What's Left of Me (7 page)

When I first found a clump of my hair on my bed after one of my chemo treatments, I panicked.
 
Like, really panicked.
 
I don’t know why, but I thought, after the first couple treatments when my hair was still present, that maybe it wouldn’t fall out.

I cried the entire time my mom shaved my head.
 
She wanted to cut it shorter and wait, but I wanted to be in control.
 
I
needed
to be in control.
 
I was going to make the decision of when my hair got to leave my body.
 
Not someone else or my cancer.

People don’t realize how much their hair is a part of who they are.
 
I didn’t realize how much my hair was a part of me.
 
A part of my identity.
 
How I’d wear it up when I wanted to look and feel sophisticated, or wear it down to hide behind when I’d have a bad day and didn’t want to face anyone.
 
Flip it when I’d try to flirt with a cute boy, or have big, bouncy curls when I’d feel as if I could take on the world.

Over the last four years, I’ve gotten used to seeing my hair come and go.
 
It got easier with time, if you can even imagine that, but no matter how many times I try, I still can’t go out in public with a bald head, a wrap, or short like it is now.
 
People stare.
 
They don’t say anything, but I know what they’re thinking.

“Oh, that poor girl.
 
She must be sick.
 
Maybe she has cancer.”

I don’t want anyone’s pity.
 
I get enough of that from my family.
 
They’re constantly watching my every move.
 
Making sure I’m eating right, taking my medications, or resting frequently.
 
When I go out in public, I just want to feel like and be seen as
me.
 
That’s why it’s so hard to go without my wig: because then I’d have to face the world as a woman who has cancer rather than a woman who is just trying to fit in.

I clip my wig back on after my shower and spend the remainder of the afternoon napping and reading. I hear the soft knock on the door before my sister's words come through the small crack, breaking my concentration from the pages I’m reading.
 
“Dre, can I come in?”

“Of course,” I reply, not looking up from my Kindle.

I see movement out of the corner of my eyes as she makes her way around the boxes of my things.
 
Scooting over, I make room on the bed for her, setting the Kindle down next to me.

I can tell by the expression on her porcelain face that she wants to have one of those heartfelt talks.
 
Like the ones from an episode of
Full House
that end in happy tears, soft music, and hugs after discussing a life lesson.
 
My sister means well, but in this moment the last thing on my mind is talking, especially about whatever she has in mind.

“Did you have fun last night?”

“Yeah, we had a really good time.”

“I gathered.”
 
She laughs.
 
“You two stayed out all night.”

I don’t respond.
 
Normally I tell my sister everything, but I don’t feel like telling her about my one-night stand.

“Did I tell you I love that color on you?
 
It suits you.”
 

I look down, taking in my pink tank top and black shorts.
 
I turn to face her, raising my eyebrows in question.
 
Reaching out, she locks a small strand of my hair and twirls it around her finger.
 
“Your hair. You look beautiful as a brunette.”
 
She gives me a soft smile before letting my hair drop back against my chin.
 
Turning her head away from me she focuses her attention back on my room.

I hate saying that.
 
My room.
 
It doesn’t feel like my room.
 
It feels more like a prison.

“Are you going to unpack?” It’s been eight days since I moved in.
 

“Soon.”
 
I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack every box, making my stay here permanent.

She nods in agreement, frowning at the boxes stacked on top of one another.
 
Genna is a neat freak, so I doubt she’s fond of my decorating style.

“We can paint it if you'd like.”
 
She gestures toward the beige walls, still not looking at me.

Beige.
 
It’s such a mundane color. This is the only room in their three-bedroom house that is lacking in color.
 
The rest of the house is filled with vibrant colors, making the rooms feel full of life.
 
Maybe that’s why she gave this one to me?

“It's fine,” I reply, looking around at the walls.

Genna sighs softly, but she doesn’t speak.
 
She doesn’t need to.
 
I know she knows that it’s not fine.
 
We’re women.
 
Women don’t use the word fine literally.

“Genna, thank you.”
 
I feel as if I should say more, so I add, “For everything.”
 
For some reason, I think I should also say some words of encouragement to take that sad look off her face, but nothing more comes.

She leans her head on my shoulder as she takes my right hand into hers, lacing our fingers together.
 
“Dre, whatever you need, or want, just tell me.
 
I want you to be comfortable here.
 
Don't feel like you can't make any changes.
 
This is your room and your home, despite what you say or think.
 
Jason and I want you to be comfortable.
 
You can decorate this room, paint it, or do whatever you want.
 
We just want you to be happy.”

I don't respond. I don't have the heart to tell her that I’m trying.
 
I’m trying to be happy, but I don’t know how.
 
Not anymore.

Genna has the most positive outlook on life, and sometimes I think her heart is truly made of gold.
 
She’s seven years older than me and has always been my protector.
 
My parents tried to have a baby for four years before they looked into adoption.
 
It was almost two years to the date when the agency called, saying they had a newborn baby girl for them, in China.
 
My parents wanted a fast, smooth adoption, and the agency told them China would give them that.
 
It was more expensive, but money was no object when it came to them wanting a baby.

After they’d gotten the news, they’d hopped on a flight and returned three weeks later with Genna.
 
My parents had thought their dreams of being a family were complete until the day my mom found out she was pregnant with me.
 
To this day, my parents call me their miracle baby.

Despite not being blood related, Genna is my big sister in every way.
 
We don’t need to have the same blood to be family, which is why we have matching tattoos on our feet.
 
Sisters by Chance, Friends by Choice.

“Come on.”
 
She stands up from the bed, gesturing for me to follow.
 
“It’s time to get dinner started.
 
You can help chop veggies.”

Standing, I follow her downstairs to the kitchen.
 
She’s a fantastic cook.
 
I don’t know why she didn’t go to culinary school to become a chef, rather than a substitute teacher.
 
Genna is the perfect wife.
 
She spends her free time volunteering or baking.

Opening the fridge, I grab a bottle of water and the carrots, celery, bell peppers, and cucumbers that are sitting in the bottom drawer.

“What are you cooking?” I ask, making my way over to the center island.

“Oh, just trying out this new chicken recipe I found.”
 
She gives me a warm smile before stuffing her nose into her recipe book.
 
“What time do you need to be at the hospital tomorrow?”

Hospital.
 
I’m starting to hate that word.

“Noon.
 
The procedure is at one.”

I have to get my chemo port put back in to restart my therapy.
 

Chemo sucks.
 
The movies only show you a small fraction of what really happens.
It’s three, sometime four, hours of sitting in a chair, hooked up to a machine in order to receive the drugs you need.
 
It’s a feeling of being vulnerable … helpless.
 
A sense of losing all control.
 
It’s a feeling of handing over your faith and hope to someone other than God, giving your trust to your doctors and the drugs that are being pumped into your veins.

With my past treatment, the fatigue was the hardest for me to handle.
 
I was always too tired to hang out with my friends, sit down for dinner with my parents, or enjoy a conversation with someone without wanting to fall asleep.
 
I’m not looking forward to that this time around.

“Sounds good.
 
Chemotherapy starts on Wednesday then?”

“Yeah.”

We continue preparing the food in silence.
 
Her stuffing chickens, me chopping vegetables.

I’m sitting at the counter looking through the most recent celebrity gossip magazine while dinner cooks, when Jason comes back from his bike ride.

“Hello, ladies.
 
It smells good in here.”

It does smell good.
 
A mixture of lemon, butter, and spices.

Jason bends to give Genna a quick kiss on the cheek.
 
When he stands tall, he looks at me.
 
“Did you help?” he asks with a hint of amusement in his voice.
 
He knows I can’t cook for shit.

“I made the salad.
 
Your wife did the rest.
 
She made a lot, too, so you better have built up an appetite on that bike.”

“She didn’t tell you?
 
The new veterinarian I hired for the clinic is coming over for dinner tonight.”

Setting the knife down, I give Jason my full attention.
 
He’s leaning back against the counter, chugging a Bud Light as if it were water.
 
That man must have been thirsty.

Jason is actually quite attractive.
 
He’s tall, lean, and clean-cut, with short, chocolate brown hair.
 
He’s not muscular, but well-toned.
 
And whiter than white.
 
You’d think he never goes out in the sun.
 
However, he does make drinking a bottle of beer appealing.
 
He reminds me of a Bud Light ad.

“You didn’t tell me you hired someone!”

I watch as he chugs the remainder of his beer, then rests the empty bottle next to him.

“Yeah, the intern from Florida Genna told you about.”

“The hot one?”

He laughs.

“Yes, the hot one,” he says between chuckles. “I hired him.
 
Not for his good looks, or charms, but because he had some great ideas and strong feelings about becoming partner, so I let him go in on the place.”

“That’s awesome!
 
I can’t believe no one told me!”

Not that anyone
has
to tell me.
 
With Genna and I being so close, I figured it would have come up in one of our conversations prior to me moving here.

“It just happened within the last week.
 
With getting you moved in, there was just too much going on.
 
I like him.
 
The staff does too.
 
Genna met him briefly a while back.
 
We thought it would be nice to have him over tonight to celebrate his kick-off.
 
Tomorrow marks his first week as Dr. Jackson with For the Love of Paws,” he says, grinning.

“Jason, that’s so exciting!
 
I’m happy for you.”

Genna walks into the kitchen.
 
I watch as she goes to the cabinet to take out plates.

“What are you happy about?” she asks, taking out the last square black plate.

“Him hiring the intern.
 
That’s awesome.”

“Oh, yes.
 
For the clinic
and
for the ladies.”

“See?”
 
Jason shakes his head.
 
“The looks!
 
The women only want him for his looks.”

“Honey, those poor women only have you to look at all day.
 
And you’re married.
 
They need the fresh meat.”
 
She smiles at him innocently.

“What?
 
I’m not enough to look at?” he jokes, acting as if he’s hurt.

“Baby, you are more than enough to look at.
 
But I don’t feel like taking my claws out on my friends.”