About Hair Loss and Chemotherapy

I’m afraid National Poetry Month got derailed by cancer. No 30 poems in 30 days for me.

My hair started falling out in clumps on Friday. 2nd of 6 cycles of EC-T Chemotherapy was yesterday.

Yesterday evening someone tried to tell me how sexy women without hair are. I had to explain that I wasn’t a woman without hair but a woman with hair loss, that I am a woman with cancer. There is nothing sexy about cancer.

Choosing to shave your head and experiencing hair loss from chemotherapy are not the same thing.

Choosing to shave my head is not an option for me. Infection control is a high priority in my case. I’m not even allowed to shave my legs.

This is me today, sans head coverings.

I’m still experiencing a great deal of trauma.

It’s not about vanity. It’s about my reflection. When you look in the mirror you reflect you back to you. So much information is passed onto the central nervous system in that exchange.

I’m definitely experiencing overload.

Peace be with you.

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thoughts on the coming new year

I believe
Life
is always
teaching us
things
miraculous things
about ourselves

always
throwing
opportunities
in our path
for more growth

The Year of 2016
will always be
My Year of Loss

and learning

acceptance
letting go
allowing
myself to grieve
for all
I had been
given
and all
that had been
taken away

discovering
the pain of loss
while accepting
loss and grieving
as an integral
part of life

learning
to resist
to fight
to push
hard
against it

to attempt
to escape
it all

only
prolongs
the pain

I don’t know
what this
next year
will bring

I don’t make
resolutions
for the new year

I mostly
just hope
I end each year
having learned
the joy in just
being me

Still…

This new year
is different

I can already
feel it’s difference
just coming
over the horizon

So
on this
last day
of
My Year of Loss
I find myself
asking
for more courage
more grace
under pressure

And the gift
of healing

for myself

for everyone

 

Briançon, Hautes-Alpes, France
Briançon, Hautes-Alpes, France ~ photography by me, Robin Dalton September 2004

The Girl Bound by the Sea

She was always easy to locate. Her movements were too regular. It put her in danger.

Coffee from the tiny coffee shop on the corner every morning, a block from the sea where she spent hours staring into the waves. She always had a camera with her but she had stopped taking photographs several weeks ago. She just held it in her cold hands while she stared at nothing but the huge expanse of water in front of her.

The sea was wild today and the wind cold and brutal but she stood still as a statue except for her hair. Curls as wild as the sea were whipped around her head by the wind. At times the wind would slow, like it was taking a deep breath before another onslaught, and her hair would fall slowly back onto her shoulders, as if by magic.

Some days she wore a long dress and her skirts would get entangled in her legs, revealing short black boots with tiny laces. On those days he wondered if she was even real, or merely a forgotten shade from another era.

Sometimes her lips moved, spoke words without sound, magical incantations, he imagined, but they never smiled, not even when a friendly passerby murmured a good morning. She would stop to study their face, trying to gauge whether they were a threat or not, sometimes return their good morning in a voice so low, it could barely be heard but mostly she just nodded her head politely and looked away.

He heard her voice once when she didn’t know he was there behind her. She was reciting an unfamiliar poem to a Raven who stood nearby watching her. He was surprised by the soft melodic sound, almost like birdsong, he thought. The memory still haunted him.

He tried to talk to her once, just casual inane chatter, too inane for someone like him with a reputation as a heartless charmer and a reprobate with a gift for words. She watched his face while he spoke. Her eyes were huge but the light had gone out of them a long time ago. He thought she must have been beautiful once. When he stopped talking, she turned, clutching her camera tightly to her chest and walked away with sure, even steps. He didn’t try to talk to her again.

He watched her though, everyday. On his more fanciful days he thought she was the kind of woman he could love, would want to protect from the evils of the world except he was sure the evils of the world had already visited her and took her heart with them when they left.

When he was honest with himself, he knew he was merely another one of those evils. When he was honest with himself he knew if he had half a chance he would capture this sad little bird and keep her for himself, bound to his need just as surely as she was bound to this sea, just as he had done with all his women.

However, he had turned them lose when he became bored and he knew he had left them broken, seeking something they didn’t have a name for, ghosts of their former selves.

He didn’t want that for this one. If she had any heart left to break, he didn’t want to be the one to break it.

But he wanted her. Oh, God, how he wanted her.

She would be easy to abduct.

Unfortunately something about her awakened his conscience. He could abduct her, would abduct her, but only once he was sure he could love her forever, keep her forever, and make her love him, at least a little.

But that time was not now.

So he watched his little bird from the shadows, slowly losing his heart to her and that wild sea which kept her bound and enthralled and heartbroken.

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