you . . .”
Is that supposed to make me feel better? Are there lesser evils here? I need to be invisible here, too.
I guess I want everyone to notice my baldness except my mom. Today she is coming to take me to my chemo. The last time she saw me was two weeks ago when I was still releasing, but now I am balding. I am scared for her to see my baldness. I don’t want her to be scared of how I look. Maybe I will wear the wig for her. But maybe seeing me in a wig would break her, too.
Before my mom picks me up in the taxi at 20/20 to take me to chemo, I consider putting on the wig—I have it and the wig glue in my bag. I even considered calling her and asking her not to come, but I need her there. Having her with me at all these medical appointments is so much better than having her with me at a Girl Scout troop meeting when I was little. When I step into the taxi, my mom touches my head.
“Oh, Geralyn, your hair is really coming out.”
I can see what this is doing to my mom. I am going to glue on that wig, I’m thinking to myself. But what she says next stops me from ever wanting to wear the wig again.
“You look so courageous. I’m so proud you’re my daughter.”
I have finally found a way to get noticed again.
But it is so short lived. There is one more rambunctious release left that makes even my comb-over fall out. I am in the shower, and when I start lathering my comb-over, most of it stays in my hands. The big patches of hair just come out. No warning. It is there in my hands with the shampoo lather. I calmly rinse off the suds and place the hair in the sink outside the shower. In a strange way, it reminds me of my first haircut lock, in my baby book, tied with a pink bow. I dry the chunks of hair that have just fallen out and put them in a Ziploc bag. For some strange reason I need to save them so I can touch them and see them if I need to. I can’t just throw them in the trash.
I have thrown too much away lately.
9
Meeting My Mojo
Now that my hair is gone I realize, standing in front of the mirror looking at my baldish head, that I might have nothing left to lose. Since the past has betrayed me and the future is uncertain, my life is all about “right this minute.” I need to live up to every moment. Although I am disappearing on the outside, what is left inside feels so raw and powerful it’s hanging on with claws screaming, “My show must go on! Don’t give up now!”
I need to find a way to walk out the door and show up at work bald.
I bought the black wool baseball cap as an experiment to see if I could wear it instead of a wig. When I put it on, I can’t see out from underneath it, so I turn it around and it looks kind of cool.
I am not cool. I wore pink monogrammed sweaters in high school, and my style is still conservative: Jackie O suits, bangs with shoulder-length hair. I have had the same hairdo since I was two years old. I am reluctant to take fashion chances. But my life has now become about taking chances, because I might be dying and time is so short so what do I really have to lose?
So I put on my favorite black suit to match the baseball cap, but it still doesn’t really match because the reverse-style baseball cap is too cool for my black suit but it will have to work because I need to leave the house. My doorman touches his hat as he holds the door for me. He must notice my cap.
I am so scared for everyone at 20/20 to see my baseball cap because they will know that my hair has finally fallen out. Is it disrespectful and unprofessional to wear a baseball cap to work? I called my boss Meredith to ask if she thought it seemed rude of me to wear the cap to the office. She told me that I was being ridiculous and of course I should wear my cap.
On my way in the door at ABC News, I wonder if the security guard notices my cap. Getting into the elevator and riding all the way to the tenth floor is testing my strength. By floor 8 I am thinking about hitting
Is that supposed to make me feel better? Are there lesser evils here? I need to be invisible here, too.
I guess I want everyone to notice my baldness except my mom. Today she is coming to take me to my chemo. The last time she saw me was two weeks ago when I was still releasing, but now I am balding. I am scared for her to see my baldness. I don’t want her to be scared of how I look. Maybe I will wear the wig for her. But maybe seeing me in a wig would break her, too.
Before my mom picks me up in the taxi at 20/20 to take me to chemo, I consider putting on the wig—I have it and the wig glue in my bag. I even considered calling her and asking her not to come, but I need her there. Having her with me at all these medical appointments is so much better than having her with me at a Girl Scout troop meeting when I was little. When I step into the taxi, my mom touches my head.
“Oh, Geralyn, your hair is really coming out.”
I can see what this is doing to my mom. I am going to glue on that wig, I’m thinking to myself. But what she says next stops me from ever wanting to wear the wig again.
“You look so courageous. I’m so proud you’re my daughter.”
I have finally found a way to get noticed again.
But it is so short lived. There is one more rambunctious release left that makes even my comb-over fall out. I am in the shower, and when I start lathering my comb-over, most of it stays in my hands. The big patches of hair just come out. No warning. It is there in my hands with the shampoo lather. I calmly rinse off the suds and place the hair in the sink outside the shower. In a strange way, it reminds me of my first haircut lock, in my baby book, tied with a pink bow. I dry the chunks of hair that have just fallen out and put them in a Ziploc bag. For some strange reason I need to save them so I can touch them and see them if I need to. I can’t just throw them in the trash.
I have thrown too much away lately.
9
Meeting My Mojo
Now that my hair is gone I realize, standing in front of the mirror looking at my baldish head, that I might have nothing left to lose. Since the past has betrayed me and the future is uncertain, my life is all about “right this minute.” I need to live up to every moment. Although I am disappearing on the outside, what is left inside feels so raw and powerful it’s hanging on with claws screaming, “My show must go on! Don’t give up now!”
I need to find a way to walk out the door and show up at work bald.
I bought the black wool baseball cap as an experiment to see if I could wear it instead of a wig. When I put it on, I can’t see out from underneath it, so I turn it around and it looks kind of cool.
I am not cool. I wore pink monogrammed sweaters in high school, and my style is still conservative: Jackie O suits, bangs with shoulder-length hair. I have had the same hairdo since I was two years old. I am reluctant to take fashion chances. But my life has now become about taking chances, because I might be dying and time is so short so what do I really have to lose?
So I put on my favorite black suit to match the baseball cap, but it still doesn’t really match because the reverse-style baseball cap is too cool for my black suit but it will have to work because I need to leave the house. My doorman touches his hat as he holds the door for me. He must notice my cap.
I am so scared for everyone at 20/20 to see my baseball cap because they will know that my hair has finally fallen out. Is it disrespectful and unprofessional to wear a baseball cap to work? I called my boss Meredith to ask if she thought it seemed rude of me to wear the cap to the office. She told me that I was being ridiculous and of course I should wear my cap.
On my way in the door at ABC News, I wonder if the security guard notices my cap. Getting into the elevator and riding all the way to the tenth floor is testing my strength. By floor 8 I am thinking about hitting
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