So much depends . . . (William Carlos Williams poem, 1923)

Dear Bethany and Gloria,

It may seem odd, my writing you a letter. After all, we see one another at Group Therapy every Wednesday at noon. But time is precious there, never enough, and I so don’t want to monopolize. I’m the one with the most experience with breast cancer; I haven’t wanted to scare you too much. I’m really glad neither of you needs to do chemo. You have enough on your plates as it is, that’s plain to see.

When I come to group, I put on my best face of the week. I plan my days (medications, guided meditations) around Group, making sure I can be there. I haven’t invited you to my blog, but I needed an audience this morning -- an audience likely to understand the inside of my head better than anyone else (except Greg, because he hears it on a regular basis, poor guy).

Recently I ran into a friend who is also in the process of chemo for breast cancer. At the time she’d completed one-third of her rounds. Already she was hairless, but otherwise looked healthy and normal. I was surprised how good she looked, remembering how I felt after my first two rounds four years ago. I remarked, and she said “Looks can be deceiving.”

More and more I am using her line. When I run into people I know while running errands, going to appointments or to gentle yoga (with the marvelously therapeutic Julie Vosters at the Thompson Community Center for the old and decrepit), they ask “How are you doing?” Sometimes I can get by with a quick “Okay so far,” but more and more that response reverberates in my head as a lie.

The truth is, my chemotherapy side effects are strange, very strange. My body’s condition changes hour by hour. Sometimes I can honestly say “I feel great” and other times I am near tears if someone asks and I sense they want the genuine answer.

Last evening I told Greg a secret I’d been keeping for a couple of days: I’m seeing more and more of my short little hairs in the stark-white bathroom sink as I perform my ablutions*. Then I ended up telling him about the conflict I feel when anyone asks how I’m doing.

The best answer I can give (Greg helped me formulate this because he is rational and caring) is: “You know, it’s so strange. Things change hour by hour, but right now I feel (fill in the blank with a quick but honest answer)."

So that’s my script until further notice.

I ordered a wig this morning from the American Cancer Society TLC on-line catalog. Ash Brown with 10% Grey (38) / Petite. It’s as close a cut as I could find to what I’ve been wearing. I consulted with Lori at Retro Salon (who's been cutting my hair since it grew back in 2008) before I clicked send in the shopping cart. She knows me. She knows my hair philosophy. She agreed it was the best choice. I love that lady. I promised I’d stop by sporting the new hair-hat (as grandson Simon dubbed my last wig) when it arrives. I will miss my monthly chats with Lori over a haircut.

This letter’s too long and you have better things to do. I’ll close for now. My next letter will go into detail about what goes on when I’m feeling shitty. I’ll also talk about my conflict about going public with baldness (especially in summertime). And then there’s the issue of how it feels when I wear a wig and a prosthetic left breast versus leaving these phony-crap items at home and just being me. (Your insights/responses would be greatly appreciated.)

There. Glad I got that off my chest, pun intended. Catch you on the flip side.

* Ablutions. This word is not intended to intimidate. It is merely a recurring term some of my peeps will subtly appreciate.