“There,” I say. “Not so bad, is it? Mommy’s a fierce woman warrior now.” I bend my elbow and make a muscle. The girls giggle.

I have to laugh for them. I have to be strong for them.

“Just give me a few minutes, okay?” I walk into my bathroom, close the door, sit on the toilet.
And sob.

Leave me alone.

From the counter, I lift the synthetic wig from its white box, lined with pink, in satin folds, and turn it around on my index finger. Shoulder length, blonde layers, fringy bangs—thicker than my own hair, familiar. But it’s not mine. Not me.

Tilting my head forward, like the directions say, I place the front of the wig to the front of my hairline, where my hair should be, then slide it on.

Feel confident, empowered and beautiful in your new wig, the instructions read.

In the mirror a stranger stares back—weak, powerless. I see her ghostly image. She looks raw, bound, and scared.

A limited lifespan—must be taken care of properly, I read.

Have I not taken care of myself properly?

Feelings of anger and betrayal rise up. I’m a healthy person, damn it. I exercise, hike, and eat right—this is not fair!

On my head, I adjust the wig, so it’s crooked, hideous—like me. My eyebrows and eyelashes are gone. Everyone can see my face looks alien, ashen, gaunt. But no one can see my neon green, poisonous insides, that I’m lit up inside. It’s my secret.

“Mamma, can you wear a hat when you take me to school?” Lindsay has asked me this every time. But then I feel ashamed, like I’m hiding. I’ve abandoned both my girls at their tender ages. When did I play with them last? David and I have no intimacy now. I don’t want to be touched. When will he get sick of my illness, I wonder.

I straighten the wig, smooth it out, then splash cold water on my face, before walking into the living room, to my family, my head covered in fake hair.

“I like it!” David says.

“You can always get it styled,” my mother says.

“Mommy has hair again!” The girls cheer, skipping into their room to play.

“I feel like such a fraud,” I say, defeated. I grab a blanket, cocooning myself from the outside, and lay on the couch.

Eight weeks ago my breasts were cut off—lymph nodes plucked. An elephant sits on my heart now—wounded, hurting, pressing down. My first chemo was ten days ago, a horrid, hellish night, toxic vomiting into a bedside bucket. Somehow, my daughters had slipped through my bedroom door. They stood, watching me wretch and moan, while David tried to comfort me.

“Mamma’s okay,” I croaked from the bed. “It’s strong medicine to get the yucky stuff out.”

On the couch, my wig feels itchy against my scalp. I stare at the ceiling. “I can’t do this for another six months.”

“Oh you can,” David says to me.

“Why did I say yes? How can I let myself be poisoned?” My voice waivers. I hate hospitals, fluorescent lights, and antiseptic smells. I hate appointments and pills, being poked and prodded, stripped of dignity.

“I want my life back!” I shout.

“You know,” David says, with an uncompromising resolve. His words cut sharply and pierce my self pity and despair.

“We made a decision. You said you’d do anything to fight this, including chemo, remember? Don’t second guess it, you’ll drive us all crazy.”

I fall silent.

Then slowly, I pull myself up and walk into the bathroom, where the white box sits. I lean into the mirror, up close, searching for my soul. I am bald, breastless, green inside. Yet, in those sad, vacant eyes, I detect it. A shard of light— that strong, able, capable me.

I stuff the wig back in the box, then bury it, deep, in a dark place inside my closet.