What to Expect in the Shower

    by Nancy Smiler Levinson

I

After my second chemotherapy session,

I knew what to expect in the shower.

But first I read every section of the Sunday newspaper,

emptied all the wastebaskets in the house,

played solitaire on the computer,

rearranged a bookshelf, and watered the garden.

Came afternoon I could no longer avoid the shower.

I tested the water temperature, stepped in, and washed slowly.

Finally I squeezed shampoo onto my head and began rubbing.

My hair!  It pulled out and pulled out — gobs of it,

pasted to my wet hands, shoulders, chest, back. . .

thick strands in my mouth, across my tongue, my teeth.

I screamed to my husband, a retired physician,

now suffering from Alzheimer’s disease.

He came running and took command as a doctor once more.

“Get out of that shower,” he ordered over my sobs. “Now!”

He wrapped a towel and his arms around me,

then grabbed a scrub brush from under the sink

and stooped to sweep hair from the tile floor.

The next day, wearing a straw hat to cover

unsightly tufts of gray hair peppered on my scalp,

I drove to Supercuts.  A young Armenian woman

led me to her chair.  When I removed my hat,

she blurted, “Oh, you are losing hair!”

“Breast cancer.”

“Ach, I am so sorry.”

“Buzz it all off,” I told her and shut my eyes.

In a minute, the deed was done.

When I looked I sobbed from my depths.

The woman brought me a tissue box and a paper cup of water.

“Don’t look too much in mirror,” she advised.

“Go home and poot on nice vig.”

II

One winter evening after my chemo had ended,

my husband and I were preparing

to meet friends for dinner in a restaurant.

While he searched for his wallet and watch,

I dressed in a black skirt and sweater,

heels, and silver hoop earrings —

ready to go except for my wig.

I happened to see out the front window

a U-Haul truck blocking our driveway

and dashed out to ask the driver to move it.

“No problem.”  We noticed that we are both wearing

yellow LiveSTRONG bracelets.

Was he a survivor?  No, an uncle had died of colon cancer.

“Me?” I shrugged, pointing to my head.

“I’d never have guessed,” he said

“I took you for a chic, artsy lady.”

Really?  Could I?  Would I?  Dare I?

venture out in public with only

the first feathery wisps of gray grow-back?

At the restaurant our friends exclaimed

“Wow!  Fabulous.  Sassy looking!”

Yeah, I was doing it!

Artsy.  Chic.  Sassy.  Why not?

I tossed back my near-naked head,

sat down to dinner and opened the menu.

© 2013  Nancy Smiler Levinson

Nancy Smiler Levinson is an author of numerous books of fiction and nonfiction for young readers.  She is currently completing a book for adults following her journey as caregiver to her husband who has Alzheimer’s disease and as a breast cancer patient herself.  This is her first prose/poem published in a literary journal.