365 Days At The Swings

Sarah

(For future references, trichotillomania is where a person is constantly tugging on their hair)

-Megan

      "I just hope I am ready for what comes next."

I mutter, glancing towards my nurse. Such a pretty girl, frail figure but curves in all the right places, beautiful skin tone and lovely lily pad eyes. But it was her hair; the one thing that stood out the most. Luscious and thick, naturally wavy, stopping by her shoulders. I envied her hair.

 In comparison I have normal hair, straight and black, with brown highlights that I had begged for last year. But at the left side of my hair, the upper corner, there stood a curl, sticking out in every picture that I have ever been in...

A cowlick.

I hated that curl.

At age 12, I went into extreme measures and took matters into my own hands. All it took was an empty house and a pair of nice, sharp scissors.

I think you can guess what happened next…

 "Sarah, you will be fine, the chemotherapy will kill your cancer cells."

The nurse replied back in such a positive tone, that it makes me believe that its that hard for her to lie about my situation. Meanwhile, she starts to take my blood pressure. Daily routine and all.

“But there is side effects ."

She added with sigh. The nurse then stops and makes an effort to study my reaction, waiting for me to sink it all in. I am not stupid, I know what will happen.

My hair will fall.

My weight will decrease.

My breathing will come to a stop.

My skin will turn pale.

Then I will be dead.

There is no hope for me to live, and I have come to terms with it.

It's my written fate.  How can a person even recover from brain tumor?

"How long will it last? The chemotherapy?"

"This is your 2nd session shouldn't you already know?"

        She replies back in a hushed tone, her eyes darkening the very minute she pulls out a needle from her hand.

"Wait, wh-"

But before I could have even said another word, I fell into a deep sleep.

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Once in a while, before I would go to sleep, I would lie down and stare at the ceiling, thinking about death, I wasn't afraid to die, the only kind of death that would frighten me is a prolonging one. But it makes me wonder…

Will I enter a twilight zone and never be able to see light?

Or is it more?

Only time will tell.

"Hi honey, how are you feeling?'

A voice emerges into my thoughts, causing me to concentrate on my surroundings. My vision is a bit blurry and I felt like throwing up. But if I squinted my eyes enough, the figure shows as my Mom.

"F-ine."

The statement itself doesn't sound well, my tone is raspy. My mother then starts to sob in response, clinging onto another figure for support. Who I can only guess was my father.

"Can't you help her?"

I overhear my father say to the doctor. The word "help" registers in my mind. I do not to be "helped." I need a miracle.

"Give it a few weeks, most patients feel awful after the therapy, but if it she rests it will get better, but if it gets worse, contact us soon."

The fact that I had a probability of getting worse makes me queasy. The doctors here sure knows how to sugarcoat to worried parents

"I will be fine."

I repeat once more, but it must have been barely audio able, because my father and the doctor continue to converse, awhile my mother is still sobbing but attentively listening. Although, it is that very moment when I start to notice.

Trichotillomania. It was proven that I had it in 4th grade. Biting, pulling my hair and sometimes eating it when I took tests in school. It gotten so bad that my parents made me see a doctor. And that's when we knew.

So normally, at a time like this, I would be tugging on my hair, when tensions are high, and my anxiety being at its worse. I have been told to find another outlet.

Rubber-bands.

Punching on a pillow.

Anything else but my hair.

Since no extra pillows lay nearby me and obviously no rubber bands, I resorted into tugging my hair again. Normally, only 3 strands would come out, not enough to cause me to worry.

But this time, it was too easy to pull.

---------------------------------

Oddly enough, that's when the nurse emerges to my view, asking if I was awake.

"S-he..."

My mother begins to say, but stops as she sees the nurse turning her head towards me.

 I am staring hard at the nurse, glaring at that beautiful hair. It was beautiful. So beautiful.

 I hated it. I hated her. I hate this.

The nurse starts opening her mouth, maybe to ask how I was doing, but I cut her off, already in tears.