Tonight @ 8:30pm, as Brad and I are doing the end-of-the-really-awesome-fun-weekend-pick-up in the kitchen:
Him: “You know, I was really hoping your hair would fall out this weekend.”
Me: “What?!?!” Followed by prolonged laughter. “What do you mean by that?” More laughter. I mean, really. Did my husband really just say that?
Him, laughing: “Well, rather than you having to call me and tell me about it, I was hoping I would be here.”
Us: Laughing more. Because that’s how we are.
Cut to bedtime:
Me: “So, how do you want me to tell you when my hair falls out?”
Him: “Um, call me, I guess?” Thinking. “Or, text me a picture?”
Me: “A picture of me, or of my hair?”
Us: Laughing. A lot. Because, obviously, my hair and I will be posing separately for photos in the very near future.
On the day of my first chemo treatment, I asked Nurse Practitioner Rockstar: “I’m hearing wild variations on the whole hair thing. Some people are telling me I’ll lose it all, immediately. Others say that I may keep it for several chemo treatments. And some say it’ll just get really thin.”
Nurse Practitioner Rockstar, “Yes, some people have different experiences.”
I say, “Okay, so does it depend on, like, my hair? Or is it the different chemo drugs? Or both?”
Nurse Practitioner Rockstar, very matter-of-fact, “You will definitely lose all your hair. Soon. Probably within one week.”
Me: “Okay, cool. Good to know.” Because it is. I’m all about expectations.
And now, today, because my hair was supposed to be gone by Friday, and it’s now Sunday night, I am feeling all proud of my hair. You know, for like, holding on, or whatever. I’m like getting straight A’s in cancer patient hair retention. I love over-achieving. And I love us: laughing.