Normalcy?

Today I showered before noon, dried my hair (sort of while not moving my left arm too much) and applied make-up. I took Lucas to his babysitter and went to work for five hours. I've started my return to normalcy.

And it is weird.

My sore arm/incision area is my reminder that things aren't normal. And, I don't know if I'm ready for them to be normal. What is normal anyway?

I need to tell you my story. To tell you about all the thoughts and feelings I had in the hospital and at home. But it is so overwhelming. And, there's every day to keep thinking about and writing about, too.

I mean, yesterday Lucas realized I was a girl.

He was telling me to sit down because I was a "bad boy". (Waaaayyyy past his bedtime and he was very grumpy.)

Abel said, "Lucas, Mama is a girl."


"A gir-rel?" (I'm really bad at phonetic spelling, but think rhymes with squirrel if you make squirrel two syllables)

Yes. A girl.

Then, the rest of the night Lucas called me "gir-rel Mama".

Very cute.

And normal.

And I want to tell you these stories. But I also want to tell you about how that first night in the hospital. I didn't sleep. Not a wink. Well, maybe 20 minutes. I was drugged up and my body was totally relaxed but my mind, it was racing a million miles an hour. And I composed the most beautiful perfect tell-the-Internet-I-have-cancer post. And I realized why I love to blog. It is because composing (no matter if it actually gets typed or written) is how I organize my thoughts. I've always done it. The many late nights I've spent tossing and turning composing complaint letters in my head. Or, love letters. Or, wonderfully creative stories. Or, the perfect most masterful fundraising letter in history (did you know that's my day job? non-profit fundraising?).
You know what else I composed that first night?

Cancer comic relief posts.

Yeah, I had this perfect one all lined up in my head for July. Remember July? When I cut off inches and inches of my beautiful long hair to donate to Locks of Love? Well, as far as I was concerned that night, I had cancer and so would be starting treatment soon and that would mean that chances were pretty good that this July I would be bald. How's that for irony? Oh, yeah, and I'm MoH in a wedding in July, too. That night I was shaking my fist at karma, I'll tell you that.

So this isn't my tell-the-Internet-I-have-Cancer post and it isn't my comic relief post. What it is, though, is the start of getting back to normal. So bear with me if I ping pong a bit between the mundane here-and-now and the hellishness of the past two weeks.

Hair

I knew I was nervous about chopping off all my hair and going shorter than I've been since 5th grade. But I didn't realize that it would take a Xanax to get me into the salon.

All day I was fine, I was even excited about doing a good deed and getting a new look at the same time. Then on the drive over, I started panicing. I could literally feel the anxiety rising up my limbs. I had one last Xanax in my purse for emergencies and had saved it through many recent anxious moments (specifically while visiting my in-laws last weekend).

Even as I swallowed it, I couldn't believe that I was taking a Xanax over HAIR. Come on. It is just hair! My hair grows quickly. I hated it how long it was. It was driving me crazy. I knew this was a good thing to do. I kept thinking of all the wonderful compliments I get about my hair--great color, so shiny, so thick. I knew I was going to make some underprivileged young girl (or boy!) so happy with the wig they'd get from my hair and Locks of Love. I had encouraged my niece to do it. I was doing it in honor of my mother who has been bald from chemo. since early January and has handled it with such amazing grace.

Why was I freaking out?

As I parked and walked around the corner to the salon and the Xanax kicked in, I realized I was more attached to my hair than I thought. And, I was seriously worried I'd look awful.

When I got into the chair and told my awesome stylist what I was doing, she was so happy. Later, well into the cut, she told me that earlier that day, she learned of the death of a young woman who had been a long-time client. A woman just about my age, with two kids, who died of cancer the previous night. I thought to myself, I am doing a good thing. And, Melba is helping me do a good thing. And, damn, she's a great stylist. My hair looks amazing!

After!!

Before

Totally Gonna' Do It

Okay.

This is it.

I've made up my mind and am going to do it.

I've already told people about it. So, I have to do it. (My personal secret for making myself really do something: tell someone. When I don't tell anyone, I never end up doing whatever it is that will be hard to do!).

Man, I am scared.

But, it's just hair, right? It will grow back, right?

Afterall, my mom's been bald since about mid-January and she's handling it great.

What is it? Have you figured it out?

No, I'm not going to pull a Brittney and shave my head.

I'm going to cut off 10+ inches of hair and donate it to Locks of Love. More specifically, my wonderful, amazing stylist--whom I admittedly don't visit often enough, hence the ability to cut off 10 inches and still have hair left!--is going to do it. Tomorrow night. The appointment is made. The form is filled out. The envelope is ready.

Pictures coming soon!

P.S. Please, God, don't let me look hideous.