"Normal"

How am I doing? Thanks so much for asking. I very often feel mildly lousy, sort of like having a touch of the flu, but without clear end in sight. I often have the urge to lie down. I told my officemate that he should not be alarmed to see my feet sticking out from under my desk; I was most probably just taking an impromptu break. On chemo weeks, I take a four-day course of steroids. These make me hyperactive and sometimes weepy and little paranoid. During my third chemo cycle, I upset a friend a great deal by accusing him of ignoring me, which he was not. The steroids also have added seven pounds, mostly around my middle.

Also on chemo week, I develop a sore throat, and sometimes cold sores and tenderness in my gums. I am constipated, a condition that completely and excessively reverses itself the next week. You see, the chemotherapy drugs target rapidly-dividing cells throughout the body, including those in the intestines. My spleen...I'm getting used to my spleen. The swelling is brief, and hardly bothers me any longer.

I am getting shiny bald. The hair loss includes all of my body hair, although I have, to my chagrin, had to shave my legs earlier this week. And, I wouldn't pay for my brazilian bikini wax--entirely too haphazard. Eyebrows still intact, but for how long? My skin heals very slowly, and I'm using bandaids to cover even minor blemishes and cuts.

I had my last period of my life, I believe, about three weeks ago. It arrived a week after the previous one had just finished. When a hot flashes hit, I feel like a human can of Sterno--I envision a nearly invisible blue-white flame is shooting out of the top of my head. If you are a smoker and need a light, just touch your ciggy to my scalp. It's a shame to waste all that heat.

The tumor does seem to be shrinking, and my breast is gently collapsing as it recedes. It's now easy to see how much tissue was eaten up by the thing. I wonder if I'll ever be able to look at myself in the mirror and feel "normal" again.

I don't feel very womanly, that's for sure. Even the little man outside the laundromat who muttered "chiquita" (cute), at me yesterday, couldn't raise my spirits. Perhaps I should view this as a form of chemical satori, or a crucible, where my sexuality is burned off, like dross. I just wish I knew who or what I will be when this is over.

Wiggin'

Yesterday, with nothing on my stomach but a homemade ginger-ale, I headed up to Skokie to purchase a cranial prothesis. Jerome Krause Fashion Hair, a promising name if ever I heard one, is located in grayish little medical building. There were nearer fake hair emporiums, but Krause was recommended by a friend who knows a couple of women with alopecia, and they swore by the place. It's also in center of the Orthodox Jewish community in Chicagoland, and those woman know from wigs.















Our introduction to wig-shopping was a little rocky at first, since our stylist Linda had not been informed of our appointment. But she dropped the hank of premium Ukrainian hair she was dyeing at the time, and served us with enthusiasm one rarely sees directed at chunks of inert protein. She brought out boxes and boxes of wigs, some hand-sewn, some machine-sewn, some synthetic, some human. Oh, the Russian hair is the best, she said. I patted some Russian hair, and it was sexy, smooth, and oh god...whose head did this hair belong to? Too disturbing. I started hearing that Wallace Shawn monologue The Fever in my head, and I couldn't consider wearing it. Let's buy some hair made in a sweatshop in Thailand, shall we? Much bettah..

I always knew I had an enormous head, confirmed every time I tried on Easter bonnets at Marshall Field's, and all of them perched on the top of my skull, like those comical little hats you see on lady clowns at the circus. Linda measured my head. "Is it huge?" I asked. "No, no..you are in the average range, 22 inches." What was the large range? "22 1/4 inches and above." My head was only largeISH. I also had, Linda informed me, a pronounced occipital bone, which was why wigs that looked great on most women made me look like I had a football coming out of the back of my head.


Because of the "hump," we decided to go with sleeker wigs, although I think this one goes a bit too far. It makes the fashion statement: I'm a high-strung German Philosophy doctoral candidate who chainsmokes and uses the word "bricolage" in regular conversation.









Then, there's this wig. I believe it was called "Cheryl," but I like to call it "MILF." No, no and no.



















This was called "Danielle." I call it "WTF?"


















Finally, we save the best for last. My husband modeling the "Phil Spector." Actually, it was "MILF" turned a little sideways.

I finally settled on a sassy red bob, and Linda clipped and styled it into a more hairdo-like shape. I'll post that later, since I still think it needs a few tweaks.

Sexxxy Lady

The reviews are in! The short hair is hit, especially with the lady who begs for change outside the Walgreens at Jackson and State. "Nice and easy to care for, isn't it?" She pointed at her own nearly shaved pate. "Oh, and I tried to tell you this morning when you were comin' off the train, but you was wearing headphones, that those are great shoes." She's right, they are great shoes.

That reminds me: Yesterday, as I was walking out of Reckless Records on Madison, I heard a hissing sound. It was coming out of a man leaning against the wall of a store a few doors down, and was directed at me. For those who have never experienced Chicago-style street harassment, this pneumatic sound is the lazy man's version of a wolf whistle. I always wondered: does that ever work? Does a woman ever stop and say "You know, I like the way you hiss."

It's the first hiss directed at me in quite some time. Street harassers, much like salon salesmen, prefer younger targets. When I was in my 20s, summertime was an ordeal of street harassment. As I waited at any Lakeview bus stop, wearing a slutty pair of khakis and a loose golf shirt, men drove by not only hissing, but shouting and making kissy sounds. I received compliments(?) about my appearance, for example: "You got some big-ass calves there, girl!" Or, my favorite mixed message: "Nice legs, bitch!" There were also many rhetorical questions, one of the printable being "Can I suck on your toes?"

Then there's the scary shit, where you are pretty sure you're going to get raped. One night, some creep ran after me down deserted Damen Avenue, his feet hitting the pavement heavily. I spun around, full of enough adrenaline to lift an SUV. Panting, he came near me. "I just wanted to catch up with you and tell you that you're beautiful." I screamed that he was lucky I didn't have a gun. "F***in' C**t! You think you're too good for me!!!" But, he did retreat. Safe at home, I poured myself three shots of bourbon with shaking hands.

But dear readers, do not think I entirely shun appreciative comments from random dudes, especially if they are hilarious. Some of the nicest compliments I have received were from older, usually indigent-looking men. In most cases, these were African-American men, and I only mention that because of the kind of playful, southern-gentlemanly quality of this particular brand of street macking.

One day in Lincoln Park, wearing a new outfit and sunglasses which I thought made me look very chic, I encountered a homeless man. I say he was homeless because he was a little dirty, and was picking up cigarette butts and inspecting them, just like a bum out of Central Casting. As I walked down Webster, intoxicated by my own coolness, he took notice and stood up. He faced me, arms akimbo, as if preparing for a confrontation. I stopped, alarmed at what was about to happen. Then he said, smiling, "Well, Helloooo, Miss Total Sophistication." After I stopped laughing, I continued down the street, this time like a normal person.

Another day, I wore a new purple beret. As I waited to cross the street, what looked like a heap of rags near the corner building suddenly stirred. "I loves the chapeau," he said, before sinking back into his Wild Irish Rose induced slumber.

These men are my heroes. They may own nothing, and may be loved or valued by no one, but still, they got game. I think Oscar Wilde said it best: "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."