Keep your chin up. Like a nosebleed.
I got that off facebook.
Light precipitation tonight. All over my pillow. Every morning I wake to tickle from disengaged follicles. My hair is falling, my hair is falling! Evidence. Finally! The little piles make me think of the pleasant tangles washed up on the beach of Georgian Bay. Each length has a story, not necessary to know. But necessary to note. This reverse sowing that’s taking place on my head.
I am so relieved.
Suppose your hair doesn’t fall out.
This from Bobcat while shaving my head. He was concentrating on the back of my scalp. Two long Hassidic like sideburns framed my otherwise exposed face. An oversight or it just amused Bobcat to suggest eastern european origins. Wrong gender, but what the hey.
Whaddya mean suppose my hair doesn’t fall out?
I began to tug at the wispy sideburns.
I mean it would be funny if after you get buzzed, you don’t lose your hair. Ha!
Larry David eye narrow.
But EVERYONE told me they lost their hair. Sindi had thick, beautiful Indian hair. She thought it would last. Then it fell out in clumps in the shower one day.
I paused, captivated by the drama of it. An extreme Rapunzel moment.
You know Bobcat, every Cancer rookie believes they are different. The Cyclophosphamide or Melphalan is not gonna make ME pukey or constipated or infertile….
Well as it turns out, the Great Cancer archipelago is populated only by special people.
Who are there by special invitation.
Most of my words were drowned out by Bobcat’s buzzer. Even in my own head.
That’s why I’m happy I’m losing my hair. It’s a trap, but I’m entitled to this happiness. This increment of everything. So I enjoy the increasing spread across my head. There is a lot to be said for the impact of a shiny scalp. And never again will it be so acceptable for someone to find your hair in their food.
From the wispy wizardress.
So Operation Reboot Chemo began on November 23rd. The first step in mobilising those stem cells. Three days after that first hit, Neupogen or G-CSF injections began. G-CSF stands for ‘granulocyte-colony stimulating factor hormone’ and ‘I’m ready for my Master’s degree’. So the neupogen stimulates your bone marrow and increases the number of circulating stem cells. Chemo kills, neupogen grows, so you could say there’s an accelerated overthrow of the marrow status quo. A White Revolution without the KKK or the Shah. Then after a few days, you report to the Stem Cell Collection Unit. Blood is drawn and the results of the blood work, especially a test called CD34 decide whether you get hooked up to a cell separator device, known as an apheresis machine.
You can salute now.
It’s metallic transcendence.
Dials turn in steady sounds on the COBE Spectra Machine. I don’t know how to pronounce apheresis. But something close to sacred is taking place.
Or at least, they don’t let the sacred be taken away.
For a better description of the process http://goodbloodbadblood.wordpress.com/
Me, I don’t have the knack of objective reportage.
So I will digress.
I got my first neupogen injection at PMH on November 26th. After that a homecare nurse came every morning to affix sharp point to syringe. I insisted on two separate injections as one continuous plunge felt like a fountain on fat wings.
Talk to me. Distract me!
Dad blinked from the computer where he was researching MM. My father has walked all the earth and back in pursuit of a cure without leaving home.
Moved by the quiver in my eyes, the nurse started talking. She told me about a trendy clothes store I have never heard of and cannot pronounce. She spun a story about bargains and made in Bangladesh wares which made me forget the neat ways of her hands. And when it was over we threw the used syringes into a glass bottle.
I have medical waste!
Neupogen can cause bone ache. Or let’s say bone sensation.
Finally. A message from the marrow. Let it tilt back its maw and speak like a gloomy pelican.
I didn’t know what I was in for.
Who has seen your bones?
Neither you nor I
But when you bow your head in pain
The marrow passes by
And Christmas is close. I have a list. It’s simple.
I wish everyone Critical Illness Insurance.
And for myself, a zygote.
Children: gather round and heed my advice. Ensure you have Critical Illness insurance. Most critical illnesses including Cancer are covered under these policies. If you are diagnosed, you should receive a tax-free lump sum payment designed to alleviate the financial strain and deal with non-medical expenses. Let me tell you- you don’t think about it when you’re a young raver and everything circulates around your pretty axis. You don’t want to think about it later when gravity takes charge. I hope you never have to cash in, but…
Think. About. It.
Or don’t think about it. Just get some.
I owe my first born to the Actra Fraternal Benefit Society. It’s my actor’s union insurance program. They are providing me with some weekly income benefits and helping to cover the cost of medication. That’s one thing they don’t tell you when you join the Cancer Club. Membership is honking expensive. If AFBS didn’t help cover the cost of my treatment, along with the Trillium Drug Program, I’d be donating my internal organs for a profit. All of them.
Hey that reminds me. I still have a ziplock bag of my hair.
This gives me Yellow Fever:
Dear Lisa R Ray:
Thank you for your recent application for Line of credit Critical Illness and Life Insurance
Unfortunately, we are unable to offer you the Line of Credit Critical Illness and Life Insurance coverage based on your history of cancer.
How dare you brand me not by the perfumed magnitude that I carry within, but by this hard footed detour where my body takes me for the moment. Are you punishing me, are you marginalising me for a condition which arrived from some outstation we cannot pinpoint or know?
Do we need to stand off for a fistful of dust?
I want to speak and be overheard. And stretch wide because there’s space enough.
Makes me want to lower my bald head and charge.
Can you say ‘advocacy’? Will you sell light on the road with me?
I went to Wellspring, a non profit organisation which offers a wide range of cancer support programs. I went for advice on government financial assistance, cause, you know, I’m unemployed. And I’m gonna remain unemployed for a while. By the end of my meeting, Eileen had a sticky smile and had to rub her forehead a lot.
As a self-employed freelancer, I have no access to UI or unemployment insurance. Canadian parliament just passed a bill entitling us non-conventional workers to the same, but let’s see what happens. As for CPP or the Canadian Pension Plan, you have to contribute 4 years out of the last 6 to qualify for disability.
So, if you’re in Canada, make sure you contribute to CPP. Even if you are a self-employed shmuck like I was.
Except I contributed three out of six.
Um. You need a financial advisor. Eileen rubs her head one last time.
For the dead there’s land enough.
That Neruda. You can cross reference his every line.
So this Christmas, give yourself the gift of a little extra insurance.
And pomegranates. High in antioxidants. Dad wordlessly hands me a bowl every evening.
As for the zygote, I have not yet frozen my eggs. But I must. This morning I mobilised myself to a fertility clinic. I may need to delay my stem cell transplant to realise the hope for life in this life. A four celled zygote. We won’t call it Neville though.
That’s the name of our hairy baby. Bobcat and mine. More on that later.
Bobcat is back. I am at peace. This separation was not long. But it was too long. Yellow sobs and heart flutter became a cross country Bobcat ball breaking affair. We are entangled, we share a yellow soul. So bobcat out of the 416 is a wasteland arrived. He’s the source and without him the Yellow hive goes silent. It stop with a shudder, all my insides.
I have not been like this before. Besides shape shifting my body, the cancer has shifted my psyche.
It will be ok.
La la la la la.
He runs his hand over my shiny head.
Where else have you lost hair? Hmmmm?
LAUGHSHOCK: the recurrent shock of laughter in life. Or life in laughter.
Bad Bobcat. You so bad.
Another Shuvo-ism: we recycle every single molecule in our bodies on average every 7 years, you are just doing an assisted clean up of your immune system a little ahead of schedule!
Keep me posted as you prep for your coming ctrl-apple-reset
December 21st, the solstice is called Borodin in Bengali, my father’s native language.