This week was the first in a string of three work trips between now and end of October. My primary clients and colleagues were at the conference this week. I had to go, in part to make an appearance, assure people who pay me that I’m still working; to fight back against this rip tide that keeps eroding what I’ve known as a life.
I arrived Monday night and went straight to my room avoiding the “hospitality suite” where I knew all the “important” people would be, where networking determines my livelihood. Tuesday morning I got up not very early but with time to get to the 8:00 AM session where I was to assist one of my clients with facilitation.
There’s nothing in this world that could have prepared me for what would happen that day.
Reason #1: God blessed me with nice hair. It’s been my security feature since about age 13. I’ve never taken it for granted because I compare my hair to my other features and feel thankful.
Reason #2: I’m not shy or whimpy. I enjoy an audacity and courage in unfamiliar settings and among strangers. I find pleasure in extending my hand to those who appear shy, stuck-up or just plain lost.
Reason #3: I don’t have cancer anymore. Why is it increasingly controlling my life?
It started in the shower Tuesday morning and by the time I had no choice but to walk out the door, over half of my hair fell out. Just like that. The doctor had said, “by the second treatment...”
I thought that meant after the second treatment.
With my hand shaking I texted Michelle - hair dresser/cousin. I don’t know what I thought she could do, but she did have some comforting words and suggestions.
Did anyone notice? I have no idea but word must have spread that I’m dying. People that know who I am either diverted eye contact or cocked their head and said, “Hiiiiii, how are you? You look good,” before quickly moving on.
This is not what people say to me. This is a comment for embalmed relatives lying in a casket.
By Noon I was intent on hiding out in my room for the remainder of the day and then God stopped me outside the meeting room. He shows up in the strangest forms.
In half-a-day I’d already discerned that the new state forester from up North - state foresters are politically appointed bureaucrats that oversee state owned lands and policy - has obviously been shaped by years in the North Woods making pulp and paper and that the others didn’t like him much because he’s a tell-it-like-it-is, conservative Yankee who gives not one shit about political correctness.
He spoke to me in the hallway. His head is mostly bald, he has nice teeth, and his eyes are bright behind large wire rimmed glasses. He wears suspenders while the others wear sports jackets. I can’t remember what he said about forest markets, but somehow he ended up volunteering that he’d beat back lymphoma for the second time a few years back; he’d survived “red devil” chemo twice. “The lymphoma will get me eventually. I know it,” he said still smiling.
“I’ve got one behind me and five to go,” I offered.
The seemingly least likely person in the crowd of 200 found me and brought me into his confidence. Over the course of two days worth of coffee breaks he shared with a sadness brought about by true fondness that his wife, a healthy, loving grandmother, had died 18-months ago.
She had a rare form of cervical cancer; there were no protocols for treatment. It’s a one in a million strain of cancer. She died 34 days after diagnosis. “You listen to those doctors. They know; they’ve done tons of trials. You gotta take the chemo; all of it. You ain’t got no choice. You have a kid. You gotta think in terms of ten years out, not no longer. Take all the chemo; don’t stop no matter how much it hurts!”
At the last session he came up again and handed me a business card with his personal cell phone hand written out. “Listen, I take people on now. That’s what I do. That’s what I’m doing with what time I got left. I walk along beside them. You call me anytime - day or night.”
I don’t know yet how to deal with this new me - holding up in hotel rooms, sitting alone in the back, leaving the dinner early, feeling like a pariah. I sure hope a wig will help.
My wigs come in on Friday, I hope.
I’m starting to see this all is a sort of fasting of life. I may not be giving up food, but I think this forced giving up of all that I know as normal may be the equivalent of getting to a place where all you can hear is the still, small voice of God - in whatever form he takes. I’ve asked him not to come in the form of a small Asian woman, like the Holy Spirit character in the book The Shack - I hated that book.
My next treatment is September 27. They’ve promised to dial back the “support” drugs but not the chemo. I won’t lie. I’m scared, but going to do it anyway. Like my new friend from the Great North Woods says, “I ain’t got no choice.”
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