Like, OMG. I only have one chemo to go!

Speaking of which, don’t you just love the overuse of the exclamation point in emails and texts? If you are guilty of this don’t be offended just own up and let’s move on. But seriously, there is very little written in an email or text that is important/exciting enough to warrant an exclamation point. An earthquake, of which there have been quite a few as of late, unfortunately, or at the very least the purchase a brand new Chloë bag might qualify. But let’s don’t exaggerate, hmmm?  We are no longer teeny-boppers.

Okay, back to my favourite subject: me.

I am sort of sorry I used the title “Party in the Chemo Suite” for my last day-of-treatment post because today was a real fête of international proportions. My friend Greg arrived from Geneva at about 9:30 straight from Heathrow and I have to say he looked terrific. We figured out that we had not seen each other in 11 years, since he and his fantastic wife visited NY in May of 2001. A few months before the world changed forever.

There are some friends you don’t see for some period of time and you drift apart. Interests and circumstances change, and the next meeting is awkward or lacklustre. Like that friend you made at day camp and played with all the time and then you saw them on the street years later and couldn’t remember their name and hadn’t much to say to them. “Yeah, great to see you. We should, um, have lunch some time… ” Or not.

There are others, however, who are friends forever. Lifers. Greg is a lifer, as is my friend Mark, about whom I posted in Fabulous at Forty. We get together and it’s like we just had lunch the day before. Their presence is natural, comfortable and welcome. Like a favourite cozy sweater. This is not to be underestimated in a friend.

Interesting that two of such friends for me are dudes. I guess there are a lot of people who don’t have a lot of — or indeed any — friends of the opposite sex. This has never been the case for me. I like dudes. They think differently and there is none of that catty, bitchy, “your ass is smaller than mine and where did you get that hand bag beeyotch” going on between us. I can’t tell you how little I like that crap. Someone’s ass is always smaller and hand bag newer and more exclusive and I really don’t give a shit. As a matter of fact I think that this experience has made me admire the beauty in other women to a much greater degree because I appreciate the delicacy of the situation, given that I am now and may forever be, somewhat disfigured. More on that later. I also think I have always kind of thought like a dude in some respects even though I am very much a chick. So maybe I am just checking them out because that’s what dudes do. Admiring the goods.

Anyhow, Greg chatted to my mom and me for two and a half hours before leaving for his lunch meeting. His visit was a gift and I can’t wait to get our families together so that our four little girls can play together while they try to speak/understand each others’ language. I have a feeling it’ll work out just fine. Unless one of them has a new hand bag… or a smaller ass than another.

Just as Greg was leaving, my beautiful friend and fellow survivor, Ruth popped in. Looking all glam. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a photo. But believe me, she was having a particularly good hair day (my mom mentioned her hair not once but thrice — perhaps because I haven’t any and it was nice to see somebody with). Ruth was in to chat to some folks about the importance of exercise (see Work It Out if you want to know my thoughts on that topic). After she left, my oncologist came down to see us, which always cheers me and makes me feel well-looked after. I started to think about getting a visitor’s register. But it’s a little late given I have only one more chemo to go.

The meds finished going in about 2:00 pm and then I had an appointment with my radiation oncologist and after that some acupuncture. By this point it was 4:00 and we had been there for seven hours. A full day’s work. Having missed the (direct, outdoor) sun we walked to Marylebone High Street and shopped for new bar ware and books for children’s birthday presents. Then stopped for an iced tea (with no ice — what is it with Europe?) and lemon tart at an outdoor table at Le Pain Quotidien. Deelish. And NO taste bud issues. Hallelujah.

In the cab home I turned to my mother and remarked, “so is this what you expected when we moved here? Flying over for shopping trips on the high street with your bald daughter who is wearing an Invincible T-shirt?” Not exactly, eh? And yes I totally went out there bald. I don’t give a shit anymore. It was hot and I did it.

The thing is, I don’t feel like a cancer patient and I don’t really worry that people will look and wonder, which is what I worried about in the beginning (remember that first time I wore my wig to the same establishment and was terrified people would look at me and know I was wearing one?). I am comfortable like that now. It’s oddly liberating. So much of dealing with cancer or any other condition that has visible physical manifestations is worrying about making other people uncomfortable but if you are comfortable with yourself it comes across. They might wonder but they fear the unknown less than if you look sad and tired and unsure. Of course, this is London and if you can get away with it anywhere it’s here. I would probably not do this anywhere. But you get the point.

I’ll have some hair soon anyhow. So the next big decision will be whether to give the ‘hawk a proper try. I’m a bit wary of shaving my head again for fear that I will irritate something given my myriad of dermatological issues. However, I might just have to take that risk.

Oh come on, don’t nay-say. Don’t kill my buzz, so to speak. It’s a killer look. G’night. xx