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 October 2008 Post Book Essays The Halloween Difference - October 31, 2008 Several years ago, I wrote a piece about spring
and sandals and the challenges of chemo-ravaged, aging feet,
my own feet that is. It's now autumn and since I've finally changed
my straw summer purse for my winter red "pleather"
one, it's time once again to retire the flip-flops, take off
the camouflage of dark nail polish and confront what I have come
to call "Witchy Toe." Throughout my long and checkered history with multiple chemotherapy agents for breast cancer and its many permutations, I have come through the skin and nail stuff that is often a lovely side effect. I've lost nails. I have had hands and feet blister and peel. I've had inflamed cuticles around my fingernails and toenails. I've fought fungal infections that hunkered down and stayed when the integrity of my nail beds was breached and my white counts were low. I've mostly recovered from those things, leaving nearly all of my vanity by the side of the road, but one, stubborn ugly reminder has stayed: the misshapen, darkened, thick, ridgy nail on my right big toe. It looks like it could be made out of rhino horn. When my daughter and I look at it, we break into giggly choruses of The Eagles' "Witchy Woman," only we sing "Ooo-hoo! Witchy toe" My five-year old granddaughter, Naomi, is really amazingly comfortable with all my physical deviations from the norm. Even with my generalized hairlessness, my one remaining reconstructed breast, the spider veins on the breastless side of my chest after two go 'rounds with radiation and the pitiful little tattooed remains of where the implant used to be, I think Naomi sees me as just Nanny. Periodically, she'll ask me once again about my Port-a-cath, wanting to know just how it works and what gets put into that bulge under the skin on my chest. My new "Power Port" and its extra bumps and dots warmed up the topic again for a while. Since I've removed my toenail polish, she's not even frightened by my feet, even though that one big toe does truly look like it could belong to a wizened and warty old crone, with children in the pot, fricassee-ing for dinner. All of this ease and comfort has been centered
around our house, where she has been for a good part for the
past four years. She and her baby sister, mom and dad live in
their own apartment downstairs, so my illness is just a daily
fact of life. She's now venturing out into the big, wide world,
however, as a kindergartner. Recently, we had an exchange that
showed me her awareness that we do live in a world very different
from that of most of her friends and classmates. A few weeks ago, her mother was having some car trouble. My husband, Steve, had needed to go to the local Sonic Drive-in and give her battery a jump-start. The next morning, when it was time for her to take Naomi to school, I listened to see if the car would start. Nothing. Not even a tentative cough or sputter. Dead again. I went outside in my bathrobe, no wig, no cap, and said to Hollin, "I'll take you all. Help me clear out my back seat and get Naomi's booster seat in there and I'll ride you all down the ridge." We quickly chucked stuff on the lawn and wrestled the seat into my car while Naomi stood by with a backpack almost as big as she is, watching the frantic switcheroo. Down the ridge we went to her school (Big Ridge Elementary) and got in the drop-off line. Now, I will say that Hollin wasn't looking much more formal than I, in her PJ pants and a tank top. But then there was me, bald as a grape in the traffic line, with the safety patrol kids (whom Naomi calls "the safety control") and teachers waving cars forward. A little voice came from the backseat. "Nanny, who's going to pick me up from school this afternoon?" Naomi asked. "Well," I answered, "probably your mom. Her car should be fixed by then. Peepaw is going to take her to the car place to see about the problem. If her car isn't fixed by this afternoon, though, I'll drive and Mommy will come along and we'll pick you up in my car. So, look for Mommy's silver car, but if you don't see it, look for my purple one." She was quiet for a minute as we inched forward
with the other cars toward the drop-off point. "Nanny?" "Yes, Honey?" I answered. "If you pick me up this afternoon, could you wear your wig?" Ah! The rubber hits the road! I thought. She's newly aware that her grandmother doesn't look like everybody else's grandmother. "Well, sure, Naomi. I'll do that," I reassured her. There was more quiet from the back. I could almost hear the wheels turning inside her little head and heart. She's a very compassionate child and wears her love and honesty right on her sleeve. She delivered the coup de grace with such earnestness, declaring, "Because I wouldn't want anybody laughing at my Nanny because she's so bald!" Her mother and I bit our cheeks to keep from bursting out in laughter. The safety patrol kid opened the door and Naomi staggered out under the heft of her backpack. "You will remember now, won't you, Nanny?" she called over her shoulder. Oh, yes, sweetheart. I'll remember. Always.
Poem Essay - October 26, 2008
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