Friday, August 11, 2017

Dear Cancer, Thank you for...

Dear Cancer,

Thank you for taking all the hair off my head, making me feel freakish and self-conscious.  In the wee hours of the morning when my bladder wakes me for one of it's urgent calls, I pass by a large mirror on the way to the bathroom.  Imagine my fright when in the moonlit reflection I see only an old Uncle Fester in a pink nightie following me to the loo. Scares me every night!  

Image result for uncle fester author

Thank you too for taking my eyebrows and nearly all of my eyelashes so that the "sick with cancer" look is complete.

Finally, thank you for taking the hair on my arms, under my arms and from my lady bits to my knees.

What I don't understand is why you insist on leaving the hair that grows from my knees to my ankles - you know, the hair most visible when I wear a pair of shorts, capris, a skirt or a dress (you know, summer clothes) forcing me to shave all summer. 

Was it just too much to go the distance and relieve me of this one pesky task while I go through chemotherapy?






1 comment:

  1. Personally, I think you're making a great Uncle Fester. I'm not sure about the "old" part, but I am pretty sure that you could never let go of that need for humor, however slight it may be these days.

    So. Every now and then, when I'm talking to someone about personal growth (I think that best sums it up), I am reminded of this lady who had an astute impact on the past, oh, say 18 years of my life. Pretty intense, huh? Well, something happened. She gave me an "ah-ha" moment that I will never forget.

    One day, way back then, I was armed with the task of writing a memo to a client. I remember thinking it wasn't half bad and brought it to this lady for her approval. It most certainly did not pass muster. So I went back and re-wrote it, based on my interpretation of her direction. And once more, I traipsed over to her office, thinking "it's in the bag". I couldn't have been more wrong. I revised the letter again and returned with hope this was it. No such luck. Back to my desk I went; quickly blinking my eyes trying to keep the tears from squeezing out until I reached the confines of my closed door. After a few minutes, well, maybe more, I took a deep breath and thought, "now WWDD?" It wasn't the words I struggled with, but rather how I communicated what I needed to say that gave me grief. And then it hit me. Purpose. Succinct. Organize. I enthusiastically tackled the keyboard once more and when I was finished, with emotion in my voice, I dialed her number and almost demanded she come over to my office to read it. Now, that I think about it, I did demand; because she came right over and I know I didn't ask nicely. Holding my breath, I sat in my chair as I watched her lean into the computer screen, slowly reading the letter. Her response when when she finished? "If you wrote ALL of your letters like this, I'd hug you!" Ah-ha!

    Needless to say, I've written many a letter in the next 18+ years - business or otherwise. And each one of them written in the same manner as I learned back then.

    I've often wondered where the hell you been, Alma Lyffe (jeez, that sounds like a pick up line). Then I found your blog. And now I know. While horribly saddened for its need, I am comforted "hearing" your thoughts, however raw they may be. Please know that I will be listening for as long as you want to share them.

    Hugs.
    Andy

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