CHAPTER EIGHT

Boz

As we watch television, I keep looking over at the kids. Each one has their eyes glued to the TV, but I can tell only Fiona and Jamie are watching it. Leland is lost in his thoughts, no doubt thinking about his mom. This shit has been hard on all the kids, but it has been brutal on Leland. The boy is old enough to realize just what cancer means. He realizes that his mother may be all right today, as okay as someone can be that just had chemotherapy a couple of hours ago, but this shit could take her from us at any moment.

I wait until the episode is over then look to my two youngest and say, “Go on up and get ready for bed.”

They complain, like they always do, but finally push off the couch and head upstairs. When Leland goes to follow them, I call him. He stops, looking over to me. The pain and worry I see in his eyes tears me apart inside. I wish I could rewind time, take him back to a place where he had nothing to worry about other than getting his homework done and keeping his room clean.

“You doing okay?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

Just like that, he breaks down. He comes over to me and plops down at my side, curling his body into mine. The sound of him crying reaches my ears, and I can feel my own eyes sting with tears. I hold them back, reminding myself I need to be strong for him. It takes forever for him to calm down, but I don’t rush it. I just hold him and let him cry it out, knowing he needs this.

“Momma’s so sick,” he whispers, but it comes out like a whimper.

“I know, Land,” I say, knowing I can’t lie to him.

My boy is smart as a whip, always has been. He was walking by ten months and talking in full sentences by eighteen months. That same smart whit is what is making this all the harder on him. With Jamie and Fiona, cancer isn’t any more serious that the common cold. They don’t know any better, but Leland understands just how serious this shit is.

“She’s been throwing up ever since she got home,” he says, pulling back enough to look up at me. “And, she’s getting skinny.”

Trix has never been stick thin, thank God, and over the years, she has put on a few extra pounds. With each kid, a bit of the baby weight stuck, and like me, the years have added a pound or two here and there. I don’t mind a bit, never have. She could weight six-hundred pounds, and I would still love her body.

Things have definitely changed. Even after only doing chemo for two months, every bit of that extra weight she had on her body has disappeared. Right now, she is about the same size she was when we first got together. After another few months of this shit, she’s going to be nothing more than skin and bones. She won’t have anything left if she ends up having to do another round.

“I know this has been hard, and we still have a ways to go, but we’ll make it through it,” I say, hoping my words are true.

Right now, I am more worried about the treatment than the actual disease. I have spent hours on Google, researching Trix’s cancer, not to mention numerous conversations with her oncologist. According to what I have learned, it is not an aggressive form of cancer. According to the doctor, she’s lucky it wasn’t a different kind of the shit. What he is most worried about is the side effects of the chemotherapy. That shit is nothing but poison, literally killing off the cancer by poisoning her.

“Will Momma make it?” Leland asks, his voice filled with emotion.

“Will I make what?” Trix asks, walking into the room.

I look at her, a wave of helplessness filling me. My woman looks like death warmed over, much like the pictures I saw of her mom. Her hair has lost its vibrancy, clinging to her head. It’s thinner already, reminding me of the hair I keep finding in the bathtub drain. Her beautiful blue eyes are dull and lifeless, sunken into her head and surrounded by a faint purple color. The sweats and tee she is wearing are hanging from her frame, the shirt nearly falling off her shoulders. All in all, she looks like she feels like shit.

“Coming to my baseball game this weekend,” Leland answers, then looks at me and cringes, knowing I do not like for him to lie, no matter the reason.

I reach out and pat him on top of his head, letting him know I understand, then say, “You need to get to bed, Land.”

He instantly jumps up and runs over to his mother. He gives her a hug while she kisses the top of his head. A second later, his footsteps can be heard running up the stairs. As soon as his bedroom door shuts, Trix looks my way.

“I need your help upstairs,” she says, her voice filled with exhaustion.

I do as she asks, following her to our bedroom. At first, I assume she wants me to lay down with her. When the treatments are really bad, she likes for me to lay down with her so she can sleep in my arms. Instead, she leads me to the bathroom, where she has a chair sitting right in front of the mirror. She sits down, wrapping a towel around her shoulders and picking up a pair of clippers from the top of the vanity.

She looks at me in the mirror, a sad smile on her lips. “It’s time.”

I know what she wants, and I have to stop myself from screaming out my denial. She told me this was coming, said she would have to shave it off at some point in time. It’s not the loss of her hair that bothers me. Bald or not, I am going to love her. It’s what this represents. I look at the clippers, knowing I have no choice.

“Are you sure?” I ask, taking the clippers from her hand.

“No, but I don’t think I have a choice,” she answers, reaching up and running a hand through her long locks.

When she pulls her hand back, she has more than a few strands wrapped around her fingers. She does it again and again, pulling out more hair each time. I look closely at the top of her head for the first time and see a few bare spots. I immediately close my eyes and take in a deep breath, praying I have the strength to do this.

I start to cut on the clippers but stop when Trix bends forward and pulls a pair of scissors out of the drawer. Without a word, she reaches back and grabs her hair, pulling it to the side. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, just before she starts hacking it off. Strand by strand, it falls onto the floor, covering the light blue tiles with her golden locks. Each time the scissors close, I feel as if someone is punching me in the stomach.

“That’s the best I can do,” she says, leaving her hair a bit above her shoulder. “You’ll have to do the rest with the clippers.”

“Okay,” I mumble, my throat clogged with emotion.

I cut the clippers on but can’t seem to do more than stare at the top of her head. Deep down, I’m afraid to do it. This is going to have an effect on Trix, even if she acts like it won’t. Even though she asked me to do this, I’m afraid that she will think of me each time she looks in the mirror. I’m scared as hell that she will be pissed, that somehow, she will think it’s my fault. In her heart, she will know that’s not true, but her brain may tell her something different.

“If you don’t want to do it, I can ask Addy,” she says, her voice flat. “I know it’s got to be hard on you.”

I’m humbled by the offer, knowing she is trying to take care of me. She has been so strong through all this, a hell of a lot stronger than me. She hasn’t asked for much unless it was absolutely necessary. She’s asking me to help her do this one thing, and there’s no way in hell that I’m going to let her down.

“I’ve got it, darlin’,” I reply, pasting on a fake smile.

Turning on the clippers, I start at the side. The longer pieces go first, so they don’t get tangled up in the blades. When I have a small section trimmed, I shave off the remaining hair until there is nothing there but stubble. I work my way around her head, trying my best not to cause her any pain. I’m nearly done when the sound of a sob reaches my ear.

Looking to the mirror, I see tears running down my woman’s face. Mine aren’t falling, but my eyes are glassy from trying to hold them back. I quickly look away, knowing I cannot lose my shit right now. I finish up as quickly as possible then cut off the clippers and toss them onto the vanity. My hand grabs the towel on her shoulder and tosses it across the room. A second later, I have her in my arms and am carrying her to the bed.

Neither of us says a word as I sit down, leaning against the headboard. She buries her face against my neck as her body is racked with sobbing tears. I hold her tight, staying quiet the entire time. The minutes tick by while she continues to cry. Slowly, the tears turn into hiccupping sobs. Finally, she quiets down and falls asleep in my arms. Then, when I know she cannot see me, I let my own tears fall.