The Weekend

Went to Jon and Alicia's for Saturday and Sunday. Greeted by Afton, letter in hand she made for me, and two pictures she had coloured. One a boy building a snowman, the other a gingerbreadish house. She is not yet 4, but can colour like an 8 year old. Jack immediately wanted to show us his trucks and tractors. It's all he talks about – nothing else. I asked Jack what he wants to be when he grows up. "A farmer," is his quick answer. Jack the Farmer. Two months ago I made him a truck out of a milk carton and put a sign on the top that said the same. He probably will be, and there's nothing wrong with that. We definitely need more farmers. He'll probably be an organic farmer, no doubt. Baby Ivy's smile lit up the whole room, as she kicked those dancin' feet. What a baby – so gentle and quiet and cute! She's crawling everywhere and standing up. She especially likes the hearth beneath the wood burning fireplace. She enjoys putting charcoal in her mouth, which Jon doesn't understand, considering the taste is so bitter. I told him she's probably the only baby in the world that eats charcoal.

I spent the entire two days in front of the fire, reading to babies or reading to myself. And eating when it was time to eat, of course. Very relaxing. Thanks, Jon & Alicia. Your house is a home. Afton stayed by my side for most of the time, holding my hand, body snuggled up against mine. Jack did the same to Papa Doug and they read his John Deere tractor calendar and truck books. Ivy crawled around. What could be better? I value all of our children and grandchildren. They truly are a gift from God and I cherish them. Afton looked up at me once and said, "I'm your angel because my face looks like an angel." Yes, Afton you are. Then she wrote her name in my journal, complete with upside down "N." Precious. She prays for me each night. I asked her to pray for me. She said, "No, only at supper time." I told her she could pray any time of the day. She wouldn't pray right then, but did tell me what she says when she prays (smile). "Please God, heal Gram Deb of breast cancer so she won't be sick anymore." I know He has to hear that prayer. Prayers of children are so pure before God.

On to my hair…my scalp was so tender and itchy the whole weekend, as the hair was preparing to come out. It was hard for me to sleep on Saturday night, and I got up to read before the fire. Not much of a sleep that night. We decided to call the Pirate's home (I call him Plato the Pirate now, because he is a philosopher) and see if M., his wife, would trim my hair, thinking that would help somewhat. "Yes, come on over." So Sunday afternoon, we trekked to the village of Coldstream, wherever that is. If you've never taken a trip there, you should. Driving into the village is like going into a scene from a movie. I'm writing a childrens' story based in Coldstream. Watch for it.

M. trimmed my hair and revealed my silver sides. Two colours now. I decide to buy some colour mousse on Monday to take away some of the pain of the grey, if you know what I mean. We have a good chat of serious things. Then I pick up one of the Pirate's guitars and begin to play. She asks me to sing some gospel songs. I sing to her while she closes her eyes and meditates. She helps me, I help her. That's how it's supposed to be. Doug and the Pirate are talking about machines or something, but they join us. The Pirate and I begin to play and sing together, which we so enjoy. We just started doing this together on Thanksgiving weekend. The Pirate thinks we should have a concert, a fundraiser. We'll see. I just enjoy playing and singing. One time, years ago, one of my piano students (Lianne) drew a picture of me and the caption was, "Mrs. Mac, You are music." I still have the picture. It's true. I love music – all aspects of it. Teaching it, playing it, designing it, listening to it. Thank you God, for the gift of music for us to enjoy and express ourselves.

Not too long into singing and playing, in walks Aunt H. and Uncle F., the Pirate's parents. They sit down and join us. M. goes upstairs and prepares a meal for us. We share in the communion of eating together. I consume many vegetables. Doug enjoys deer meat, which he would never get at home. M. knows how to cook it. A wonderful time together. After dinner, we retire to the music room again and the Pirate and I begin to play again, until I begin to tire. Time to leave the village and head to Superior City (what I call Fredericton).

Doug and I have conversation for a couple of hours and deal with more 'stuff.' Hard stuff. This is a stressful time for us, as we deal with this crisis. We shed some tears together. Communion of tears. He helps me deal with feelings of failure and disappointment in being in this place, of laying it all down while I take time to heal. I know one thing, though – I am a teacher and always will be. On Saturday evening, I taught Jon guitar theory (and he can play guitar), and then gave the Pirate a lesson last evening before I left his home. It's in me. Maybe I'm still teaching while in this stage of my life, I don't know. Maybe sharing this experience is a teacher to those who read it. I know it's teaching me many things. Like how to let go of what you thought you were going to accomplish, and letting God be God in your life. "Be a life long or short, its completeness depends on what it was lived for" (David Starr Jordan). What does my life stand for? I've always wanted my epitaph to read, "She loved God and others." I hope I accomplish that.

At midnight, after having shed many tears before Doug, I went to the shower, arm taped up in a splint, to protect my chemo line. I thought I would wash my hair again to see if my scalp would feel better, and to wash out the stray hairs from the haircut. But what I encountered shocked me, and I began to panic a bit. Even though I have been waiting for it to fall out, when it happened it threw me for a loop. A woman's hair is truly her crowning glory. I started to cry, and shouted for Doug to come. He was downstairs in the other bathroom trimming his beard and hair. I called again and he came to find me crying, "It's falling out!" "It's OK, Deb, we'll shave it now." I went to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Should I shave it now, or let it fall out gradually. I asked God, "Do you care about me?" He led me to a page in a book – He is with me and goes before me. Do not be afraid – the same Scripture I received before going to the doctor for my prognosis treatment meeting, and before mastectomy. He is with me and will help me. "OK, it's time, let's do it." Bite the bullet and get 'er done. So downstairs we went and at 12:30 a.m., Doug shaved my head as short as he could get it, which is like the closest crew cut you could ever have – as if you coloured my scalp with black and silver crayons. I stood up and looked. "I don't like that," I cried. He held me. "Your head is beautiful, Deb." I went to the shower again to wash off the hairs. I came downstairs and we went into the music room to embrace and pray together. We must praise the Lord through all things – He is here with us through this experience. He will help us deal with it.

"I hear the voice of one crying. Prepare ye the way of the Lord….lay your burdens down," we stood and hugged each other as the CD played on. Doug began to pray for me – taking care of me in prayer, just like he took care of me physically by shaving my head. He was so gentle doing that, so kind. He said I was beautiful and had a nice shaped head – a beautiful head, actually. You know your man loves you when he still says you're beautiful after having one breast removed and then no hair. Love stands the test of time, and our marriage has stood many tests. And it WILL stand this one, too.

After the prayer I said, "I need a drink. Got anything strong?" Since I'm not a drinking type, Doug poured me a glass of my drink of choice – Canada Dry Ginger Ale. He held my hand while I drank it down. "Ok, time for bed." I moisturized my head with olive butter and bag balm, believe it or not. My scalp hurts. My head feels like the skin of a newborn calf or something, or a young gosling. I lay my head down and curled up in a ball. My Father loves me. I went to sleep. He watches over me while I sleep.

Woke up late this morning because we were up past 1 o'clock. Doug went to work. He wanted me to call him when I awoke. "How are you doing?" "OK, just going through my stash to find some colourful material to make scarves." I need to add colour to my head now, with scarves and hats and perhaps some colourful earrings. I tend to wear silver hoops. Maybe it's time for a change. Today I have to go to the hospital to have my PICC line dressing changed. This will be the first day of wearing my hat everywhere. Praise the Lord, O my soul.

Put on the garments of praise for the spirit of heaviness. We trade our sorrows for garments of praise. I trade the fact that I have no hair for the fact that God is in control and He knows I have no hair. He will make my hair grow again, because he is the Gardener of my hair. Must go make some scarves.