Marilyn Claire Murphy

Monday, Sept 12 – Monday Moody Blues

I woke up feeling down. That hasn’t happened much since my diagnosis. It was an overcast morning – a bit on the dreary side. But I’m not certain I can blame it on the weather.

I was on the verge of tears for a good part of today. I think I know why.

Prior to all of this, I had been more confident than at any time of my life. Even though I was 61 years old, I felt successful, accomplished and respected. I also felt more attractive than at any other time of life. My hair looked great, I had only about ten too many pounds on my frame – but I felt pretty good. Most days, in fact, I felt pretty.

Now, I’m feeling a lot like a boy. I’m looking a lot like a boy.

Some women look great without hair. Demi Moore, for one. Natalie Portman for another. Me? Not so much. I look like my brother. Not that my brother’s not attractive . . . but he’s a guy!

My cute wig is feeling “wiggy” by the end of each day. I do appreciate the ease and effortlessness of getting ready for the day. Saving lots of water and time in the shower. Saving lots of electricity since I’ve put away my hair dryer.

But, still … I’m struggling to find my strong, confident, optimistic self. I know she’s in there somewhere. I know I can shift my thinking and shift my mood. I know all these things.

But, still …

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Wednesday, Sept 14 – CHEmo Week #4

Wednesdays are chemo day. Every third week, I get an extra drug added to my cocktail infusion.

This was that week. Except it wasn’t.

They told me that my white blood cell counts were too low. So I would not get chemo. Which means that I am still on “3 down/15 to go” (instead of 4 down/14 to go). It means that instead of finishing on December 21st … my treatments will extend until after Christmas.

DAMMIT!

I knew this could happen, might happen. But so soon? This early in the game? When I’ve been feeling strong and healthy and optimistic?

The suggestion: “Leafy green vegetables. Regular exercise.”

DAMMIT!

I knew I should not have been eating ice cream. I knew I should have been exercising. It’s my own damn fault for being such a slug, for surrendering to my sweet tooth, for practicing no discipline . . . .

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Thurs, Sept 15 – “Write like your hair’s on fire”

I started a writing class with my coach and friend, Bruce Gelfand. He starts every new class the same way. We read a few pieces to get the language of words flowing in the room. We introduce ourselves. We read some more. And then he gives us the exercise I’ve done many times.

“Your prompt is ‘My Genius’,” he says. “You have 15 minutes. Fingers to keyboard, pen to paper … just write and don’t stop till I tell you to stop. Whatever comes up, just get it down in writing. Write like your hair’s on fire.”

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And this is what I wrote:

My hair – my hair … it’s gone! I didn’t think it would bother me so, but I had just come to love my hair. I had just come to let it grow longer – after decades of keeping it short in the mistaken belief that short hair is easier to take care of than long hair.

When I was in high school, all the popular girls (of which I was not one) had long, straight silky hair. Mine had waves and a bit of curl. These were the olden days – before straighteners and utensils. Some girls used an iron to flatten out any wayward waviness from their hair. Some set their hair in soda pop cans to smooth it out.

I didn’t try any of these things, but took a middle of the road position. My hair wasn’t long, but it wasn’t short. It wasn’t straight, but wasn’t too curly. It was brown – but only because I was too chicken to try to dye it blonde. If I had, I probably would have stood out. And one did not want to stand out too much in high school – unless you had the right stuff.

And I most definitely did not have the right stuff. Not the right clothes or shoes. Not the right makeup. And not the right hair.

But I was neutral enough to not be the subject of too much negative attention. Teresa Morford was the girl that everyone picked on. Actually, the more accurate description would be bullied. She was from a really poor family. She was really dumb. She was ugly and overweight, with bad hair and bad teeth.

I didn’t thank god for too many things back then, but I thanked god for someone like Teresa Morford. For she saved me from being a target.

But back to the hair thing: I had begun, in the last several months, to feel like a more attractive woman than ever before in my life. I was complemented quite regularly – even by myself when I greeted me in the mirror in the morning. My hair was healthy and shiny – having never destroyed it with chemicals or dye. There were some strands of gray – but they were nicely sprinkled throughout my scalp and not a mass of grey roots to be reckoned with.

I had made peace – mostly – with my hips and thighs, and learned how to wear clothes that hid rather than emphasize those figure flaws.

I was successful at business, and at friendships and at marriage. I was a great step-mom to four great kids. All was well in my world.

And then . . . an unexpected and most unwelcome diagnosis.

“You will, most definitely, without question, lose your hair,” they said. And so, after the 2^nd chemo treatment, and before the 3^rd, I had it cut off and buzzed. I was proud to be proactive. I found some cute wigs. I invited friends to participate and support me. I was joyous and optimistic and strong.

And then . . . the emotions crept in. “You look like your brother!” is what greeted me as I looked in the mirror in the morning. “Your brother – with a little bit of mascara.”

Suddenly, I do not feel so courageous or brave or optimistic.

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Friday, Sept 16 – A brighter day

I guess I needed to shed some tears. I guess I’m human after all . . .

I feel a little lighter this morning. My step-daughter, Erica, updated her Facebook status to announce that her student visa was approved by the U.K. authorities. She’ll be leaving next week to start her Ph.D. at the University of Sussex in Brighton, England. I’m so proud of her – and happy for her. She’s bouncing around with excitement and her energy is infectious.

She reminds me of one of my life’s accomplishments of which I’m most proud: I’ve been a damn good step-mom.

OK. My pity party is officially finished.

It’s time to get on with it and get my head on straight.

Erica has spent the summer as a CEO, Chief Experience Officer (fancified title for a tour leader) for a low-budget adventure tour company. She’s been back and forth across the country – seeing many of the wonders of the U.S. that I’ve never seen. So I asked if she would be my travel planner. Scott has the weekend off, and my plan was to make contact with industry peeps who invite me with some regularity to come and see their luxurious resort. Except I couldn’t muster the energy and assertiveness to make a call to ask for a reduced-rate room on a busy September weekend.

Scott, who was looking forward to overnighting at a luxury resort, has surrendered in his typically good-natured way. So here’s the plan: tomorrow morning, we’ll drive to Joshua Tree National Park in Scott’s new little convertible Fiat. We’ll take a few hikes. We’ll appreciate the freakish natural beauty of this place that’s only 3 hours away. And we’ll stay at the Safari Motor Inn for $58, plus tax.

A new adventure … to be sure!