You may have noticed I haven’t been posting as much lately. It’s true. When I was in BC treatment I blogged daily for the most part. And I hope this doesn’t hurt your feelings too much, but I think I was doing it mostly for me. The blogging really helped me sort through what was going on and how I was feeling (and let me just mention how much more comfortable I am with a totally made up trendy word like “blogging” then I ever would have been had I had to type “journaling” and “feeling” in the same sentence). Of late however, I don’t find the time to blog as often. I don’t have the (sometimes funny/ sometimes tragic) daily or even weekly crisis going on. And, in fact, I don’t need to blog as frequently. It’s one of the signs I’ve returned to and begun swimming in that River of Life the doctor mentioned. Heck, I’m even weaning myself off my dependence on the good and great Dr. Karam and all his helpful advice and immediate answers (although I do need to email about our next wine and food extravaganza get together).

Another sign of my swimming–I forget that I ever was a cancer patient. I forget that people who haven’t seen me in a few months might not recognize me. Or that people who know me but perhaps not well may have heard all sorts of crazy things about me having this disease that starts with a “C” and is almost as hard to say and rarely spoken of as that other “c” word. So I can get caught off guard now by responses. Yesterday we (that would be me, Chris, Seamus and Roryann and Seamus’s new BFF–but only when he can’t be with Will–Harold) went to an open house at the RHS Pet Adoption Center (aka how Seamus came into my life). I’ve been a volunteer there, on the board of directors, past president, and cable tv show host for them over the past 20 years. 20. 2. and then 0. Two decades. A person who has been there almost that long did not recognize me at the door. And apparently, she also was not happy that I was bringing my dog with me (oddly, she couldn’t recognize me and thus didn’t recognize the dog–I’m the other way around, I recognize humans by the dog they are walking). I spent a good five or ten minutes wondering what on earth I had done to piss this person off before finally realizing that she didn’t know it was me. (And yes, I have special privileges to bring my special needs dog with me). I went back over to her, wearing a name tag with my name in really large letters, and the light bulb went on. She was no longer mad at me. Or, whoever she thought I was (rude guest bringing a dog to a cocktail/ social function).

At this same function–and let me be clear, this is one of those business/networking/ gab-fest functions where business cards are exchanged like spit at a junior high dance–I kept answering the “How are you?” question with “I’m great, how are you?” and then got the “No, I mean how arrrrrrrrrrre you?” with the scrunchy face. The face that says “I’m really concerned about you and heard you were going to die but don’t know how to ask if that’s really true.” Yeah, that face. And I’d say, “Oh, right. I’m great. I’m all through treatment and everything looks great.” And usually, I’d get a hug. (I’m not a hugger but I’ve learned to adjust. People hug cancer patients. This is apparently a fact of life). Sometimes I’d get a hug before I even got the scrunchy face. And I forget that I ever was a cancer patient! I’ve even gotten used to my hair. To me, really people, my breast cancer is so last month.

I’ve also lately been feeling like a bit of a slacker. Not just because I haven’t blogged as much. But because I’ve been reading other blogs where people are doing things like attending Global Cancer Summits. And I think ,um, wow, no epiphanies for me and I went through breast cancer and all I have is a few t-shirts. But that’s not quite right. I have a lot of knowledge about this breast cancer thing. And I have my energy back. I am doing something with that. No, I am. I swear.

I’m involved, as I mentioned before, with the start up of a Breast Cancer Resource Center in my county (Riverside; and actually the neighboring San Bernardino County too). That’s part of my reason for blogging less as well. We’re really moving on this!

Clearly, it’s time for some adjustments. I’m still going to blog. Because I just might be addicted to it (hey, no one forces you to read it) and there is lots going on with the Breast Cancer Resource Center. We have an “amazing” committee (yes, it’s like a reality TV dating show–it’s amazing and we’re going on this journey and we’re not here to make friends we’re here to win…oh wait, okay, maybe not that last part. But sure, stay tuned). And in fact, it deserves and will get it’s own post. But I do believe I will blog more like twice a week. At least now when I don’t blog daily you won’t think I was rushed to urgent care holding my precious last 2 white blood cells in a paper bag.

When not blogging, I will be continuing to build my law practice (and yes, yes, yes I continued to work through all the treatment; if one more person says “Have you gone back to work yet” I think I will scream. I didn’t stop working. Homelessness and starvation were not going to aid my recovery!!). I am also working on that memoir of mine (as soon as I stop saying “does the world really need another cancer memoir?”, because it’s not about me–Seamus wants his cancer battle and all the ways he paved the path for me shared with the world…or at least 8 family members). And, I will be launched into starting up this Breast Cancer Resource Center, which you will hear more about in the next blog post.

In the meantime, for my writer friends mostly, I give you this link to a hysterically funny blog. Specifically today’s post really helped a little mental block of mine while working on the memoir (which oddly, I just find easier to think of as little personal essays all tied together). The Intern says: “You stifle your memoir in the grave when you consider it a passive account of things past rather than an active, completely new and surprising encounter with the music/your fascinating life. It’s possible to know exactly what’s coming, and still have a scene/character/entire book be new and unusual and awesome and completely uncanned.” I think this is really my issue–the blog was a discovery for me, so (I hope) the writing was interesting. Must discover as I write the memoir. Hmmm…… (okay right, so she probably meant we stifle it in the cradle because if it’s in the grave, well, who cares if it’s stifled; but still, this is worth thinking about. Besides, she’s probably in her early twenties, really smart, quite funny and working in the publishing world. All hail the intern. Okay, well, sure, she’s working for free, but whatever…. I’m still in awe. It is my path not taken.)

(photo is Seamus and Harold, hanging out while their humans enjoyed oysters and champagne on a hot, but beautiful, downtown Riverside summer evening).

See that?? That’s me!! The bottom left “In Honor of” card says “Teresa and her dog.” That’s me and Seamus! And that’s the tribute wall at the LiveStrong Global Cancer Summit in Dublin! The tribute was placed there by Stephanie of Bah!to Cancer–who is there on a press pass blogging away. I “met” Stephanie through our blogs. I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that she is also a breast cancer survivor (and if you are reading her blog, you know she is also darn funny–in that very British way).

I feel like I am now officially part of an international club. Okay, right, it’s a cancer club but hey, at least we travel.

Because this is way cooler than anything I’m doing right now, today I’m going to send you over to the “Bah! to Cancer” blog post. Stephanie (the author) is in Dublin attending the LiveStrong Global Cancer Summit as part of the press–because of her blog!! She’s posting on what’s going on and I find it all fascinating, so I’m thinking you might too.

Here’s the link to Bah! to Cancer. And that’s Stephanie, blogging away (please note super stylish, way trendy hairstyle). Enjoy! (but please remember to come back to my blog too.

[Note to Anonymous Commenter: This is again a posting that involves hair and what someone looks like. Since you seem completely oblivious to the fact that this is a blog about going through breast cancer and that includes the effects of chemo, which are **news flash** physical, I thought I should warn you so that you don't have to bother your obviously far superior self with such droll ramblings. Here's an idea: stop reading the blog. After all, you are so above "appearances" you've chosen to post anonymously. I love that. But surely you have better things to do.]

Now, for those of you who actually get the blog:

CHRIS CUT HIS HAIR TODAY!!!

Here is the final “Chris’s hair Post.” This morning, he woke up looking like this:
And so for posterity’s sake we measured the Wi-fro:
That may be a little hard to see, and even harder to believe, but that’s 4 1/2″ of hair at the top of his head. Impressive. But not as impressive as this:That’s not a collection of toupees, that’s not a cocker spaniel, and it’s not a large throw rug. It’s what happened as a result of this:
That’s Chris with Kelly, my longtime hairstylist and the one who shaved my head, styled my wigs and now has hacked her way through Chris’s phenom of hair. Hair tsunamis no more. She even trimmed my hair (and we mean literally–one crazy little hair that had to go). So here’s my “new” look:

And the end result today was much happiness for everyone concerned:
For the record, Chris and I both went from February 7th to August 21st without a haircut. He just needed a lot more hair product than I did. But that’s love people. That’s love.

What do these photos have in common?
Right. They are not me. It’s so obvious. It is, right? And yet that’s what I’m hearing these days about my hair– “It’s very [insert celebrity-type with really short hair].” Okay, so it’s really only me who thinks “Brigette Nielson” (it’s just a fear of mine–based on that whole “we’re kind of gigantic” commonality.) But last week I heard “Annie Lennox” a half dozen times and this week it’s “Jamie Lee Curtis.” I don’t have the bone structure of either of them, and, um, I’m younger than both of them.

So while I’m flattered that people are starting to think my hairstyle is a choice, the comments seem to be confirming for me that “it’s a style” but it’s not “my style.” I’m still not-so-patiently waiting for mine to reach a point where I no longer feel the need to explain to unsuspecting total strangers who happen to glance at my head that “it’s still growing out from cancer and reallyIdidn’tchoosethisI’mjusttryingtogrowitoutandIpromiseitusedtobelongandnormallooking.” In the meantime, the me with the short hair is still learning that women can actually be pretty nice to each other. Who knew?

No, no, not the end of the blog. And certainly not the end of me. But the end of the Wi-fro. Look at that thing. It simply can’t go on. I think this morning Chris’s hair was begging us to put it out of its misery. This is what Chris looked like when he woke up this morning. I laughed so much I just had to ask him to throw some clothes on and let me take a photo for the blog before he did anything to the hair. I just don’t think you all have been able to see the full glory of his hair without seeing the “first thing in the morning” hair.

For those of you who might be new to this, let me explain. Chris did the dutiful supportive “significant other” offer to shave his own head when I had chemo. I declined the offer because frankly, he has way better hair than I do and I would have been more upset over his loss of hair. So he did the opposite and has been “growing it out for cancer.” He hasn’t had it cut since February 7th (right before I started chemo). Just as a refresher, this is what he looked like the night before my surgery (so January 27th). And um…now (Seems like this experience has been kind of rough on him doesn’t it?)

Once we figured out he can’t actual donate it to Locks of Love or any of those organizations (they want 10 inches of hair!), we really didn’t have an “end” in mind for this massive undertaking of hair growth. So of course I posted a poll as to when Chris should cut his hair. And some evil minded (but funny!) person stepped in and ran a campaign to vote for December 15th (when Chris and I leave for Maui). Well, December 15th was the winning selection with 26 votes. On the other hand….a full 30 of you voted for a date which is earlier than December 15th. See where I’m going with this?

Right. I’m letting Chris off the hook. He and I will both be going for a haircut. That’s right, me too. I have some crazy odd hairs sticking out on my head and there does seem to be enough hair to require a little shaping at this point. So, while my hair cut will probably take all of 30 seconds and Chris’s is likely to take hours and many stylists working in shifts, we are going to go together sometime soon. There will be photos.

(That rush of wind you just heard coming from the south was Chris’s mother’s sigh of relief.)

This time it was only my social life, but Chris’s youngest sister Courtney assures me it would have been social suicide. So let me just thank the god of chemo side effects right now.

Chris has recently introduced me to the joy of hair “fiber” or “paste” or “molding something or other” that one applies to hair to make it spike-y or texture-y or something or other that makes really short hair seem styled, yet not. Thus emboldened, I’m taking a moment or two in the mornings to actually “style” my hairs and occasionally I think it looks good. Saturday night we went to Newport Beach for the wedding of a close friend of Chris’s family. Big, lavish wedding attended by well-dressed, well-groomed perfect looking people. (And then me.) Due to the state of my head, I have two looks I can sort of pull off that fool me momentarily into thinking that other people might possibly think my hair is intentional–the first is the aforementioned Sedona/Rain forest/funky jewelry woman (no hair fiber) and the other, I recently discovered through the gift of hair fiber paste, is a sort of intense, dressed in black, New York editrix. But this was a wedding. Neither of those looks really work. I considered a wig but really can’t stand the thought of that. So, going through my closet, I found I had two dress choices. Both dresses were from Banana Republic. I’m a big fan of BR. Mostly because they carry clothes in sizes that have two digits and they also carry many of their clothes in tall sizes. Even dresses, which is important when one is nearly 6 feet tall and over…ahem, a certain age… where a hem should be very near the knee.

One violet colored one-shouldered BR dress I thought would look pretty good with the hair, since the color is stunning and the dress sort of throws the focus to the neck and shoulders so not having hair was almost a good thing. Alas, I decided against it for two reasons. First, BR actually puts the season on the tag of their clothing. This tag read SPR08. Spring, 2008. Hmmm…could I risk a year-old dress in this crowd? And even I could remember I also wore this dress out to dinner with Chris’s family previously. Still, under the circumstances, I was tempted to wear it. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t wedge my feet into the shoes that look best with the dress. My feet this week have been doing their bloating neuropathy thing and have alternated between looking like not-so-small piglets attached to my ankles and just plain fat feet. I knew that even if I got my feet into the shoes walking would be severely restricted and Chris was not likely to want to carry his bald Amazonian violet warrior throughout the evening, not to mention how that might have ruined the effect of the dress in the first place. Instead, I chose the SMR09 BR dress in a sort of robin’s egg blue color. Surprisingly the gladiator-strappy silver sandals with nearly 4″ heels that go with this dress were the most comfortable for my feet. Sure, they made me 6″3 and I was, you know, rockin’ some strange Annie Lennox in pastels look but somehow I still made it out the door thinking I looked okay. (Delusion is fun, isn’t it?)

The delusion lasted until we got to the parking lot of the church and it looked as though the wedding was going to be a lot more formal than we had expected (and somehow violet seemed more “formal” than robin’s egg blue to me, so I was positive I’d made the wrong choice). The church, like Newport Beach itself, was full of girls with long blonde hair (with bangs swept across their foreheads in gravity defying ways) who are all exactly 5′ 6″ (in heels) and weigh 46 pounds (in wet towels). I was no longer even Annie Lennox looking. I was more Brigette Nielson (and not even when she was stalking Sylvester Stallone, which, I think, must be considered her heyday). The wedding was not Catholic and therefore was actually over the same day it started and we made our way to the reception. We weren’t inside the Country Club two minutes when I realized that I had, indeed, made the right dress choice and not just because the wedding was not as formal as it had first appeared. There at the bar was a young woman in the violet SPR08 dress.

There were 300+ people at this reception. Not only was the young woman at the same reception wearing the very dress I had pulled out and considered a few short hours ago but as luck would have it, she was seated at our same table (she, it turns out, is married to someone that Chris went to grade school with) two seats away.

My chemo feet saved me from the social suicide of being caught in the same dress at the same table at the same wedding reception as another woman. And trust me, I would not have won this dress-off. Did I mention she was young? And thin. And had long thick hair (brown, surprising I know…but she’s obviously new to the crowd, after all she was wearing a SPR 08 dress).

Thus narrowly escaping social suicide thanks to chemo puffiness, I enjoyed a wonderful meal (chilled melon soup, Caesar salad, lobster and steak) and Chris and I spent most of the night dancing. Yes, I danced. In 4″ heels. All night. Hey, it’s not like I could look any stranger.

I’m pleased to report my feet hurt like hell today. But this time, I don’t think the chemo gets the credit or the blame.

(P.S. the photo is not of the actual dress nor the actual girl. But close enough. On both counts.)

You may recognize this photo–it’s been on the sidebar of this blog throughout, because of course, everything I needed to know about cancer I learned from my dog. This dog. Seamus (pronounced, by the way, Shay-mus. Just back from our heartland America tour I have learned that a blog reader or 20 has been pronouncing his name Seem-us. Uh, no. It’s Irish for James and pronounced Shay-mus. Shay-moose when he’s eating a lot. Which is always.) My mother (a very talented art quilter in her own right) has a friend, Roberta Ranney, who reads the blog and cleverly deduced how important this little dog is to me. So she “quilted up” this for me and gave it to me at my Survivor Party Part Deux.
Isn’t that spectacular? Yes, it’s a quilt! (Not the big kind your grandma put on her bed. This is “textile art” and it gets hung on the wall!) It turned out so well–I can’t believe how beautifully she captured Seamus’s (slightly crazed) personality. I’m not the only one who was impressed. Thus she’s now launched a line of custom pet quilts! You can order one of your pet and while there is absolutely no way your pet is as cute as Seamus, the textile art will be stunning. Her blog is RobertaRanney.blogspot.com (or just click on that!). She’s posted a few other animal portrait quilts she’s done, including one of my mom’s Australian Shepherd, Barbee (yeah, don’t ask about the name. It has something to do with “shrimp on…”. Right, don’t ask.)

And in other artist news, one of my favorite art websites The Artful Home is having a breast cancer fundraiser. Not the normal “buy something tacky and pink and we’ll make a profit and give oh, a couple of cents, to some gigantic research conglomerate” kind of fundraiser. This is specifically for one artist who has had a recurrence of breast cancer and it’s spread to her bones. She requires 16 rounds of chemo and because this was a “pre-existing condition” she has no insurance. A bunch of the other artists have donated their works and 100% of the sales proceeds today and tomorrow go to the “Hearts for Anna” fund to help pay for her treatment. Hey, I had insurance and I can’t believe how much money I had to spend battling this disease. She’s going to need a lot of help. So, check it out. There’s some beautiful work. (Click here: “Hearts for Anna“).

There will be more art updates soon. My mother shipped the quilt she made and is donating to the Shop to Stop Breast Cancer event. I should have it next week and will post photos of that too. Because of course, we’d love donations from other artists for this event as well. (That was subtle, right?)

Of course, I’m of the opinion cancer has taken a permanent vacation, so maybe “(Former) Cancer Girl Takes a Vacation” would be more appropriate. It is however, less catchy as a title.

We got back from our “heartland vacation” late, late Sunday night. It’s been crazy busy ever since, but I do want to share a few of our Cancer Survivor vacation moments.

First, we had Survivor Party #2 at my mom’s house in Springfield, MO. Note the shirts? Left to right that’s step-dad Ted, Chris, niece McKinzee, me, mom (Vivian), nephew Lucas (in front), brother Jay and sister-in-law Jennifer, all appropriately attired in the Survivor t-shirt. Except Chris. Apparently I forgot to mention the dress code. Ooops. One of my mom’s quilting friends gave me a spectacular quilt as a Survivor gift. It, along with the quilts my mom gave me (one of which is for the Shop to Stop Breast Cancer event!), deserves it’s own post so we’ll get to that later. The party was fun and my niece and nephew asked me to sign their shirts, which was really pretty cute.

After our quick 2 1/2 days in Missouri, we took our time driving up to Chicago. Great drive! Once in Chicago I was at a conference and Chris was conducting a wine tasting at House of Glunz. Eventually though, we had a day to just roam around the city. I LOVE Chicago. LOVE it. Of course, I consider anything below 75 degrees to be cold, so I think my love affair with Chicago will be a fickle one, but I’m quite smitten at the moment. And, Chicago loved me back. As Chris and I roamed through Millennium park and then across the bridge to Bicentennial Park (query: is one really ten times better than the other? we strolled towards the lake. We found ourselves in a very beautiful little garden, on a beautiful Saturday in summer, almost alone. And then we saw this sign:

How cool is that?? Thank you Richard and Annette Bloch. (Must look up who they are and how this garden came about). We walked through the garden and out onto the plaza, which was the “Cancer Survivor’s Plaza.” Wow. We stumbled on this completely by accident, but somehow it just seemed meant to be.Eventually, we made our way down to Navy Pier. The best thing I can say about that is that we saw this yacht in the harbor:

You will note that it is dubbed “Odyssey 2.” Perhaps you will recall that I refer to what others call the “Cancer Journey” as the “Cancer Odyssey” (a term actually coined by the good and great Dr. Karam). I’m hoping my “Odyssey 2″ is a little more like this one.

And as if Chicago had not proved her love for me in enough ways with all of this, we also discovered that Jimmy Buffett had followed us to town. To understand the importance of this you must understand that I am not a music person at all. I tend to think of music as noise. (Yes, I realize this is a character defect.) The only exception to this is Jimmy Buffett–I have been a parrothead since a high school boyfriend introduced me to the “Volcano” album (back when they were “albums” and round, black and shiny). I have been to a half dozen or so concerts of his (as a opposed to the, oh, call it 5 concerts of any other kind ever that I’ve been to). In Southern California his concerts sell out in about 8 minutes and he seems to be coming here less and less. So to see a flashing billboard with “Jimmy Buffett August 8th: Tickets Still Available” as we drove into Chicago on August 4th (our first night) was like seeing a “God will Speak to You Now. Is there anything else you’d like?” billboard.

We got tickets. We went. We loved it. Here’s why:

The photos are probably self explanatory, but here’s a little help: That’s us, in the parking lot for the pre-party; Fins anyone?; Let’s just say we were in the “no rhythm” section and tie-dye guy pretty much did that throughout the entire concert; and the “sleeping” parrothead? Yeah, that was before the concert ever started. Gotta hand it to him though, he rallied eventually.

Per Jimmy: “Changes in latitude, changes in attitude,, nothing remains quite the same… ” (which was not a cancer survivor song, but should have been).

Thanks, Chicago!!

I am back from vacation. But tired. Super tired. So this may be short. But…it’s at least an original post and not a repeat. It is however about hair. I’m stuck in a hair rut.

There was a time when I couldn’t quite figure out why hair–or more specifically the loss of hair–seemed to be such an overwhelmingly big aspect of this whole cancer thing. Compared with, oh, let’s just say, um…the potential loss of life, it seems that losing one’s hair temporarily, while not fun or easy, is not the worst aspect of the cancer experience. Yet it certainly seems to be the one most discussed and the one that others (i.e. “other” than the cancer patient) seem to obsess over. I could have paid all my out of pocket medical expenses, if only I had a dollar for every time someone not diagnosed with cancer told me they didn’t know what they would do if they lost their hair, or that they would be “really unattractive” without hair, or some such thing. And honestly, it didn’t bother me that much when it happened. The thought of chemo (and stay with me here folks, the chemo happens first…then the hair loss) and all it’s potential side effects stressed me out a bit more and by the time the hair loss occurred I was ready for that and eventually when the chemo fatigue set in (conveniently, right about with the hair loss) I was happy to have the extra time in the morning (no shaving, no shampooing, no blow drying, no styling and eventually, no mascara necessary).

But that was then. I’m all better now. I have my energy back. I’ve returned to the regular programming of my life. I’m back at work and my new associate started today, so we’re really ready to go all out full speed ahead. And I miss my hair.

I’ve given up the wigs and the scarves for good and I have enough hair to do that without drawing stares everywhere I go. And as a friend said of my hair “It’s a look. It’s a style. It’s not your look or your style, but it’s a look.” Which is true–whether it’s a lesbian chic look or a “just back from a spiritual retreat in Sedona, how do you like my new beads and isn’t it a shame about the rain forest?” look–it is indeed a look. But it’s not me. And that’s starting to bug me. It’s my last reminder of my “cancer patient” status (hey, I don’t really notice the scar at “right breast 10 o’clock” and I guarantee you strangers aren’t noticing it! Oh, okay, I have the weird foot neuropathy thing but that comes and goes and in the right shoes, no one notices.). Yeah, yeah, I know–the whole odyssey was only 7 months and it was only been a few weeks since treatment ended, but hey, I’d like my hair back now!

Part of this is coming from that fact that I was at an estate planning conference in Chicago and felt a little “off my game” dealing with so many other lawyers (a competitive lot, to say the least). I felt just slightly odd and I do believe I was perceived differently by others. Two sociological findings (or maybe it’s the same one?) that are probably not surprising: a nearly 6 ft tall blonde woman in a suit and heels is not easily over-looked or ignored in a still primarily male dominated field; turns out that same nearly 6 ft tall, no longer blonde, nearly hairless woman in comfortable flat shoes (to accomodate her swollen feet) is quite easily overlooked. Although, that was mostly my experience with men. Women were actually warmer than they usually are to me– although for the most part, that’s not the other lawyers–that’s the exhibitors and staff for the conference. I won two different “raffles” (you know how the exhibitors at conferences always raffle off things to get you to leave a business card? Yeah, those.) I’m convinced the raffles were not at all random. They liked me because I talked to them (and I talked to them because they talked to me…it’s all very meta) and in one case “the cancer” came up and voila’ I was the raffle winner! (yeah, I know, I should have gone to every table and used the cancer card. My suitcase wasn’t that big. And airlines charge by the pound now.)

Another part of this is coming, I’m sure, from the fact that I met several of Chris’s really nice, really accomplished friends in Chicago. And since they are his friends from college (read: Princeton, so we’re all clear on where I’m going with this) they are way younger than me. So I was feeling a little…um…well…let’s just say old, stupid and ugly. Not for long (the old and stupid part anyway) though, because they are very nice and interesting and not at all judgmental (and, well, bright enough to understand the whole cancer thing). But again, the hair thing bugged me. I would just prefer not to look odd. Especially when meeting people who don’t know me any other way.

I actually had a dream last night that I had hair. Not a dream in which I appeared with hair, but a dream wherein Dream Teresa realized that her hair had suddenly grown to shoulder length and was blonde again. Dream Teresa then realized she needed to style it or cut it or do something with it. Dream Teresa then ran about (outdoors mostly, because dreams can’t ever make sense right?) trying to find the appropriate styling tools. That part of the dream was much like the “I have a test and I can’t find the classroom I’m supposed to be in” dream that we over-achieving geeky folks who looooved school have. Eventually Dream Teresa settled on foaming up an entire can of mousse and lathering that into her hair (a sign that real life Teresa has watched Chris struggle with controlling that massive tsunami of hair of his one too many times).

I warned you–I’m in a hair rut. Or maybe this was a hair-rant. Either way, it’s over for now. Must get sleep.

The photo is to let you know a) what the hair “look” is currently (and oh yeah, I threw in some artsy bead jewelry), and b) that my vacation was enjoyable and I did get to spend time with the Missouri branch of my family. That’s my younger brother Jay and his son Lucas in the photo. Because when else will the 3 of us have matching hairdos?

PS: a note about “potential side effects” of chemo. Read the “potential side effects” of aspirin. Or cold medicine. Scary stuff. And yet you still take those things. Okay, so the side effects warnings for chemo are a bit more extensive, but it’s the same basic premise–the effects are potential and each of the effects have happened to someone. But they don’t all happen to everyone on chemo. And they don’t all happen at the same time. And many of them never happen to many people. (That was just for anyone–D– reading this who might currently be contemplating the side effects of chemo. )