Coming clean

I’ve got no eyelashes. Not a single one. And my eyebrows remind me of those scraggly hairs my adolescent sons would so proudly sport on their upper lip–which I referred to (and not kindly) as a pornstache.

I also noticed yesterday that the sides of my head are looking a little thread-bare. Like a newborn, my soft fuzz rubs off on my pillow when I’m sleeping.

So, it’s gotta go. I’ll be shaving my head after breakfast because when it comes to hair, I am all or nothing.

It is a tad disappointing–I was pretty jazzed about the new growth. However, with the last two cycles three weeks apart, I am experiencing the side effects of treatment yet again.

My first four days post infusion I was butt-kicked. Zero energy. The mouth sores are back as well, albeit a milder version than before.

Of greater note, I’ve noticed a familiar wheeze in my left lobe. Side effects plus efficacy is an acceptable trade-off. However, there is absolutely no point in going through this shit if my cancer’s not taking a similar beating.

I will be scanned on the 15th which shall confirm or deny my suppositions. Preemptively, I have alerted my oncologist and gone so far as to suggest that if there is not an obvious next step, a break might be in order.

When I look back over the past seven months, it as if I have been trying to get somewhere in a leaky canoe. In between paddling, I’ve been frantically bailing. The good news is, I’m still afloat. And should all else fail, well, I’ll jump overboard and swim to shore.