Hair on my shoulders, hair on my pillow, hair in the sink. It's everywhere, dude, and it's not from some feline companion hanging around my neck. Every once in awhile I pull a long hair off my sweater and mourn for a nanosecond, or pick up a hairbrush and put it down again like an idiot, or dash to the door to answer it without scarf/hat only to get a momentarily stare and an overenthusiastic, "Hi!!" Strange times.
It's my birthday today - one I'll likely not forget, but hopefully more for how fab I looked in my Joan Holloway wig than because I was full of disease. I read a quote in a book recently about not being able to ever get chemo again if you have a recurrence. Your organs would rebel and likely punk out. Makes getting this shizz at 37 (now 38) all the more wonderful.
So as I work to get it out this time, I have to be diligent - psychotic at times, I suppose, to ensure it never comes back again. Another 60 or 70 years is how long I'd like to stretch this life out, and that's a wicked long time to be cancer-free in this world. Guess what I'll be wishing for when I blow out ye olde candles today?