Night before

Despite all the euphoria and happy moments of the last few days, the reality hits again tomorrow when mum has to go to the hospital again for chemo. She just went to bed, and she seemed somewhat upset and was feeling hopeless.

Even before going to bed, at close to eleven, she was sweeping the floor to get rid of all the fallen strands of hair. She said more and more is falling, especially when she washes her hair. And tomorrow more will fall, she said.

I told her that tomorrow will be the last time she has to do the chemo treatment, now that the cancer level is more or less under control. She wasn't convinced, and recalled that the doctor mentioned someone who had to do chemo twenty something times and is still doing chemo... Somehow she seems to think that she will be like that too...

Once again, I cannot understand what it feels like to go to sleep tonight, and to have to wake up tomorrow and have to go into the hospital first thing in the morning. I simply cannot understand it, because it is not happening to me, and I could never project those emotions and frustrations onto me because I am not going through the same as mum (or any other cancer patient, for that matter...). And I cannot understand the injury to self-pride and self-love when you constantly see strands of hair on your clothes and between your fingers whenever you scratch your head...

I try to imagine what that must feel like, but I cannot describe it because I cannot feel it completely. I may be able to empathise, to try to imagine what it must feel like to be afraid of washing your hair for fear or more hair loss... but never will I feel as wounded and hurt as mum whenever she sees her hair on the floor...

And that hurts me, even though she does not know it.

When I look at her from a certain angle, I can see clearly that the top has obviously thinned, leaving the scalp visibly almost bare (though, some hairlets are already growing back...). I took a picture with her the other day, and on this picture it was quite obvious. I'd like to think it's because I know that she has a bald spot there, and so I see it more clearly than anyone else would.

Whenever mum is near a mirror, she tries to comb her hair so that the almost bare bits are covered up. Sometimes it's not obvious, but at other times I could tell, and perhaps others could do to.

And I keep on reassuring her that it's really not too bad, that hair will always grow back, that the next chemo may very well be the last...

all the while, deep inside, I hurt because I am afraid that I am lying. Lying to myself may not be too significant, but the possibility that I may be lying to my mum hurts...