I had a bad dream when I woke up. My hair was all over my pillow, cut off and spread out in different places. I stumbled out of bed and to the bathroom because my heart was pounding. In the mirror, I could see a rough edge on the back of my head. I was shocked and scared.
Caleb, my husband, was in the kitchen drinking coffee and looking at his phone. I asked him straight out if he had cut my hair. He looked confused and said he had nothing to do with it. But when our son Oliver came in, things started to fall apart.
Oliver told me that he had cut my hair, but what he said next shocked me. He thought I was going to die, so he put things that reminded him of me in a shoebox. When I found out that Caleb had been hiding a terrible secret from me, my heart sank.
Caleb had been keeping from me the news that I had been sent to a doctor for more tests. From the scrunched up paper he was hiding, the words “malignant indicators” stared back at me. I felt angry and lied to.
Why did Caleb not tell me this before? Why did he let our son think I was going to die? One thing was clear: I had been living in denial and burying my head in the sand while Caleb took care of everything.
Things were going to change, though. I paused for a moment, grabbed the shears, and opened them up. It was a sign of how strong and determined I had become. Now I was in charge of my life again, and I was going to stay healthy.
I knew I had to be strong for Oliver when I looked at him. We sat on the floor together and put happy memories in his shoebox instead of sad ones. It was the start of a new life, a chance to go forward together.
I was going to make my own appointment with the oncologist, and if the results were bad, I would fight for my life. I was sick of being a passenger; it was my turn to drive.
