Wigwam (Hair, Part 1)

Quitting my job as a TV news anchor and reporter was the perfect opportunity to test my belief that life is not all about hair. Novice steps at first, of course—a few minutes less with the blow dryer each morning, a couple of months without highlights—but by the time I was living on boats full time, I was indoctrinated, hair spray and salons supplanted by salt water and sailors. For over a year, nobody cut my hair except the captains I crewed for. I was a master, completely liberated from hair cares just in time to discover…

...it really is all about hair after all.

Cancer is HILARIOUS

I have just one last question before we get started:  “Are you SURE I have this?” I ask the doctor.

Because I still don’t feel sick. And I don’t look sick. And the drugs they are about to push through my veins for the rest of this godforsaken afternoon are going to make me sick. And because this is the moment.

After two months of health care hell—the countless doctor visits, seven needle biopsies, two CAT scans, two mammograms, two Pap smears, heart tests, lung tests, blood tests, a skin check, consults with two medical oncologists, a radiation oncologist, and a fertility specialist, not to mention the PET scan that left me temporarily radioactive (“Don’t go near any babies or pregnant women tonight!”)—this is the one moment I can’t seem to handle. Every time I have tried to visualize the instant when they will stick a needle in me and start pumping poison through my body, I break down.

Fish Gotta Swim...

February 29, 2008

Between lunchtime and happy hour, the situation went from daunting to dire.

Over quiche and salad at the Caribou Café, I had been joking that I needed to find a boyfriend before my hair falls out. Now, apparently, I may have to secure a sperm donor by noon on Tuesday.

Maybe I should back up.

Things started going to hell six weeks ago, when a doctor in the U.S. Virgin Islands told me I was turning into a fish.