Happy Early B-Day

Yesterday. What a day. One that, for me, will go down in infamy. 

Yesterday was a day that began with uncontrollable happy tears when I awoke to the news of the 8-days-early birth of my sweet cousin’s first child - a healthy, bouncing baby boy made only more perfect by being named after my most adored and Leah-character-molding Italian Grandfather. Whose namesake I also boast. From there it was filled with an unironically, TRULY fulfilling 9 hours of crafting a beautiful body of work with my freelance business partner fueled by unadulterated passion. The kind of work I don’t HAVE to do, I GET to do. And like only a perfect day can pull off as serendipitously as an impromptu fête, it ended with an idyllic evening under a vanilla-painted-moon-kissed sky accompanied by our where-have-you-been-all-my-life next door neighbors and their fairytale storybook children serenading us with spontaneous songs and parading around acts of self-written drama. Like pinch me. 

Then, to my surprise, yesterday’s chapter came with un expected bookend of tears. But ones I was sure I wouldn’t shed for at least a week more. 

Before going to bed, I reluctantly went for a shower. I simply did NOT want to rinse away the most perfectly coiffed ‘do I’d ever enjoyed. Seriously though, #besthairdayever. Somehow I'd ironically achieved this look by not showering, styling my hair with any products, or even brushing it for nearly 48 hours. I know, it makes zero sense! [European chuckles under her breath with a guttural jéjéjé, swigs back a sloshy mouthful of Tempranillo, then sucks a long drag of her hand-rolled cigarette]. Don’t get me started on the hours of my life wasted by not having discovered this sooner… 

So a shower? Fine, if I must. I began running the play as always. You know the one. Shampoo, suds suds suds. Rinse. Face wash, suds suds. Turn for the bar soap… WAIT. A. MINUTE... Mirror check… NOOOO. [Heart thumping] Then “Girls! Go get Daddy!! It’s happening!” I call out without thinking. [My eldest flits away like my little messenger bird then louder clunk-clunk-clunk footsteps thud back up our old wooden stairs]

“Honey, it’s happening,” I state both matter-of-factly and stunned. My neck. My chest. My cheeks. My thighs. Covered in hair. We both start scared-nervous-stunned smiling as if on cue. And my husband belts out what I’m certain he’d pre-meditated and rehearsed for weeks.

“It’s WORKING, honey. Yes, it’s happening. I noticed earlier tonight. It’s gonna be OKAY. The drugs are working and you’re killing the cancer. This is GOOD. And you’re a WARrior. A bad ass! You’ve been gearing up for this for the last TWO weeks. Maybe longer. You’re READY.” Then, turning to our children staring up at our crescendo like the fever pitch high-note of an opera performance, “Girls, your mamma is a warrior. She’s FIGHTING cancer. Do you see it?” Then back to me.

Our eyes locked into the shell-shocked, is-this-really-happening position. The kind of face you’d make when looking up at a stunning fireworks display only to realize it’s raining down upon you. Such an illogical response, you’d think we’d skipped chemo class. P.S. a REAL thing we attended. I mean, the doctors had so clearly and confidently told us that it would be like clockwork, an absolute certainty. On day 14 or 15, they said even. And although this was my day 14, I had somehow convinced myself my case would be different. My relentless optimism and positive mindset had taken on a mind of its own and that version of me was not only unflappable but also FULLY resistant to balding. Duh, I'm SuperWoman, right?!

Then my happy tears finally turned to sad. And after group-hugging my husband and children still soaking wet from the shower, I open-mouthed whimpered and bawled. After a few minutes, they left me in peace for a quick moment, and I then cried it out silently through my internal dialogue with Cancer. Not today!! PLEASE!?! Not NOW!! I’ve spent my last 40 years battling the UGLINESS of body dysmorphia, avoiding the mirror not to see my own crooked face and today, just TODAY I finally feel beautiful inside and out?!? You sick f&$k, how DARE you?!??? 

Then I give myself a moment to breathe. A few more tears. And scene. I wipe them away one last time. Force my best smile. And I’m through it. 

It's OK not to be OK. But then kinda OK.

I write to admit I got the forecast wrong yesterday. Like my cousin’s precious gift, my big day came about 8 days earlier than my crackpipedream expected. Although I, on the other hand, would have preferred it never come at all. My chemo buzzcut “B-Day” party invitations won’t make it in the mail, everyone. Because tonight I will go into that dark night. Only I WILL stick to my plan and RAGE, dammit. I’ve promised myself, I’ve promised my husband, and MOST OF ALL I’ve promised my girls. We’re gonna get through this somehow with a smile. 

Tonight is a celebration. A celebration that my drugs are working. A celebration that I am in control. A celebration that I GET to discover beauty from within like I’ve never been forced to before. I know outside of my mother, mother-in-law, sister, and stepdad, none of you will be able to celebrate with me in-person. But that’s okay. It’ll be just as it was meant to be. And I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Geronimo.