Since Thursday, life has been surreal. It feels like this whole brain tumor thing is just some sort of horrible hoax and that I'll wake up and Dr. C will hold me and tell me I just had a bad dream.
And then yesterday we met with Dr. Brain again--this time Dr. C was with me--and we set a date for surgery:
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
And things got real.
A man that I have met twice is going to cut open my head, remove a large tumor off my brain, and stitch me back up.
And there are risks.
Lots of risks.
There are a zillion different possibilities of what could happen during and after surgery. So many different possibilities that I can't even allow myself to think of them all.
And so I'm fixated on the one concrete outcome that I know of:
I am going to be bald.
Not like Mr.-Clean-bald, but more like Demi-Moore-G.I. Jane-meets-Frankenstein-bald.
The no-hair issue sounds completely superficial for me to worry about; and trust me, I know that it is, but it is the one thing I can do something about now. The only thing I can mentally prepare myself for right now without becoming certifiably crazy.
So last night, my adorable neighbor, who happens to be a cosmetologist, cut my hair to help me prepare for my upcoming G.I. Jane/Frankenstein-hood.
|Dr. C and Me on the beach in July. We're kinda squinty in this pic, but you can see that my hair was short, but not THAT short.|
It's a pixie cut--which is basically the feminine way to describe your standard boy haircut.
In other words, it's SHORT.
Maybe bald won't be so bad?