The Buzz Cut Party

November 26-December 3, 2010

It's been an interesting week to say the least. I had my head-shaving party, with my unnervingly razor-happy 21-year-old son, Chris, at the helm. Dianne Foye was overseer of operations and moral support. Pete and Mike Foye were in charge of video and still photography operations, and Shannon was bartender and chief cheerleader. (Ziggy the dog and Minnie the cat would periodically pop up to offer loving.) How everyone could accomplish their tasks while drinking Bud Light Lime (that would be the guy in charge of the buzz tool), margaritas, and chardonnay was extraordinary, and perhaps on viewing the end results (posted here), one will determine that their skills were, indeed, performed under questionable circumstances. Chris actually only shaved my head to 1/4 inch so that he could inscribe some fun "-isms" on my scalp. Despite possible rumors to the contrary, my head isn't big because it couldn't fit all the wording I originally requested, so we had to go with acronyms. Chris chose to etch in "4" on one side and "0" on the other to represent my four wins throughout the years over three types of cancer (thyroid [1982], breast [January 2010], and ovarian [current]), all of which are strongly related to one lifelong-monitored genetic disease (colon cancer). And I chose to inscribe LDL for "laugh, dance, live." After his work was done, we all particularly wondered how Chris passed penmanship in first grade. LDL looked a little more like LOL, which Pete interpreted as "lots of luck." In my opinion, that translation isn't ideal but better than the suggestion of "Lshit outta luck." It was a fun party. A ton of laughs. Which was exactly as I wanted it to be. I really was struggling with the whole head-shaving thing, but when the hair started falling out everywhere---and I couldn't tell who was shedding more, me or the dog---I knew it was time. It honestly wasn't nearly as traumatic as I thought it'd be. And there are some positives: Showers are faster, no hairdrying/styling is necessary, my head isn't deformed like a Saturday Night Live conehead, and there are some hats that I do, in fact, look okay in. So, you deal with it. Like there's a choice anyway. The stubbly hair is now falling out fast and furiously; Pete gets to do the final honors tonight, sans the alcohol.

My second round of chemo was yesterday. Frankly, I kind of enjoy my 6-hour days at the "spa." Nancy or Jennifer, the two oncology nurses on duty, bring me oven-warmed blankets, the sun (when there is sun) pours through the two full-windowed walls, sometimes patients' companions will bring in bagels or doughnuts to share, and then there's that first dose of anti-nausea medicine, which makes me feel warm and drowsy; this, along with the radiant sun and the warmed blanket, makes for a very pleasant catnap.

There's lots of camaraderie with other patients if one is feeling social, though some women are too sick or feeble to talk. Others freely share their personal stories, hoping to learn from each other, gain strength in others' wisdom and experiences. It's an interesting club of women, one that doesn't discriminate based on age or race or religion; you never know who you'll meet and what you'll learn. But one thing is certain; membership in this club guarantees immediate bonding.

My round was completed at about 1:45 yesterday afternoon, and just before Dianne and Leanne picked me up, a couple came in for their first consultation/tour of the chemo facility. The woman had so much pain and fear in her face, it broke my heart, and called to mind the day I first walked in that room with Pete: my shock that this was actually happening to me/us; that I needed to be here in this room; learning the harsh realities of chemo (total hair loss, nausea, weakness, energy depletion, lowered immunities, etc.); facing the many unknowns. And all this while I'm still slowly recovering from a difficult ovarian cancer surgery itself (since 9/29), not to mention its unanticipated setbacks. Not that I am an expert in this short time, but what I wanted to tell this woman was that this room is so much more than chemo and hair loss and nausea: It is also laughter, support, kindness, compassion, and (perhaps new-found) appreciation for all that is indeed good in one's life. As I walked by her, the best I could do though was briefly rub her arm.