hair .
Each word is a knife to the gut, but the last three feel like someone takes that knife, jabs it in as far as it could possibly go and then twists it until every last bit of my insides are shredded into tiny little pieces.
I am a woman, and there are two things that help distinguish me as such—my hair and my breasts. A giant lump forms in my throat and my bottom lip starts to tremble. My hand slides across my lap and into Luke’s, whose tight grip is probably the only thing holding me together right now. It’s bad enough I’ve already lost one breast and that in the place of my once perky, plump tissue I have a jagged scar over sunken flesh. But now, on top of that, I’m going to lose my hair. I don’t want to lose my hair, I don’t want to wear a wig, and I certainly don’t want the looks of pity that a bald head will undoubtedly draw.
Luke nudges my arm and I look up as I struggle to keep my emotions in check. He nods to Tara and I shift my attention, but the fear of everything that is about to happen to me has my blood pumping so hard through my body that it’s now pounding behind my ears. The only thing I seem to hear is the beat of my own heart, and I suppose I should at least be thankful I can hear that . . . it means I’m still alive. I watch Tara absently, and I’m able to decipher a few things she says.
“Your treatments will be every other Friday for six months . . . Treatments will take approximately four to five hours . . . You’ll get your blood drawn before each round of chemo . . . We’ll give you medicine in case the nausea and vomiting get to be too much . . . Make sure you’re eating healthy . . . Be sure and drink lots of water . . . Feel free to bring someone with you during your treatments . . . Don’t hesitate to ask any questions.” My eyes clog with tears and I look down, rubbing my temples, willing myself to calm down.
“Laney? Laney . . . are you okay?”
A large hand settles on my shoulder and I whip around to find myself face to face with Levi. He steps back, his hands up in the air. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” I look at the knife in my hand and then back up at him. “Are you okay?” he questions.
I lower the knife and mumble an apology before turning back toward the counter. What was I doing? Oh yes, the dough. I finish cutting the rolled-out dough into three-inch chunks, and then I check the oil to make sure it’s warmed up to the right temperature before I drop the chunks into the sizzling pot. I turn back toward Levi and find him standing in the exact same spot as before.
“I’m fine,” I shrug. “Why would you think I wouldn’t be okay?” I ask as nonchalantly as I possibly can. He eyes me curiously for several seconds.
“Well, for starters, you’re crying.” I rub my arm across my face and sure enough . . . tears. The strange thing is that I don’t even remember crying. Levi chuckles, but I’m not really sure what he’s finding funny about the situation.
“What? What are you laughing at?”
He shakes his head and steps toward me. I watch as he slowly lifts his hand and wipes it gently across my cheek. “You just smeared flour all over your face.” His hand leaves a trail of heat against my skin and when he pulls back, a part of me wants to grab his arm and insist that he keep touching me. But that might be a little much.
“Thanks,” I mumble, still breathless from his touch. “I’ve just had a really bad day.” His blue eyes are staring tenderly into mine, and I want nothing more than for him to tuck me against his big warm chest and hold me and promise that everything is going to be okay. “Like really, really bad.”
A part of me wants so badly for him to ask me what’s wrong. And not just so I have someone to talk to about it, but so that I have him to talk to about it. Logically, I know he isn’t there yet. He isn’t quite ready to make amends, and until he’s ready to make amends, he isn’t ready to learn
Each word is a knife to the gut, but the last three feel like someone takes that knife, jabs it in as far as it could possibly go and then twists it until every last bit of my insides are shredded into tiny little pieces.
I am a woman, and there are two things that help distinguish me as such—my hair and my breasts. A giant lump forms in my throat and my bottom lip starts to tremble. My hand slides across my lap and into Luke’s, whose tight grip is probably the only thing holding me together right now. It’s bad enough I’ve already lost one breast and that in the place of my once perky, plump tissue I have a jagged scar over sunken flesh. But now, on top of that, I’m going to lose my hair. I don’t want to lose my hair, I don’t want to wear a wig, and I certainly don’t want the looks of pity that a bald head will undoubtedly draw.
Luke nudges my arm and I look up as I struggle to keep my emotions in check. He nods to Tara and I shift my attention, but the fear of everything that is about to happen to me has my blood pumping so hard through my body that it’s now pounding behind my ears. The only thing I seem to hear is the beat of my own heart, and I suppose I should at least be thankful I can hear that . . . it means I’m still alive. I watch Tara absently, and I’m able to decipher a few things she says.
“Your treatments will be every other Friday for six months . . . Treatments will take approximately four to five hours . . . You’ll get your blood drawn before each round of chemo . . . We’ll give you medicine in case the nausea and vomiting get to be too much . . . Make sure you’re eating healthy . . . Be sure and drink lots of water . . . Feel free to bring someone with you during your treatments . . . Don’t hesitate to ask any questions.” My eyes clog with tears and I look down, rubbing my temples, willing myself to calm down.
“Laney? Laney . . . are you okay?”
A large hand settles on my shoulder and I whip around to find myself face to face with Levi. He steps back, his hands up in the air. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” I look at the knife in my hand and then back up at him. “Are you okay?” he questions.
I lower the knife and mumble an apology before turning back toward the counter. What was I doing? Oh yes, the dough. I finish cutting the rolled-out dough into three-inch chunks, and then I check the oil to make sure it’s warmed up to the right temperature before I drop the chunks into the sizzling pot. I turn back toward Levi and find him standing in the exact same spot as before.
“I’m fine,” I shrug. “Why would you think I wouldn’t be okay?” I ask as nonchalantly as I possibly can. He eyes me curiously for several seconds.
“Well, for starters, you’re crying.” I rub my arm across my face and sure enough . . . tears. The strange thing is that I don’t even remember crying. Levi chuckles, but I’m not really sure what he’s finding funny about the situation.
“What? What are you laughing at?”
He shakes his head and steps toward me. I watch as he slowly lifts his hand and wipes it gently across my cheek. “You just smeared flour all over your face.” His hand leaves a trail of heat against my skin and when he pulls back, a part of me wants to grab his arm and insist that he keep touching me. But that might be a little much.
“Thanks,” I mumble, still breathless from his touch. “I’ve just had a really bad day.” His blue eyes are staring tenderly into mine, and I want nothing more than for him to tuck me against his big warm chest and hold me and promise that everything is going to be okay. “Like really, really bad.”
A part of me wants so badly for him to ask me what’s wrong. And not just so I have someone to talk to about it, but so that I have him to talk to about it. Logically, I know he isn’t there yet. He isn’t quite ready to make amends, and until he’s ready to make amends, he isn’t ready to learn
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