Radiation = doing lots of good. And sucks.
Here's what my head looked like while I was going through radiation:
Every time I took a shower, or even touched my head, quantities of hair would come off. That's some serious hair. That's my head saying, "Abandon ship!"
On October 30, my radiation stopped. I was done. Done. I was celebratory! Here are the ways I documented that day:
The calendar that tracked the process. I got to cross off every day that I completed radiation, and then I got to recycle it on Oct. 30.
The container of Temodar, my chemotherapy, EMPTY!
When Claire escorted me out of my last radiation session, she talked through several food options we might use to celebrate. Muffins? Blech, no. Cookies? Blech, no. Hot dog? Why yes, I think that would be delicious! And it was. And the nice hot-dog-selling-guy took our picture.
Plus, I got to ring a bell at the radiation center--sounds goofy, but actually was satisfying. The man ahead of me rang it, too, and it felt meaningful to have even the smallest recognition of having gone through that challenging experience.
I made these cups for some of my friends:
|Leigh has excellent "I hate everything" skills.|
|I wish. Cool hair AND a Storm Trooper.|
Instead, I was like, "Yes. Cut all that hair off. All of it!" Eagerness. No grief.
They wouldn't cut all of it yet. As one of my friends had pointed out, and as this salon person also noted, is that if they cut all my hair, there's not a damn thing I can do. I'm stuck. So instead, she tried a hair cut with some actual hair, and told me I should sit with it for a week. If I still want my hair, come on in and they'll mess with it.
Here it is:
I think it's pretty cool. But I might have them cut off more when Maybelle and I are back in Charleston. Part of my head still presents brain-tumor-revelation, as it should:
But the new hair also looks like I might be…stylistic. Professional.
There are so many things I want to share: Maybelle struggling with the changes she's experiencing. The ways in which I continue to feel shitty. How difficult it continues to be for me to ask for help. My fucking fury that I might not be able to do the things I'd (foolishly) planned for this semester.
But it's taken me four days to write this blog post, so I'll stop for now.