Going going gone

Chances are the next time you see me in real life, I will have no hair. The little hair that I have is departing rapidly to points unknown. Some of it I left at a restaurant today, some of it in my classroom, some of it is down my back and driving me scratchy batty. As you can see it's already much thinner than it was. Scraggly wimp hair is a new life experience for me, one who never sheds any hair. 

I'm turning into a golden retriever, a Shetland pony, a kitty cat. Leaving little bits of myself and trace DNA all over the place. If I commit a murder the detectives will have a very easy time finding a bit of me to analyze.

This morning I got up and washed my face, then I used my wet hands to kind of maneuver this short little haystack of a half hairdo into something slightly stylish. I had a little glop of some fancy aromatic  Aveda gel magic molding brilliantizing stuff, and as I tried to mush this cool white wonderful smelling goop into my hair I looked down and both of my hands were completely covered with browns fur and the little goop of gel was in a little round white ball like a dead Elmer's glue baby covered with fur. Oh the hell with this I thought, and I threw the whole contraption down the drain and just walked out, dripping wet, unstyled, undried, uncouth. 

Slowly I'm having to get used to looking rather, well let me just say rather not like how I would like to look. I'll leave out the adjectives I'm thinking of for fear that someone will tell me to cheer up.

Insanely, I'm actually feeling a little bit more cheery now than I have in the last few days. I think I'm almost getting a little bit punchy. What can I do? What can I do? What can I do? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

Leila and I have been emailing back-and-forth poems, or should I say she's been emailing me poems and I've been sending her thanks. Here's one that she put in a comment on one of my blog posts, but since most people don't read them, or at least I don't think they do, here it is again by way of Leila by way of Rumi:

THE GUEST HOUSE

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

-- Jelaluddin Rumi,
    translation by Coleman Barks

Am I grateful for what is coming in right now? Yes I think. A lot of love and friendship is coming in. 

Here I am with my new thinner, more Spartan, more old lady scanty helmet hair:

And here's an example of what happens if I should run my hands through my hair to, oh, say, scratch an itch or just rub my hair down in the mindless sort of OCD-ish manner that most people do all the time:

If you look closely you can see 1 tablespoon of hair. It's actually kind of funny in a disturbing sort of way. I ate one of my hairs today atop a pizza. I drank one of my hair today in an iced tea. At least.

To recap, for any of you that are following my blog for actual medical information, here's what's happening this week:

Thursday I get my second round of chemotherapy. I will be receiving three drugs, along with a cauldron of steroids, and 5000 gallons of antinausea magic medicines. All liquid, all drip, all shot with a straight shot to the heart right through the wall of my chest. I shall be pierced. 

All of this combined will make me feel rather seasick and like another person who is sitting next to me, while I become actually no longer a person. I will feel slightly one eighth okay because I'll be high on the roid juice for a day or two (albeit sleepless) then the guillotine will fall and I will feel probably sort of like a mouse that you ran over last week, where part of it is in the tread of your minivan. 

However!

A shiny white prince on a white stallion is supposed to be galloping in, in the name of Sancuso (a drug), which is supposed to magically make me feel better. I will be receiving Prince Sancuso on day three after my chemotherapy, which according to my calculations will be something like Saturday or Sunday. I'll let you know if it works. This is all very confusing and other things are happening on specific days too, but I won't bore you with the details of that.

Like:

In the midst of this I will also be getting another $3000 shot of a bone marrow exciting drug, called Neulasta (world-class dumbass name). This $1000 an ounce liquid platinum is supposed to cause an orgy to occur inside of my bones, an orgy of new life and lust and white blood cells that will be spasming and exploding all throughout my bones to bring me back to life. Side effect: a bit of excruciating bone pain maybe. I'll think of it that on another day. All in all this is great news they tell me.

So I am walking the plank. Inch by inch. I get closer and closer to the edge, the horrible dive off on Thursday at 11:45 AM, into a sea of red and clear and clear poison. Hopefully to resurface.