Chapter 7 - THE DAY MOM LOST HER HAIR
Mom’s hair began coming out in the shower.
Not all treatments cause that.
Hers did.
She cried harder over the first handful than she had after hearing the diagnosis.
That surprised me.
“I know it’s stupid.”
“It isn’t.”
“I’m fifty-three.”
“So?”
“I shouldn’t care.”
“Why?”
She looked at herself in the mirror.
“Because staying alive matters more.”
“Two things can matter.”
She cried.
Then said:
“I don’t want Lily afraid of me.”
Lily was nine months old.
She was afraid of vacuum cleaners and bananas cut incorrectly.
Hair was low on the list.
Still, we made it gentle.
Mom chose to cut it short before more fell.
Not shave it dramatically.
Not turn illness into performance.
Just control one small decision.
When she came home, Lily stared at her.
Mom froze.
Then Lily grabbed both sides of her face—
and sneezed.
We laughed until Mom had to sit down.
Treatment was difficult.
Some days she ate.
Some days nothing tasted right.
Some days she walked around the block.
Some days getting to the sofa counted as victory.
The fluid accumulation gradually became easier to manage.
Her bloodwork improved enough to continue therapy.
Then imaging showed something we had been afraid to hope for.
The disease had responded.
Not gone.
Smaller.
More stable.
Dr. Shah smiled when he told us.
Mom stared.
“So I’m cured?”
“No.”
Good doctor.
“What I’m saying is the treatment appears to be working.”
Mom nodded.
“Then we keep going.”
“Yes.”
She looked at me.
“See?”
“What?”
“Too stubborn to die.”
I immediately pointed at Dr. Shah.
“Do not medically endorse that.”
He laughed.
“I endorse adherence to treatment.”
Mom rolled her eyes.
May you like
Close enough.
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