Day Plus Eleven

Chemo-induced mouth sores are no joke. And there’s not much more to say about that.

In other news…

Until yesterday, I hadn’t cried about Dad’s leukemia even a little bitty bit. But yesterday, that damn methotrexate (the last chemo med) started taking his hair in earnest. Dad has—well, had—lovely, white hair, and he’s confessed to feeling a bit vain about it. So, on the way home from the hospital, I had one of those mad-sad cries. (You know the ones, right?) I was just so grrrrr on his behalf, you know? Anyway, this morning, I watched as the tech, with great care, shaved Dad’s head. She was sad, too. She told me his hair was “luscious.” That’s not something a 71-year-old dude often hears.

And now it’s gone—temporarily. He looks fantastic, actually. Seriously: Take a look at this guy.

And then, because I see cancer as this loathsome entity to whom I can mouth off, I went and shaved mine too.

And then Mom joined in and went all Katy Perry on us. (Well, not all Katy Perry, but you get what I mean.)

See, cancer? You think taking hair away is so badass? Whatever. We’ll voluntarily give you our hair. That’s how unimpressed we are with you. You have no power, dude. None. Get it? Now go away.