blank stares at blank pages

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Got postcards from my former selves, saying, "How you been?"
We might've said good byes just a little soon,
Robbing lips, kissing banks under this moon.

"if you're a bird, i'm a bird" (tagboard here)

and that's just the way the story goes

Sunday, July 16, 2006 @ 1:51 pm

at home, we all wear masks so that kate doesnt have to. i find myself checking her fingernails while she brushes her teeth or pours cereal, to see if the dark ridges made by the chemo have disappeared - a sure sign of the bone marrow tranplant's success. twice a day i give kate growth factor shots in the thigh, a necessity until her neutrophil count tops one thousand. at that point, the marrow will be reseeding itself.

she cant go back to school yet, so we get her lessons sent home. once or twice she comes with me to pick anna up from kindergarten, but refuses to get out of the car. she will troop to the hospital for her routine CBC, but if i suggest a side trip to the video store or dunkin' donuts afterward, she begs off.

one sat morning, the door to the girls' bedroom is ajar; i knock gently. "want to go to the mall?"

kate shrugs. "not now."

i lean against the doorframe. "it'll be good to get out of the house."

"i dont want to." although i'm sure she does not even realise she is doing it, she skims her palm over her head before tucking her hand into her back pocket.

"kate," i begin.

"dont say it. dont tell me that nobody's going to stare at me, cos they will. dont tell me it doesnt matter, cos it does. and dont tell me i look fine cos that's a lie." her eyes, lashbare, fill with tears. "i'm a freak, mom. look at me."

i do, and i see the spots where her brows have gone missing, and the slope of her endless brow, and the small divots and bumps that are usually hidden under a cover of hair. "well," i say evenly. "we can fix this."

without another word, i walk out of her room, knowing kate will follow. i pass anna, who abandons her colouring book to trail behind her sister. in the basement, i pull out a pair of ancient electric grooming clippers we found when we bought the house, and plug them in. then i cut a swath right down the middle of my scalp.

"mom!" kate gasps.

"what?" a tumble of brown waves falls onto anna's shoulder; she picks them up delicately. "it's only hair."

with another swipe of the razor, kate starts to smile. she points out a spot that i've missed, where a small thatch stands like a forest. i sit down on an overturned milk crate and let her shave the other side of my head herself. anna crawls onto my lap. "me next," she begs.

an hour later, we walk through the mall holding hands, a trio of bald girls. we stay for hours. everywhere we go, heads turn and voices whisper. we are beautiful, times three.

aww (:

and that's just the way the story goes

Sunday, July 16, 2006 @ 1:51 pm

at home, we all wear masks so that kate doesnt have to. i find myself checking her fingernails while she brushes her teeth or pours cereal, to see if the dark ridges made by the chemo have disappeared - a sure sign of the bone marrow tranplant's success. twice a day i give kate growth factor shots in the thigh, a necessity until her neutrophil count tops one thousand. at that point, the marrow will be reseeding itself.

she cant go back to school yet, so we get her lessons sent home. once or twice she comes with me to pick anna up from kindergarten, but refuses to get out of the car. she will troop to the hospital for her routine CBC, but if i suggest a side trip to the video store or dunkin' donuts afterward, she begs off.

one sat morning, the door to the girls' bedroom is ajar; i knock gently. "want to go to the mall?"

kate shrugs. "not now."

i lean against the doorframe. "it'll be good to get out of the house."

"i dont want to." although i'm sure she does not even realise she is doing it, she skims her palm over her head before tucking her hand into her back pocket.

"kate," i begin.

"dont say it. dont tell me that nobody's going to stare at me, cos they will. dont tell me it doesnt matter, cos it does. and dont tell me i look fine cos that's a lie." her eyes, lashbare, fill with tears. "i'm a freak, mom. look at me."

i do, and i see the spots where her brows have gone missing, and the slope of her endless brow, and the small divots and bumps that are usually hidden under a cover of hair. "well," i say evenly. "we can fix this."

without another word, i walk out of her room, knowing kate will follow. i pass anna, who abandons her colouring book to trail behind her sister. in the basement, i pull out a pair of ancient electric grooming clippers we found when we bought the house, and plug them in. then i cut a swath right down the middle of my scalp.

"mom!" kate gasps.

"what?" a tumble of brown waves falls onto anna's shoulder; she picks them up delicately. "it's only hair."

with another swipe of the razor, kate starts to smile. she points out a spot that i've missed, where a small thatch stands like a forest. i sit down on an overturned milk crate and let her shave the other side of my head herself. anna crawls onto my lap. "me next," she begs.

an hour later, we walk through the mall holding hands, a trio of bald girls. we stay for hours. everywhere we go, heads turn and voices whisper. we are beautiful, times three.

aww (: