"Finish Strong", a subway ad for a college said. I held it together in the hospital and through the same train station. I'm made of iron. Other things, too. I collapsed into Alan’s denim shoulder on the subway platform.
Cancer is like bearing a corpse flower in the pit of your stomach. It is a new life of sorts. Just not the kind you want. That I want, anyway.
Cancer calls at all hours, demanding access to my deepest hurts.
My hair came in quite unevenly, if you’re curious. And “Mossy" is how Rosalie described the texture of baby hair. Fine and wispy. I have buzzed and cut it myself to a consistent length (don’t blame Alan haha. He gives me excellent haircuts, 5 stars). Honestly the urge to pull my hair (trichotillomania) returned with a vengeance and I controlled what I could control: removing the temptation. The hair that I used to pull came back in first, thicker and wiry. It was bothering me.
And most things are better! Botox ads don't work on me anymore (I know, it's too bad that they ever did) and I no longer feel like the world is constantly trying to undermine me. I don't fit into the box that I did before. I'm a new thing.
I'm rocking a salt and pepper look now.
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