I was taking my time to process the realities of cancer; three-week lags seemed to be about the right speed. That time span was required for an appointment with the gynecologic oncologist, to schedule surgery (because I refused to be in the hospital on Thanksgiving), and to get a diagnosis. Because of the holidays, I stretched it a bit more before the surgery to insert the port.

I’d asked my doctor if there would be problems delaying until after the holidays and was told no. But I didn’t want surgery on January 2. It was barely past the new year and my dad’s birthday; even though he’d been dead for decades, I needed an excuse. My surgeon was going to be out of town January 9. That left me with January 16, almost a month after diagnosis, for a surgery that would take “90 minutes, tops,” he assured me.

During that month, I saw friends, ate out, kept busy with work, tried to ignore what was going to happen to my body. The bitch of it was that my hair was finally perfect—right cut and style, right expensive color with highlights. My hair, which I’d kept short most of the time, had always more or less behaved, but at 55, I finally had let it grow out, and it was perfect. Sometime during the second chemo infusion, my hair would begin falling out.

            I obsessed about my impending baldness, listening hopefully to stories of women who did not lose their hair during chemo, despite predictions that they would. I wrote, I wonder if the hair is in part a human dignity thing. Healthy women have hair. Baldness is more often a male thing. Take away a woman’s hair and she’s not considered attractive (unless she’s Sinead O’Connor, and I bet even she won’t be regarded as such in her fifties). It’s bigger than Saint Paul’s ideas about a woman’s hair being her glory. It’s a sign of wellness—I have hair and it grows. I have a lot of unanswered questions: How much will come out, how soon, shall I cut it ritually, is there a ritual? How can we make one? Would it be a private event or a by-invitation event, with various women helping, and who would they be? . . . But what can compensate for the loss? Consider it part of the cost of exploring, like buying a pith helmet before going to Africa?

            I wrote in my journal, I find myself most upset about my hair, even with an appointment to get a wig. . . . It’s the “outward and visible sign” of loss and disease, the reverse of a sacrament. Contemplating some sort of ritual head-shearing . . .  It’s all been more of a mixed bag than usual, the holiday season now officially over, though I’ve not taken down or put away anything and still have a few gifts to get out . . . It’s been lovely and I’ve tried to just let things be what they are, but it’s all tiring. I’ve not found the balance between “I need these people and it’s not good to be alone with my thoughts” and “I’m tired and I want you all to leave.” Denial takes a toll as well. Having blood drawn Friday, the reality slammed into me—I’m going back for more surgery! (albeit outpatient) I’m glad for the delays built into this process.

            I watched the 2007 Golden Globe Awards ceremony. In accepting the best actress award for The Devil Wears Prada, Meryl Streep referred to the film’s costumes as part of the special effects. Always looking for a good cancer metaphor that didn’t involve combat, I decided that I was being called upon to play the role of cancer patient (even though I’d not auditioned for the role and it wasn’t the one I wanted), and the forthcoming wig and new sweatpants with elastic waists to accommodate the expected bloating were just my costume.

I began teasing out the possible meanings of this new role. It wasn’t a two-weekend production like those I’d been part of in high school and college. It wasn’t even a summer stock show. More like a road tour, I thought. I’ll get to know everyone in the show, including the tech crew, very well. I don’t get to change my lines or take on another role; I will play only one character . Or it’s a long run on Broadway. The backers have paid for a six-month run, and it doesn’t matter what the audience or critics say.