BC

The tumor was a three plus. Her cancer stage two. Eighteen weeks of chemo. She will lose her hair. That hair. That thick hair. The hair I used to brush when I was a little girl. That hair that was tied in a pony tail during the "Love Story" stage. She resembled Ali MacGraw. That hair that she pulled back during the scarf and big earring stage. That was when I would babysit and would read her MS. Magazines and talk about politics, spirituality, and the meaning of life. I think I was about twelve. Always a good listener, she was my refuge, my sanctuary, and my trusted confidante through every stage of life.

Now, this is her cancer stage. At sixty-seven, she is the same age her mother was during her cancer stage.
Ironic.
She has lost her breast and now will lose her hair and I keep shaking my head saying, "I can't believe this."

I guess I am in the denial stage.

I look back over our history BC. Now, there will always be a before. Funny how before always looks so much better when there is an after. That time when we moved through life unsuspecting. Unaware of what lay ahead. As soon as there is a before, we are forced to look back to see before through the lens of after.

I look back at a lifetime of everything with her and don't want it to be after. I want it to be before. But it isn't.
It's now. And she will lose her hair.
And I must accept it.
A new stage.