Carcinomus of Borg Speaks

If someone told me that I'd be less than happy when my hair started falling out, I'd look at them and say, "Yeah, probably. So?" Imagine my surprise when, as I washed my hair in the sink a couple of weeks ago, large clumps pulled freely from my head, fell into the drain, and a profound sense of depression wound tightly around my skull. Losing hair is one thing, and I’m definitely not the most vain guy in the room, but this felt akin to, say, picking at a tiny scab on your hand and then staring in horror as a couple of your fingers plop off and fall to the floor. But it’s OK! This feeling persisted for only a few days, and has now blissfully dissipated. Kim shaved my head, though I continue to have absolutely no reason to be vain, because rather than looking like a virile Yul Brynner, I more closely resemble the AIDS-devastated Tom Hanks character in the movie Philadelphia. Oh well.

As for the Borg allusion, what with the glabrous pate, a polyethylene tube plumbed directly into my stomach, and a garlic-stuffed-olive sized catheter port implanted subcutaneously into my upper right chest area, I feel stylishly cybernetic, and a bit closer to assimilation. But I am resisting. Speaking of stylish, Barb helped me pick out a couple of choice motoring caps. Splendid indeed.

ML told me of a guy she knows going through a similar plight. I'm a few weeks behind him treatment wise. For a look into the future of my own treatment, visit Steve Swenson's blog here.