the greatest of ease. No stinging. No snapping. Just a smooth exit. Hair that, in many ways, has defined her all these years. The long, glossy Breck Girl hair of the 60's. The shiny Dorothy Hamill of the 70's. The tortoise shell barettes of the 80's. And that chocolatey chestnut tone I've always envied.
She's going in for round 2 of chemo next week and they say her hair will likely be gone by that point. No matter how you cut it or coat it, this is one of the most harrowing aspects of being a cancer patient. And the truth is, you really can't know how it feels unless it's your own hair that's falling out.
I'm extremely proud of my Mom's courage. This experience that she's going through is inherently frightening and yet she's remained my same old Mom since she got the news. Naturally, she's had a few teary moments of weakness but who can blame her.
*The above photo of Mom was taken circa 1976. You can see she's picked a wild flower (looks like Golden Rod or maybe Indian Paintbrush)) and tucked it into her zipper hole. No doubt, I was sitting right next to her with a flower of my own that she had gingerly affixed to my zipper too.
