One of the things that bother me is how little understanding what it is like to go through chemo. The first is for me, and what I am experiencing is it is all right to admit how scared I am. Crying does not come naturally for me; I am not a crier. Never have fear gripped around my heart so strongly in any experience than discovering cancer. Anger swollowed common sense, questioning God on why he would allow a rough trial to come upon me. What lesson did He mean to give me? Was I not trying hard enought to follow His commandments? Indeed, perfection is a hard thing to ask of an imperfected being easily tempted by the Adversary. But I try. For what little faith I do have, I will give it to my heavenly father in exchange with help for my unblief.
I watched as the red chemo traversed out of the source, through the small tubular link to my new friend named "The Tick with a Tail" or what is called a port. The nurse administering my medication laughed. "I have never heard someone call that before," she said. Well, she had a writer in her mist. I think I personally would have been insulted, but that is just me.
As I reflect on this experience and while sitting here in class thinking what to write for this prompt,
my mind cannot come to terms with having short hair. For one, having short hair
is out of my comfort level. I want to reach back for a ponytail—the one secured
thing about being a female. Years of long hair, summers of always putting it
back, and just arguing with Mom about getting it cut as a child. Not going to
lie, having my hair this short feels a bit degraded, but at least I get to have
fun spiking it after chemo when it grows back. Yeah, a positive about having
hair is the ability to regrow it. After all, it is just hair. There are worse
things to lose than hair.
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