Part 1
She reminded herself that it wasn’t as though she hadn’t had warning. She told herself not to panic. It was going to be okay. Then Delilah looked back down at the clump of black hair in the sink that had just fallen from her head. And against her will a couple of tears squeezed out. Looking in the mirror again, she thought maybe her reflection would be different this time. When the doctors warned her that chemotherapy would make her hair fall out, she thought it would take a while. The first bottle of drugs was still on the shelf in the bathroom. She hadn’t needed a refill yet. Radiation therapy had started two weeks ago. She looked in the mirror again. Shouldn’t I look sick? Delilah looked just as healthy as when she’d gotten her diagnosis a little over six weeks ago. Uterine cancer. Wow, she thought, I don’t even feel sick yet. Except for the big bald spot, I don’t look any different. She looked at her watch, which told her it was 7:43. If she didn’t hurry, she’d never make it to class on time.
“Rick,” she called out. “Where’s your beard trimmer?” She heard him puttering about in the kitchen, and looked back in the mirror. Aggressive treatment my ass, she decided, I should have waited until after graduation to start this shit.
Obtaining Rick’s beard trimmer also meant finding out where he’d put the damn thing. So she’d gone to him and endured while he cried over her lost hair. Honestly, she loved Rick. He’d been her boyfriend for the last 5 years, through undergrad and grad. He’d made the follow-up appointment when her yearly exam came back with “anomalies.” He’d held her hand in the doctor’s office when she was told the diagnosis. He’d been driving her to radiation therapy. But he was a crier. Just a little bit of her still thought there was something wrong with men that cried.
Shoving those thoughts aside, she put herself into the task at hand. The trimmer made a buzzing noise as she turned it on. She surprised herself into a short laugh. Amusing, she thought, it sounds just like my vibrator. Delilah giggled just a little at the thought of vibrating her hair off, then took a deep breath, set it to the shortest setting and went to it. The trimmer made huge inroads on her hair. Trails formed on her scalp as masses of hair drifted down lazily to the sink below. Hair was everywhere. I should have cut it shorter first, she thought. Oh well, in for a lamb... It was going quicker now. Finally there was only one lock left. Briefly she considered leaving it there, on the side of her head. She could braid it. It would be like a prince’s lock, like the ancient Egyptians used to do. She could wear it for a while, and then, when she did shave it off, it would be a statement. A declaration. She would become a man. Ready to be Pharaoh. Delilah turned the trimmer off, and heard Rick in the living room. He was crying again. Or still.
She turned the trimmer back on and shaved it off. Who wanted to be a man? They were all weak anyway. One last look. Well, at least my ears don’t stick out. Then I’d look silly.
Walking across campus, it seemed like everyone was looking at her. Her head felt cold. I need to go shopping, Delilah decided. Buy some hats. Walking into her morning class, only one or two students looked up. But that started a chain reaction of gasps, until all 27 of their heads were up and 54 eyes were glued to her, trying to discover her possible reasons for becoming bald. She cleared her throat.
“Okay, separate into groups and get started on your peer evaluations.”
Reluctantly they complied. Delilah sank into her chair with a sigh. On the whole, she agreed with the English Department’s practice of letting graduate students teach freshman composition. It was a good way to pay the bills, and get some teaching experience on her resume. But sometimes being around freshman college students, especially first thing in the morning, could really wear on her nerves. Especially now. When she’d been diagnosed, Delilah had decided that she didn’t want to tell anyone what was wrong. Well, Rick had to know, and her parents obviously, but she just didn’t want to deal with all those reactions at school. Running her hand over her new haircut, she thought that maybe now she wouldn’t have to tell them. Most of them would probably figure it out for themselves. Certainly as time wore on, and other symptoms began to manifest. Her doctor had told her to withdraw from school.
“You need to save your strength for what’s important,” he’d said. She’d snorted at him and told him that an already paid for semester of school, above all her last semester, was the most important thing in her life, and she wouldn’t be persuaded. He’d itemized the many things that could happen. The stresses on her body that chemo and radiation could bring. That this was serious; she could actually die. She’d largely ignored him. Maybe that wasn’t my finest moment, Delilah reflected. Maybe I should... a student was approaching her. It was David, one of the student’s whose work she’d actually enjoyed reading. She glanced over at his group. They appeared to be done while the other groups were still at it.
“Yes?”
David looked at the ground, then back up.
“Ms. Vernon, we were... uh, I couldn’t help but notice... and...”
He looked so uncomfortable she couldn’t help but laugh. And then immediately felt pity for him. And looked around at the rest of the class and saw the same look on 26 other faces.
What would I have needed to hear from a teacher about cancer? Delilah had a moment of sympathy for her poor students; then irritation took over. Can’t I have a moment’s peace? Don’t these damn kids understand that if I wanted to tell them I would have?
“Please sit down, David. Everyone get back to work.” A girl, Cora, raised her hand.
“Actually, class time is over.” Delilah looked at her watch. 9:52. Now she was really irritated. She’d spaced out for the entire class time.
“Okay then. I expect to have your essays in my box by five tomorrow. Late papers will not be accepted.” The students filed out of the classroom. Delilah put her head down on the desk for a moment.
The secret’s out. Everyone’s gonna figure it out. By tomorrow morning everyone will know. There’s gonna be cards and phone calls at all hours. I’ll be lucky to escape a damned bake sale. She got herself together. She had a meeting with her faculty advisor, and then Rick would be outside to get her to that 11:30 doctor appointment. She pulled out her compact and looked into it. That shiny bald-headed person looked back at her.
I guess there’s no way to get old Whitson to believe this is a fashion statement. Maybe I can just tell him that it’s none of his damn business.
A short time later Delilah was sitting in a paper dress, putting her feet up into stirrups.
“Now you’re going to feel some pressure...” the doctor said calmly.
Translation. This is going to hurt like a son of a bitch. Delilah took a deep breath and tried to think of something else. The meeting with her advisor hadn’t gone well. Whitson had looked sidelong at her the whole time, wanting to ask but not feeling courageous enough. Ow, damn it, ow. She smiled a little at the thought that her new look might have intimidated him, at least just a little. I hope that works on the thesis committee. Ow. And what would it take to get a hand warmer in here, anyway? That seems very, ow, inconsiderate of them. And I hate, ow, hate paper dresses.
Later, when Delilah was dressed and sitting in the doctor’s office, letting Rick hold her hand, Rick had started telling her how stupid she was. Okay, she reminded herself, he hadn’t actually said stupid. That was just the tone in his voice as he told her that she needed to tell people what was going on in her life. That she could really use that support, to know there were people that she could depend on. And the doctor’d had the audacity to agree with him. He’d even tried to recommend a support group. Delilah sat there, silent for as long as possible. She felt tired and violated. Then she’d stood up.
“Look you assholes. This is my uterus. It’s my cancer. Don’t you dare tell me how to deal with it, as if either of you actually knew what I was going through.” She spun on the doctor and put her index finger in his face just as he was opening his mouth. “And don’t you tell me about all the people you’ve treated. Until you’ve actually had something that wants to kill you growing inside your own body, you can shut the hell up. I’ll deal with it any damned way I please. And if I have to sit through one more lecture like this, I’ll be finding myself a new boyfriend and a new doctor.” And she’d walked out the door.
She reminded herself that it wasn’t as though she hadn’t had warning. She told herself not to panic. It was going to be okay. Then Delilah looked back down at the clump of black hair in the sink that had just fallen from her head. And against her will a couple of tears squeezed out. Looking in the mirror again, she thought maybe her reflection would be different this time. When the doctors warned her that chemotherapy would make her hair fall out, she thought it would take a while. The first bottle of drugs was still on the shelf in the bathroom. She hadn’t needed a refill yet. Radiation therapy had started two weeks ago. She looked in the mirror again. Shouldn’t I look sick? Delilah looked just as healthy as when she’d gotten her diagnosis a little over six weeks ago. Uterine cancer. Wow, she thought, I don’t even feel sick yet. Except for the big bald spot, I don’t look any different. She looked at her watch, which told her it was 7:43. If she didn’t hurry, she’d never make it to class on time.
“Rick,” she called out. “Where’s your beard trimmer?” She heard him puttering about in the kitchen, and looked back in the mirror. Aggressive treatment my ass, she decided, I should have waited until after graduation to start this shit.
Obtaining Rick’s beard trimmer also meant finding out where he’d put the damn thing. So she’d gone to him and endured while he cried over her lost hair. Honestly, she loved Rick. He’d been her boyfriend for the last 5 years, through undergrad and grad. He’d made the follow-up appointment when her yearly exam came back with “anomalies.” He’d held her hand in the doctor’s office when she was told the diagnosis. He’d been driving her to radiation therapy. But he was a crier. Just a little bit of her still thought there was something wrong with men that cried.
Shoving those thoughts aside, she put herself into the task at hand. The trimmer made a buzzing noise as she turned it on. She surprised herself into a short laugh. Amusing, she thought, it sounds just like my vibrator. Delilah giggled just a little at the thought of vibrating her hair off, then took a deep breath, set it to the shortest setting and went to it. The trimmer made huge inroads on her hair. Trails formed on her scalp as masses of hair drifted down lazily to the sink below. Hair was everywhere. I should have cut it shorter first, she thought. Oh well, in for a lamb... It was going quicker now. Finally there was only one lock left. Briefly she considered leaving it there, on the side of her head. She could braid it. It would be like a prince’s lock, like the ancient Egyptians used to do. She could wear it for a while, and then, when she did shave it off, it would be a statement. A declaration. She would become a man. Ready to be Pharaoh. Delilah turned the trimmer off, and heard Rick in the living room. He was crying again. Or still.
She turned the trimmer back on and shaved it off. Who wanted to be a man? They were all weak anyway. One last look. Well, at least my ears don’t stick out. Then I’d look silly.
Walking across campus, it seemed like everyone was looking at her. Her head felt cold. I need to go shopping, Delilah decided. Buy some hats. Walking into her morning class, only one or two students looked up. But that started a chain reaction of gasps, until all 27 of their heads were up and 54 eyes were glued to her, trying to discover her possible reasons for becoming bald. She cleared her throat.
“Okay, separate into groups and get started on your peer evaluations.”
Reluctantly they complied. Delilah sank into her chair with a sigh. On the whole, she agreed with the English Department’s practice of letting graduate students teach freshman composition. It was a good way to pay the bills, and get some teaching experience on her resume. But sometimes being around freshman college students, especially first thing in the morning, could really wear on her nerves. Especially now. When she’d been diagnosed, Delilah had decided that she didn’t want to tell anyone what was wrong. Well, Rick had to know, and her parents obviously, but she just didn’t want to deal with all those reactions at school. Running her hand over her new haircut, she thought that maybe now she wouldn’t have to tell them. Most of them would probably figure it out for themselves. Certainly as time wore on, and other symptoms began to manifest. Her doctor had told her to withdraw from school.
“You need to save your strength for what’s important,” he’d said. She’d snorted at him and told him that an already paid for semester of school, above all her last semester, was the most important thing in her life, and she wouldn’t be persuaded. He’d itemized the many things that could happen. The stresses on her body that chemo and radiation could bring. That this was serious; she could actually die. She’d largely ignored him. Maybe that wasn’t my finest moment, Delilah reflected. Maybe I should... a student was approaching her. It was David, one of the student’s whose work she’d actually enjoyed reading. She glanced over at his group. They appeared to be done while the other groups were still at it.
“Yes?”
David looked at the ground, then back up.
“Ms. Vernon, we were... uh, I couldn’t help but notice... and...”
He looked so uncomfortable she couldn’t help but laugh. And then immediately felt pity for him. And looked around at the rest of the class and saw the same look on 26 other faces.
What would I have needed to hear from a teacher about cancer? Delilah had a moment of sympathy for her poor students; then irritation took over. Can’t I have a moment’s peace? Don’t these damn kids understand that if I wanted to tell them I would have?
“Please sit down, David. Everyone get back to work.” A girl, Cora, raised her hand.
“Actually, class time is over.” Delilah looked at her watch. 9:52. Now she was really irritated. She’d spaced out for the entire class time.
“Okay then. I expect to have your essays in my box by five tomorrow. Late papers will not be accepted.” The students filed out of the classroom. Delilah put her head down on the desk for a moment.
The secret’s out. Everyone’s gonna figure it out. By tomorrow morning everyone will know. There’s gonna be cards and phone calls at all hours. I’ll be lucky to escape a damned bake sale. She got herself together. She had a meeting with her faculty advisor, and then Rick would be outside to get her to that 11:30 doctor appointment. She pulled out her compact and looked into it. That shiny bald-headed person looked back at her.
I guess there’s no way to get old Whitson to believe this is a fashion statement. Maybe I can just tell him that it’s none of his damn business.
A short time later Delilah was sitting in a paper dress, putting her feet up into stirrups.
“Now you’re going to feel some pressure...” the doctor said calmly.
Translation. This is going to hurt like a son of a bitch. Delilah took a deep breath and tried to think of something else. The meeting with her advisor hadn’t gone well. Whitson had looked sidelong at her the whole time, wanting to ask but not feeling courageous enough. Ow, damn it, ow. She smiled a little at the thought that her new look might have intimidated him, at least just a little. I hope that works on the thesis committee. Ow. And what would it take to get a hand warmer in here, anyway? That seems very, ow, inconsiderate of them. And I hate, ow, hate paper dresses.
Later, when Delilah was dressed and sitting in the doctor’s office, letting Rick hold her hand, Rick had started telling her how stupid she was. Okay, she reminded herself, he hadn’t actually said stupid. That was just the tone in his voice as he told her that she needed to tell people what was going on in her life. That she could really use that support, to know there were people that she could depend on. And the doctor’d had the audacity to agree with him. He’d even tried to recommend a support group. Delilah sat there, silent for as long as possible. She felt tired and violated. Then she’d stood up.
“Look you assholes. This is my uterus. It’s my cancer. Don’t you dare tell me how to deal with it, as if either of you actually knew what I was going through.” She spun on the doctor and put her index finger in his face just as he was opening his mouth. “And don’t you tell me about all the people you’ve treated. Until you’ve actually had something that wants to kill you growing inside your own body, you can shut the hell up. I’ll deal with it any damned way I please. And if I have to sit through one more lecture like this, I’ll be finding myself a new boyfriend and a new doctor.” And she’d walked out the door.
