Craptastic henna attempt, part deux

A few years ago I started reading the local paid obituaries in the Sunday Seattle Times.

I can't read them now. A little too close to home. A little too easy to get too sad.

Before, I liked reading them because of what they said about an individual's life, and liked imagining the difference between what was in print versus what the person was really like. Some sound so wonderful, some fought their disease so bravely, some served in WWII and thus their photo showed them in uniform from the 1940s.

For instance, in a recent obituary, it said about a man who died "It was from him we learned to relish small things-a perfectly ripe apricot, a well constructed argument, beauty in nature and art, a perfectly manicured lawn."

I like that part about a perfectly ripe apricot. I spent part of my childhood in the Bay Area and we had an apricot tree in the backyard. I loved that tree and its sisterly peach trees on either side.

I have never had a good apricot since. I don't even try tasting those I come across in Eastern Washington, and I haven't taught anyone to relish a perfectly ripe apricot. How could I? There aren't any around.

*******

Shortly after I first learned that it was suspected that I had cancer, I was riding my bicycle home from work and doing something I haven't been able to do since I've stopped bicycling; allowing troubling thoughts to go where they will toward a solution, as I pedal. I have figured out solutions to many problems by this subconscious practice, much more easily this way than if I was sitting at home in my Lay-Z-Bum chair pondering problems consciously.

By the time I got home, I knew that I needed to dance a breast cancer dance. I talked my husband into filming it. This is exactly what I felt doing about having cancer, at that time. I was still wearing my bicycle clothes. I love those Bermuda shorts. They're so not Spandex.

Look at my hair! Seems so long ago.

*******

I'm going to take a stab at some opinionated statements about having cancer, based on my own experiences and observing the experiences of others.

Everyone with cancer is unique, so each of us will have unique physical, emotional and psychological responses to diagnosis, treatment, therapy and the future.

And each person with cancer is going to have unique needs from their family, friends, coworkers, and strangers.

There's a good article in December's Vanity Fair by Christoper Hitchens about cancer and manners. He says "As the populations of Tumortown and Wellville continue to swell and to 'interact,' there’s a growing need for ground rules that prevent us from inflicting ourselves upon one another."

While I'm not going to propose dictating ground rules, I will give some examples of the odd experiences I've had with others when I tell them I have cancer. A few statements spoken to me when I first started telling people were:

1. "Do you need a wig?"
2. "The first time you throw up because of chemo, it will be black, but don't worry, it's supposed to be that way."

These were the initial times I felt like saying "That's not helpful," but didn't.

I do now. The first time I was honest about a statement not helping was when a good friend said "I'm going to shave my head in solidarity with you." Because I love this woman and I've known her since were were young pups, I felt comfortable asking "How's that going to help me?" "We'll both be bald!" "Yes," I said, "but how's that going to help me?"

And one of the most uncomfortable conversations I had shortly after I was diagnosed was out on the sidewalk in front of my house, when a friend starting talking loudly about my having breast cancer. I wanted to hide. Or, bury her in the compost pile.

Two other unnecessary statements have been:

1. You're strong.
2. It'll be okay.

I'm not, and it's not. All I know how to do is hold on and see what happens. I don't feel strong. I do feel more free to say what I think. And I don't find it necessary to take care of others, which is my usual inclination. I barely have enough resources to take care of myself during the craptastically awkward time.

I lied. Here are some ground rules. Here's what I need, in case you're interested:

1. If you really want to help, ask me what I need. Don't say "Call me if you need anything." I won't.
2. Contact me and arrange to do something with me that's fun for both of us.
3. Tell me about what's going on with you. Try not to tell me about other people you know who have cancer, unless it's very, very funny. It doesn't take much to cause me to be blue.
4. Normalize my life by being normal with me, whatever your brand of normal is.
5. Don't be embarrassed or uncomfortable about my being bald. I'm bald.
6. Birdwatching.
7. Good exhibits of fine craft.

I've truly appreciated the efforts my artist friends have made to cover my bald head with henna tattoos. (So far, the two efforts have not been successful. See below.)

*******

Side note: Yesterday morning I visited Aunt Rachel at the Saint Whatsit rehab place in West Seattle. She was going to be discharged at noon to her home on Vashon, so I wanted to get a last visit in with her while she was still on the continent.

She showed me her list of medications that she'll need to take when she's home. We nodded together knowingly about the many meds we both have are prescribed these days.

One of the items on her list was "prenatal vitamins" and when I mentioned this to her, she said "it's a blessed event."

I love her sense of humor. Here's she and I. She's the one with hair.

*******

My friend Gale Johansen came over yesterday to do the next henna tattoo on my head. Marvin Johnson joined us, to watch and comment.

Gale's one of my favorite artists, and for a number of reasons. She's gregarious, prolific, talented, funny and honest.

Since the previous week's henna didn't take, I bought a henna tattoo kit. A few hours before Gale showed up, I made a batch and followed the directions carefully.

Gale spent about two hours painting henna on my head. Marvin (a.k.a. Jerry the Bee Guy) was clearly watching carefully and observing Gale's handiwork. I asked him to be the next tattooist, and he said he would.

The color was much darker as Gale applied it, which was encouraging. She chose plastic applicator bottles as her "brush", and as one would empty, Marvin would fill it up to ensure she always had a full bottle. I recommend this two-artist teamwork.

After they left and before I went to bed, I wrapped toilet paper over my head and then plastic wrap. I slept like a shiny-headed mummy.

In the morning when I took the paper and plastic off, I was disappointed to see that the color on my scalp where the henna came away was not much darker than the previous week, when Patti used some of my regular hair henna.

I asked my husband to help me take the dried henna off. He looked surprised that I asked, but I couldn't do it alone.

The directions sounded a little like basting a turkey. He brushed the hennaed lines with olive oil and once they softened, he scraped them off with a butter knife.

He confirmed what I suspected; that the henna didn't take very much at all. I am truly disappointed. If Marvin's effort doesn't work, I'm going to stop trying. I don't want these artists to waste their time.

Or perhaps I can ask them to use Sharpies.