Hair's Gone.

A friend took a risk with me a day or two ago. “What has been the most surprising thing about having cancer?” she asked. Without thinking, which chemo brain all but guarantees, I shot back a rather pensive response: “I am surprised by how heavy hair is.”

I cannot be held fully responsible for what I say or write these days. A large percentage of me is chemical, especially the first 48 hours after chemo. I am, essentially, radioactive. (On this point, Stephan, says, “So what’s new?”)  😳

Just ignore Stephan. I am filled to my gills with heat-seeking chemo drugs detonating my living cells; anti-nausea drugs intercepting vomitus maximus the way Texas ranchers wrestle prodigal pigs in the dirt, and; white cell booster drugs kicking my white blood cells in the proverbial arse so they get on with it! (That is, reproducing).

After Red Devil #2, my hair began to fall out. All my hair. A little Like Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree when the needles dropped in droves. If you haven’t given a thought lately to all the places you have hair follicles, just take a moment and gander. Then ponder. Even my nose hair had enough and just up and left. No words, no scene, no ego-driven confabulation. Not even an apology. Just gone.

Try this one on for size: a Michigan winter without nose hair.

Speaking of follicles, while the amount of hair varies from person to person, the average human head boasts about 100,000 hairs. And when you zoom out, there are roughly about 5 million hairs on your body right now. On average, each of us will lose only 50 to 100 hairs a day. And technically, while even the thickest, longest 50 or 100 strands wont hardly tip the scale, hair is, I’ve come to learn, heavy.  

But you don’t know that until it’s all gone.

Last week I learned the weight of hair not by its presence, but by its absence. With each brush, wash, or even head shake, I collected what had fallen out and piled them on my bathroom sink. Joshua asked me why. At first, I couldn’t answer him. But as the week plodded on, and the pile grew, it dawned on me…

“Ebenezer”… I was making an “Ebenezer.”

No, I’m not talking about Ebenezer Scrooge. Although I’ve had a few grumpy days. Ebenezer is a clumsy, Hebrew word, meaning “remembrance.” For the Hebrews in the Bible, Ebenezer stones were a way of remembering “how far the Lord carried us”. The prophet Samuel famously set up an Ebenezer—a pile of stones—on the eve of battle against their arch enemy, the Philistines. Morale was low among the soldiers; they had already lost twice. Dark thoughts of defeat swirled through the camp. What looked like a pile of stones set amidst a bedraggled, less-than-triumphant scruff of a people, was the Prophet’s way of saying to God and the world:

We’re still here. And the God of the universe seems to be good with that…

My pile of stones is a pile of hair, my claim that I am still here. Hairless, but here. My growing pile of eyelashes and nose hairs. Gone. The fine little fuzz on my arms, legs, and cheeks. Gone. And the “crown of glory” on my head. Gone.

What is left is a pile of hair made holy somehow, a monument, an Ebenezer to how far God has taken me, an offering to the One who created me and willed me to live and give life.

My hair’s gone. But not my protection. Not my identity. Not my hope. Not my life.

This week I shaved off the little that was left. As I stood looking at my “stone of remembrance” on the countertop, I sobbed at the beautiful truth of it all: “Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered, so don’t be afraid; you are worth more…” (Gospel of Luke 12:7).

Today I will drag my hairless body to the chemo infusion bay at St. Mary’s for Red Devil cocktail #3. I’ll display my bald head, unashamed, propped up like a mannequin who slipped her wig. And all the world will behold just how far God has taken me.

Yes, I will remember the weight of my hair. But I take courage in this: God’s doing the math, not me. He’s dialed my number(s), hairs and all. He’s got my back—and bald head too—come what may.

Thank you, dear ones. Your prayers are rolling over me like waves, numerous as the hairs that once crowned my head. I am grateful for every prayer and every hair, yours and mine.