Nearing the End of the Journey

And about those hairs on my head

"But the very hairs of your head are all numbered....Fear not, therefore...."
-Matthew, 10: 29-33

I had to smile wryly at these words from the lips of Jesus this morning. They certainly hit differently for a chemo patient. Those who are faced with chemo admit, almost unanimously, that the greatest surrender and the most disconcerting fragility lie in that first glimpse of their bald head looking back at them in the mirror one fateful morning. Then the eyebrows disappear. And then the eventual pallor sets in. It's quite gutting in an emotional way.

You wonder, always wonder, all down through the long months - will my hair grow back? It is the first thing to go and the last thing to return. After the victory of the final chemo infusion, after your blood begins to turn red with energy again, when the numbing neuropathy disappears or decides to settle a bit longer here and there in your nerves but you are handling it, when you feel like life is truly moving forward now - there, still, is your bald head like a sign you wear that something odd is going on here.

Though I must say I do rock my beanies, those beanies tell others, in no uncertain terms, that I am different. You can't hide the fact. Even when you are Cancer free, the beanie tells others you have gone on a journey they have only heard scary rumors about. In public, some people catch your eye and quickly look away. Other people, God bless em, openly tell you, with a large grin, how much they love your style and how cool an idea it is to put brooches on your beanies to bling them up. Usually, those are women or men whom I strongly suspect have been in my shoes at one point. They have a knowing look of camaraderie that only the chemo people share.

Interestingly enough, though, that bald head is a kind of litmus test. It reveals to you how beautiful it is to have emotionally mature friends and children. Sometimes people may assume that it is best not to say anything to a friend with Cancer. It is so awkward. Yes, I understand. But if you only knew how windswept and lonely it is to carry such knowledge within yourself as your friends look at you with pity and no words! Always make an attempt to show your love, your care, your sense of humor to someone with Cancer. It's really hard, but I beg you, try. It is something I now have learned the hard way, and I will treat the sick with greater joy, attention and understanding in the future.

Ask questions. They are welcomed, believe it or not. Not embarrassing questions, mind you. But things like: so how does your chemo work? what are your days like? what is the hardest thing and how can I make it better? can you take a walk with me? can I bring you some soup? If your friend is open to it, you can ask about their type of Cancer. These questions are like balm, because it is so hard to carry the burden of frightening information all on your own. It becomes less frightening when talked about out loud with someone who loves you enough to ask. It's really difficult to ask, but do. Don't just stay quiet and drop off the face of the earth because you feel uncomfortable. That is so hurtful to the one carrying the load of Cancer.

I had many revelations during my months of treatment. Friends who revealed themselves as emotionally mature and exquisitely kind in their own particular ways, with their own particular personalities. I had a friend, K. whom I talked to on the phone every single Wednesday morning. She was very sad for me, and I knew she wondered what to say at first. But after I freely shared things with her, she opened her heart to me. Those random, casual conversations about drama, the foibles of the writing world, the beauty of God and other people, how theater always takes a back seat to high school sports and why is that? the importance of remembering our stories. Her steady, low voice and her thoughts and her laughter raised me up. She gave me her unique self as poured chrism on my fears. I will always love her for that.

Then there was Greg and Jane. Two more socially wonderful people you will never meet. Emotionally sensitive, they sent flowers during the month between my surgery and when I was battling nerves about my approaching, looming chemo. Just when I needed them. I found dinner at my front door one night. Soup and all things lovely. Tony and I feasted and were restored. Every Tuesday, rain or shine, I got a photo in my Messenger of Our Lady of Walsingham surrounded by lighted candles. This assured me that Greg had prayed at his Holy Hour for me once again. He did this all the way through the tedious, nauseous, brain fogged hours and weeks of chemo. I looked forward to that photo like a beacon. Jane met me for lunch one day and lovingly glossed over the fact that I had no eyebrows, and was ghostly pale under my beanie. She just carried on quite naturally putting me at ease. She also shared the sad news with me that two little children at her school were having a hard time with Cancer and would I pray for them. I was honored to do so and glad that she thought to confide them to me. They are my fellow warriors. It sounds trite, but it is quite true. Both Jane and Greg gave me love in the way they knew best. They are both gracious, polite, and sensitive. I am sure it was hard for them, but they came through for me in such a beautiful way.

And sweet, young Canon B at my Church. I wrote to him and asked him to pray for my cure and recovery. I mentioned that I loved his morning Mass and how he prayed it and that I would miss it terribly while I was isolated for a time. He wrote back immediately and assured me that the Mass I loved would be prayed daily for me. He is such an earnest, honest, young priest. I had no doubts I was remembered. He seems so shy, but he went outside his comfort zone and gave me ease. That gracious effort was not lost on me.

My children came through in the best of ways. They are scattered all about the U.S. right now except for one. Each, in their own way, gave me joy and comfort. One son is an information gatherer. Always has been. He looked up the statistics and remedies and treatments for my Cancer and shared them with me. He texted every few days to see how it was going. Information is power. I knew he understood my challenges because he looked them up and let me know what I could do. Another son made me laugh at the weirdness of it all. We had the greatest conversation once when he was driving home from work. All newsy and full of his unique thoughts and aspirations. He also sent me photos of my grandsons doing crazy things. My youngest son always sent me fired up messages like: "way to be strong! YOU are going to carry the boats! Don't give up!" I was energized by him! This dear, dear boy who looked at me like I was some kind of warrior queen. And I rose to the challenge because I wanted him to be proud. My daughter always called and we talked about girly things and boyfriends and nature and job searches and all things uplifting. She was a lifeline, my daughter. My son in town always sent me funny memes and brought my cute little grand-daughter down to blow bubbles and make us laugh.

As they were my children, and with me being their mother, I never knew if they were frightened or unnerved. They never showed it or expressed it to me, but I decided that I did not ever want to shock them with my bald head. None of them ever saw it, except my poet, writer son. I had forgotten to wear my beanie that morning and I sat at my desk typing away and he came in and saw my head. He didn't blink an eye. He just carried on. Later, he mentioned with gentle humor - “hey mom, you have some peach fuzz on your head. It's coming back!” He was so kind and so reassuring at that moment. This poetic, sensitive child of mine.

Lastly, my husband. He stayed up with me one whole night when I was challenged by the very severe pain of a kidney stone - which I have never had in my life. We both thought it was a chemo symptom and we looked at each other and wondered if I was going to be able to carry that much pain for so long. All next day, he sat with me in a freezing, crowded emergency room. We found out that no, this was unusual and not related to chemo. It would not happen again. We both looked at each other in utter relief. But I knew then that he had been willing and determined to make it through with me no matter what. I have a total gift of a husband.

These are the gifts of Cancer. The ones who love and care and make you laugh. But there were some whom I counted as friends who simply fell off the face of the earth. No newsy emails, no sympathetic texts, no calls. Nothing. It was painful, but I understood that some people are not as emotionally strong or mature as others. I understood, but it was still very difficult - their silence. And once again I say, don't be silent. Be awkward. I can take it. But your silence is devastating to someone who is afraid and suffering.

So, hmm, all these thoughts from one single Scripture quote. But here I am. My hair is growing back. It's peach fuzz now, but every single hair is counted by God, short or long. I still have to wear the beanies, but by end of summer I will be free of them.

Thank you to every person who has wished me well and prayed for me, laughed with me, sorrowed with me. Helped me see the light. Thanks to my amazing oncologist who helped me in so many ways. He was one person who was never afraid to talk about Cancer. He was a glorious information machine. It was so freeing to pelt him with questions knowing he could handle them all! And he loved my beanies! I won’t ever forget the hug he gave me to get me through chemo week 5 when all was dark and drear and I almost gave up. I made it to chemo week 6 because of his sympathy and reassurance. Quite a noble sir, that one.

I am almost at the very end of the journey. And God has every hair of my head counted. He always has.

Deo Gratias!

I do not feel inclined at this time to have a paid substack. But if we were together in a cafe discussing all these thoughts, I would not be opposed to you buying me a cup of coffee - with cream, of course. In that spirit, if any of my posts resonate with you and you feel so inclined, you can donate here: buymeacoffee.com/denise_trull