Reading: John Leonard, When the Kissing Had to Stop
Moving: none yet, but it's 6:12 in the morning
Watching: About to watch "Grave," the season finale of Buffy episode 6, thanks to Jessie.
House: About to iron shirts for RDC while watching "Grave."
Listening: [later] Don Giovanni
The very picture of a contented cockatiel glad to be home, one-legged and backward-headed and under the table on a lap where he belongs.
5 January 2003: Hair
Well, it's done. The decision part of it, that is. Not the actual amputation. I am giving 12 inches of hair to Locks of Love, which makes wigs for children with medical hair loss.
Over Christmas I met, for the first time, someone who's been friends with my mother-in-law for almost 30 years. For a time they lived together, and her oldest child was a sister to RDC. Years later, with a second husband, she had another daughter and a son. She now has brain cancer and a grim prognosis. The day we arrived, she was barely conscious, though she smiled when RDC came into her field of view; the day before we left, she was back at home, eating and walking and talking though her cognitive ability remains impaired: a respite, but of what duration no one knows.
(It was with her second daughter, who is 18, that I had a profound senior moment. This young woman is all Nine Inch Nails, Tim Burton, David Bowie, and Hot Topic. She wears her hair in a chin-length, red bob, very flattering. When we visited on New Year's Day I thought she had a severe case of bed-head: her front hair still swung before her face, but the back hair, which is much shorter, was spikey. Um, no, that's the look, she said; it was deliberate. Oh.)
(Speaking of senior moments, my stepsisterinlaw's
alias is now Halley because, she told me, that was the other possibility
for her name
(Apparently I was a prepubescent boy at the movies, though: Halley declined to come with us because she'd already seen it and the older two daughters found it boring or too much changed from the book, but the 11-year-old son, RDC2, who will be nine in March, and I all liked "The Two Towers.")
Anyway, my braid is finally as long as I want it, well past my bra strap, but my hair loose is just ridiculous. To my waistband, which I stubbornly, outmodedly continue to wear at my waist. It takes an unreasonably long time to braid. After a good swim or especially while body-surfing, the sopping wet braid, even tightly woven, migrates across my scalp.
Watching DMB care for her friend--swabbing out her mouth when she couldn't have liquids, brushing her hair; and feeling the powerful grasp of a woman at that point mostly unresponsive; and getting to know her husband and her amazingly resilient children; and seeing, over a period of days, the woman regain consciousness, some motor control, and limited speech; all this was profoundly stirring. And what the hell, I can't give blood anymore.
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