Six Months in a Chair
I have spent an inordinate amount of time these past six months in my living room chair. Processing endless information about cancer and what it means to have it and be treated for it, feeling anxious over the changes coming my way, chatting, texting, laughing, crying with family and friends, sitting alone in silence and solitude. I've kept watch as summer ended, fall descended, and the darkness of winter took over my corner, with finally daylight now back on the rise. I've spent sleepless nights sitting here, reading or streaming mindlessly for hours, built this blog here, as I'm typing away on it right now, and have hoped, prayed, and cursed more than a few times from this perch. I've grown impatient over the snail's pace of time, have grappled with the many side effects of chemotherapy, and transformed from the blonde with bangs I've been my whole life, to this bald headed being. Me and my chair. Most solid thing I've got in my world most days.
I've decided a visual of my six months of transformation in this chair is in order. I've gone back and forth over whether or not to "get real" and show myself as I am today, but the most consistent feedback I get over my blog is appreciation of my vulnerability. So, I figure anyone who cares enough to be reading this, is probably also understandably curious to see the real me these days. These 4 pictures show the stages I've been through since August, starting with my natural hair, then with my hair cut short, to my fabulous (but very uncomfortable) wig, to me today, one session away from the end of chemo. Although I know today looks shocking, I'm focusing on the fact I still have some eyelashes and eyebrows, and actually do still have some fuzz on the top of my head. Hoping these all survive beyond my final round next week!
Quite a transformation from August to February. During my teaching years, in my desk drawer I had a little post-it note reminding me, this too shall pass. It helped me during the hard days and also reminded me to pause and take note of the good days. I need to find a place for that little reminder once again, somewhere here, near my chair. I won't be bald and full of toxins forever, this interlude, too, shall pass. From my chair I'll see this transformation begin to reverse itself, as my hair starts growing its way back into being me again. Better yet, I'll also return to someone being out and about in the world, like I once was not so long ago, someone filled with energy and vitality again, someone more grateful than ever to not be so confined to her own little corner in her own lonely chair.
In Interlude,
Julie
