Category Archives: Cancer

Thanks

True calendar

I finished Adriene’s 30 day True series this morning. It was good, just the right speed for where I am in the recovery process, and the final sun salutation brought with it a sense of closure. As I breathed deeply into my rapidly recovering lungs, I glanced out the window at the men pouring concrete into the foundation of the new house going up next door and I gave thanks that I wasn’t them. My little space heater barely makes a dent in the frigid air so my breath fogged the window as my toes turned blue, but I gave thanks all the same. One does not wear socks when one does downward dog. Yoga must be approached with respect and I give it with gratitude and humility.

Last week I lost my Pasmo train pass, the day after I’d charged it with 5000yen. An hour later I got a call from a station employee saying they’d found it and I could come pick it up. Ah, Japan. I gave thanks.

On Monday I had a wicked scare at the hospital but the doctors went into overdrive and fixed the problem. Their bedside manners might leave something to be desired, but they know their stuff when it comes to medicine. I gave thanks, more than once.

Tokyu shoppers

Yesterday at the supermarket, an old lady was having a hard time with her shopping cart so I helped her with it. Not only did she not give thanks, she didn’t even look at me, just walked away with a “harumph”. Meh. Her problem, not mine, but I watched my brownie points swarm with confusion, not knowing quite what to do with themselves.

Tomorrow I board a plane for a long overdue vacation in Hawaii where I will be able to salute the sun properly, and she will cook some of the stiffness out of my joints and muscles. Then I will stuff myself with mangoes and listen to the sound of the surf and congratulate myself for surviving last year, all the while giving thanks.

I will continue to give thanks, for the sun in the sky and the air in my lungs and the blood in my veins and being able to walk and talk and see and sleep and eat and think and feel and love. Thanks.

Yutenji Buddha

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Horsepower

For a long time, each new year has felt like a temporal follow-on from the previous one. What difference does a new year make? Turning the page on a calendar doesn’t mean anything. Time doesn’t care how we count it. Time just is. Time moves forward; nothing changes.

But this year is different. With a silent whoop I tossed last year’s calendar in the trash. For once, there is something to celebrate. Last year was harsh. After the initial shock and fear, there was a slow dawning of the enormity of what lay ahead. After a time, I was moving on autopilot, incapable of even thinking about the future.

Most of what I did last year was passive. I had surgery, slept in the narrow bed, I ate the horrid food (sometimes). I opened the door to the doctor’s office, week after sweaty summer week, and received my chemo treatments. I walked to the hospital day after crisp autumn day and lay still for radiation. It would have been so much easier to run away.

kids statue

I spent an entire year having things done to me. I was the horse hitched to the wagon, the bit between my teeth, the reins being pulled by drivers I couldn’t see. I plodded along the trail, hoping I would reach my destination even though it seemed that each step forward pushed it farther away.

I feel as if an earthquake has shaken all the merchandise off the shelves in my internal warehouse. I see a mountain of mess, hair clips and a Barbie doll and a rubber snake and Christmas wreaths and chocolate cookies and tarnished earrings and broken dishes and knotted shoelaces and a one-eyed Teddy bear, a scratched record, some snarled yarn, a battered shoe box, a single sock.

Some of these things can be dusted off and returned to the shelves. Some can be salvaged, a bit of glue, some polish, a button. Some are lost causes. The coming months will see me sorting through the flotsam of me and trying to make sense of it, putting the pieces back together where I can, figuring out what no longer serves.

To do that, I will eat well, sleep a lot, watch butterflies flit and smell the flowers. I will also do yoga.

adriene

This is Adriene. She just started TRUE: 30 Day Yoga Journey. It’s online. It’s free. It’s the foundation I need to start getting back on track, start reminding my muscles and my spirit of what they can do, what they need, where they are going. Adriene has a an easy nature and a wonderful smile and manages to bring me back to the mat, day after day. There are hundreds of yoga classes online and I have tried many of them, but I keep coming back to Adriene. She is part of my journey.

I have been doing yoga long enough to appreciate the Zen it represents, the thousands of years of practice and millions of practitioners who have put their lives, their bodies, their faith into its calm, gracious power to heal. I know the joy of a pose feeling right regardless of how it looks, the freedom of air moving through my lungs, the pulsing electricity of blood flying through my veins, the serenity of balance, the golden, fleeting, priceless gift of each moment that no longer exists once it passes and yet is eternal in my memory.

A friend said I am a fierce woman ready to take 2018 and squeeze every last drop of magic out of it. Amen, sistah. Someone left the barn door open and I’m ready to bolt.

In 2018, I will heal.

mystic me

Jingle

stocking

As snowflakes gently surrender to gravity and make their way toward the earth, a little girl opens her eyes. It is early Christmas morning. She extends her arm in front of her face and can just make out the shape of her hand in the murky light.

“Oh, goody!”

She leaps out of bed, knowing she has permission to go downstairs and explore the contents of her stocking, as long as she does it quietly. The big people will need a couple more hours and a cup or two of coffee before they’ll be ready for Christmas, a terrible lapse in judgement as far as the little girl is concerned. But she is already old enough, and still young enough, to know the world is full of magic and mysteries.

She sails down the stairs and grasps the stocking to her chest, feeling the crinkly, crunchy promise of the collection of shapes bumping and jostling against each other inside. Pulling out the goodies one by one, she finds underwear, personalized pencils, chocolate footballs, an orange, three walnuts and a sliver dollar. Every year, those items appear and she never asks why; without them it would not be Christmas.

At the very bottom of the stocking, tucked into the toe, there is a small scroll, a piece of paper rolled tightly and fastened with a red ribbon. She slips off the ribbon and discovers that the paper is a blood test report, indicating that her tumor markers have fallen below normal levels.

The little girl, now a middle aged woman, looks up, barely daring to mouth the words, “Does this mean I don’t have cancer?”

From his perch on the roof, Santa peers down the chimney. Laying a finger beside his sooty nose, he winks and says, “Yes. It means you don’t have cancer.”

The girl/woman feels her insides curl into a ball, like a cat on a sunny windowsill, its nose tucked under its tail, its purr and twitching whiskers proof of contentment.

clarence

Just then, her phone jingles. She thinks of Clarence in “It’s a Wonderful Life” saying that every time a bell rings, an angel gets their wings. But this time it is an app that gives a jingle every time Tokyo Tales gets a new follower.

The girl/woman thanks you.

MC and snowman

Burn Baby Burn

I’ve been reading about a classmate of mine whose daughter has a rare and rather nasty form of cancer. My heart goes out to her, to him, to the rest of her family, their friends, and to everyone else whose lives they touch. I cannot begin to imagine how any of them are coping with that reality.

In the seemingly endless process of dealing with cancer, I have found one of the toughest struggles is making my peace with it. Half my intellect says, “This should not be; there is no logic to it.” The other half says, “It is what it is. Get on with it.” My heart contracts into fetal position in a dusty corner and weeps.

crying sumo

A sumo tournament of conflicting thoughts is thundering inside my head. A teenager with cancer is a tragedy; a middle-aged woman with cancer is not. But where is the tragedy? The middle-aged woman has already lived more than half of her life; she knows what she would have missed. The teenager has barely begun her journey; the future is a mystery no one can know. The middle-aged woman has probably seen tragedy, anguish, desperation in other people’s lives and in her own; with luck, the teenager has not. A teenager is more able to accept the unacceptable, to believe the unbelievable, to see the abnormal as normal. Acceptance may be harder for the middle-aged woman who has lived long enough to be aware of, and dread, some of the bumps and jolts that life will eventually offer. The teenager has the purity of belief that she is immune to the evils of the world, she is safe, indestructible, and all will be well.

You can’t compare the teenager and the middle-aged woman, the lamb and the ewe, the pristine silk stocking with the worn woolen sock. What value does experience have? What value innocence? When do we stop asking questions like that and just get on with it? How can we?

I was coming to the end of my endless radiation treatments when I had my final doctor visit. She said, “As you know, the effects are cumulative. The worst of it will be within the two weeks after treatment ends.”

THWAP! Out of nowhere, another boot hurled itself toward my head.

old boot

Ouch!

All along, every doctor I’d talked to said that most people don’t have any reaction at all. If anything, I was supposed to experience nothing more than a mild sunburn. Mild sunburn my Aunt Fanny! I am very pale and love to go to the beach; I know what a sunburn feels like. The day after the final treatment, my armpit looked like someone had left a hot iron on it. And it got worse over the next couple of days, eventually developing as severe burns do, then into a rash on the middle of my chest. The redness progressed sideways, downward and across my chest. I would have had to pull a Rip Van Winkle under a sunlamp to get this kind of burn. Perhaps the doctors meant the type of sunburn you might get on Venus. I’ve heard awful things about the beaches on Venus. Sunscreen SPF 462 is recommended, one factor for each degree Celsius of average surface temperature. Yeah, that must be what they meant.

The silver lining, if you care to see it that way, is that the worst of the burn is on the part of my armpit that is still numb from surgical nerve damage. I look at it, touch it, and know that it should hurt, but it doesn’t. That makes me wonder: where does pain go when you can’t feel it? And what is the purpose of pain that is not felt? If a tree falls in the forest and there is no one there to see it, does it hurt?

I have a hard time not getting angry at the medical people I’ve dealt with over the past year. The occasional sympathetic nod does not make up for the overall indifference. They either pat my knee and tell me I’m going to die (we’ll let that one go) or they understate the case so much that the reality is a shock. Their attitude makes me think of a quote from Buddhist scriptures: “Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.” I’m certainly the one who got burned. But what’s the point in anger? It won’t make the doctors lose any sleep, won’t make my pain any less real.

I still have to believe, as they do, that the treatment will prolong my life. I’ve read that some of the effects of chemotherapy and radiation may never go away completely, but at least I will be alive to experience them. There’s no point in assigning blame, no point in calling any of this good or bad. It just is. I have to make my peace with all of that. If I am lucky and I am strong enough, I can find a way to learn from all of this and move on.

So, I slather myself with Aloe Vera and coconut oil and hope that they will work their magic. And I keep putting one foot in front of the other.

aloe

The Blue Lollipop

blue lolly

I have spent the past few years trying, with some success, to cultivate a sense of gratitude. I don’t mean Pollyanna gratitude: “Thank you so much for the one legged blind teddy bear that smells like old dog! It’s the best Christmas present ever!” No, what I mean is more a sense of finding what is unique or at least special about my life, my family and friends, the things I live my life among, and loving them for what they are, giving them the value they deserve. It’s also putting envy into perspective. I will always be envious of some things: people who are tall, people who can do math, people who can eat eggplant, people who can sing or juggle or Magic Eye. I know I will never have or be those things but I can envy those people without actually wanting to be them. I can see something beautiful in a store and enjoy its beauty, bask in it even, without wanting to own it, pleased that it exists but not needing it in my life, allowing my magic credit card to rest.

So now I am trying to find gratitude in the fact that I had my final radiation treatment today. There will be no more solitary morning walks to the hospital, no more taking off my shirt and lying on the table while people whose names I don’t know draw on me with magic markers. No more waiting in the pink paper line, no more pulling out my magic credit card and paying the bill, day after day after twenty-five days.  I can sleep in. I can take my time with morning yoga, finally start to work back toward where I was when this all began. I can finally start scrubbing the map of Arizona off my chest.

honey

(As a side note, one radiation treatment costs just about the same as a 1200 gram bottle of organic Acacia honey. Given a choice, I’d rather have the honey. Extra irony: my credit card is magical because it can somehow withdraw an unlimited amount of money from my bank account. The organic honey store only accepts cash.)

When I was dressed and opened the curtain, the radiation room was deserted. There was nobody to say good-bye to except the horrible machine but we had never really made friends. It felt strangely unfinished, like I should get a lollipop or a balloon, something to mark yet another passage through the surreal world that my life has entered.

So I walked back home, just another day, and got to work on the script for a program I will direct next week. In the program, three teams compete to make the springiest food they can come up with. One makes a gelatin-and-starch-based, multi-textured pudding (ugh), another makes a sticky rice ball seasoned with tomato and basil and topped with fish (blech) and the third, the crown jewel, is a blue, bacon-flavored lollipop made of mochi and swathed in mustard-flavored cotton candy. I kid you not.

monkey

Monkey Boy was minding his own business, having a nice nap in front of the kerosene heater, when I barfed on him. And then I realized I had something more to be grateful for. Nobody will ever force me to eat a blue bacon-flavored mochi lollipop swathed in mustard-flavored cotton candy. And as wild as my imagination may be at times, it will never go that far. For that, I am also grateful.

Giblet Gravy

When I was a kid, my grandpa (maternal) always came to our house for Thanksgiving and we went to my grandma’s (paternal) for Christmas. As I remember it, Ma would get up early to stuff and roast the turkey and then prepare all the other fixings and by the time everything was ready, she was exhausted and in a grumpy mood. But then Grandpa would wield the carving knife and sharpening wand (apparently this is called a ‘honing steel’) and everyone would smile. Also, for once in the year, we were not required to eat stuff we didn’t like, which for me meant turkey skin and mashed sweet potatoes. But regular mashed potatoes? Stuffing? Homemade cranberry orange relish? Bring it on, baby.

スクリーンショット 2017-11-26 16.30.20

Gourmet Night at Fawlty Towers

But then there was the giblet gravy.

Wikipedia defines giblets as edible fowl offal. (That ought to put you off your crackers right there.) Every year, Ma would ruin her silky smooth homemade turkey gravy, rich with bird drippings and roasting pan scrapings, by adding said offal to it. Nobody liked the giblets very much but nobody ever said anything either because, well, family. I would look at my magnificent mountain of mashed potatoes, dripping with melted butter and, with a sigh, pour on the giblet gravy.

During my freshman year in college, Grandpa passed away. The next time I was home for holidays, probably Christmas that year, I was in the kitchen with Ma when she was making gravy. She started chopping the offal and I said, “You don’t have to do that.”

“What?”

“The giblets. Nobody likes them, not even you.”

“Grandpa does.”

“Grandpa’s not coming.”

She gave me a blank look for a moment and then, just like that, we never had giblet gravy again. We got to revel in the smooth and silky and the cats ate the offal.

This all came to mind because my 54th Thanksgiving came and went and I celebrated with a head cold and a bowl of chicken soup. I had expected to start recovering by now, but that isn’t happening, won’t happen for some time to come.

I continue to be amazed at what they don’t tell you about cancer treatment. I made a point of doing diligent research because there were bound to be cultural and language barriers involved in how this is done, but even the English websites like breastcancer.org, the NIH and the American Cancer Society don’t give you much detail. I dug around and followed links and when I finally got close to what I was looking for, they invariably said, “Talk to your doctor.”  But my doctor is not very cooperative.

Before we got started on chemo, the doctor told me I have a very rare form of cancer and that we would follow the standard treatment.

“But how can there be a ‘standard’ treatment if the cancer is so rare?”

“The treatment is world standard, not just Japan standard.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“I’ll show you the website.”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“Here, look at this American website.”

“Oh, never mind.”

I was told he behaves that way because he doesn’t like the way many doctors in Japan pussyfoot around illness, refusing to tell their patients just how sick they are. Instead, he goes way too far in the opposite direction. I have been baffled by this. Why tell someone they’re dying when they’re not? What possible benefit is there in scaring the pickles out of someone who is already scared? Am I meant to be grateful to him when the test results come back negative? But all he did was hand me the results. The nurse who managed to get blood out of my damaged veins and the lab technician who did the test deserve more recognition.

It took a lot of research and some tooth-pulling to finally determine that it doesn’t matter that the type is rare. And the term ‘standard’ is not quite accurate. It should be ‘strongest’. Because the tumor was large and starting to spread, they hit me with the strongest stuff they had because it has the greatest chance of being effective. If I couldn’t take it, they would try something milder, but by doing that I would lose effectiveness percentage points. I try not to dwell on the thought that the surgeon may have gotten all the cancer and there isn’t any need for any of this horrible treatment, while at the same time, there’s never any guarantee that it won’t recur or some new cancer will rear its ugly head and we start all over again. It happens.

The first part of my treatment was a three month course of Paclitaxel. The famed nausea that comes with chemo was well-controlled with steroids. My hair fell out, but that was also expected. Lung impairment was on the list; I expected it after being a smoker for so many years. Even bone-weary fatigue was explained and no surprise when it kicked in. What they didn’t mention was disorientation, memory loss, digestion issues, dry skin, broken nails, blurry vision, tinnitus and a level of grumpiness that makes Ma on Thanksgiving look like Mother Teresa on Valium at a day spa. Even now, four months after finishing Paclitaxel, I have new symptoms. This time it’s swollen feet and hands and pain in the joints and muscles of all four limbs. I was told that the pain comes from nerve damage caused by Paclitaxel and could last for years.

I’m angry and frustrated, but there isn’t any point in yelling at anyone. I’m enough of a grown-up to know that…most of the time. Still, I have to wonder; if they had told me in the beginning how hard this was going to be, would I have had the courage to do it? To be honest, I think I would have. Early on in this odyssey, one of my oldest friends, who is also a doctor, said, “It’s your boob or your life. Pick one.” Simple, direct, absolute truth. I picked. There is only one road that leads where I am going and I have to follow it.

As much as I hate the idea, percentage points is what it comes down to, and all the medical world has to offer. Cancer is unpredictable, and each person’s body reacts differently, so each cancer case is unique. In the social atmosphere of the ’60s, that might have been a cool thing, but in terms of human mortality, it means I will spend the rest of my life walking on a tightrope. There are no guarantees, no promises. Tall or short, beautiful or homely, wealthy or poor, dedicated athlete or couch potato, vegan or MacDonald’s addict, we’re all in the same boat. Nothing stands along the bus route to the terminal station except statistics and dumb luck.

hospital bus

I thought I was safe, but someone put the giblets back in my gravy.

‘Snot Good

For reasons that escape me, there is a statue of Florence Nightingale in the lobby of Tokyo Medical Center, where I get my daily dose of radiation.

Nightengale at the hospital

I asked her what she’s doing there, but she’s mute on the subject.
Nyar, nyar, nyar.

I still haven’t made my peace with having a disease that doesn’t make me nearly as sick as the treatment to get rid of it, but if I don’t do the treatment, the disease will kill me for sure. Cancer contradictions are varied and frustrating. Death Star tends to overstate his case, but after all he is focused solely on boobs, all day every day. The radiologist at the hospital shrugged and said, “It’s just breast cancer. It’s perfectly manageable.” I guess from his perspective, it is. He must have seen things I can not, don’t want to, imagine.

All the same, it’s still cancer, and the treatment is no picnic. After a year of  it, I’m pretty worn down. On top of that, or maybe because of it, I have a cold. It takes two weeks to get over a cold, says my mother, or with medication, it takes 14 days. (She is very wise.) I read somewhere that despite enormous progress in modern medicine, nothing can be done about viruses except control the symptoms and let Mother Nature steer the ship.

But now I am wondering how long it takes to get over a cold after two major surgeries, six months of chemotherapy, twelve rounds of radiation (with more to come), endless pain killers, steroids, radioactive isotopes, some really doubtful hospital cuisine and way too many doughnuts. I’ll let you know.

In the meantime, here’s a piece of wisdom I discovered this morning: Do not attempt a yoga headstand when you’ve got a cold. Gravity and phlegm do not get along. You will find yourself in the fast lane bound for Dizzytown.

On a lighter note, Mt. Fuji put in a rare appearance today. I find it very important to find something, at least one thing, to be grateful for each and every day. Yesterday it was the 1/16th of an inch of hair that has appeared on my head. Today is is Mt. Fuji, which is much more significant in the grander scope of things, but relatively insignificant from where I’m sitting. You can have the mountain; I’ll take the hair.

Carrot Tower Fuji

One Toke Over the Line

Way back in 1970, Mike Brewer and Tom Shipley recorded “One Toke Over the Line”. Spiro Agnew called the two subversives because of the song’s drug references, but it was a really good song. Come on, Spiro, a little perspective. They were only singing about pot. Alcohol and refined sugar do a lot more damage, and they’re both legal, as is selling guns to deranged people. But I digress.

Brewer and Shipley 1970

“One Toke” is still a good song, and they’re still singing it. They look a little different, although I think Tom looks pretty hot.

Brewer and Shipley 2016

It was such a good song that Gail and Dale covered it on the Lawrence Welk Show.

One Toke Cream Cheese

Those two are so wholesome I could sprinkle them on my morning oatmeal. Where can I get myself a butterfly apron like that?

Maestro Welk referred to the song as “a modern spiritual.” He and the producers must have heard “sweet Jesus” and “sweet Mary” and assumed it was a gospel song. Too bad they were too lazy to ask someone what “toke” means. I’ll bet any of the musicians in the band could have told them. Maybe Gail and Dale knew, too, and that’s why they’re smiling. But those smiles strike me more as “Honk if you love Jesus” than “Pass me the bong.”

Wholesome, healthy family entertainment. Remember “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom”? Or “The Wonderful World of Disney”? Those programs made Sunday evenings the holy Mecca of the week. I remember being young enough that I was allowed to watch Disney but had to go straight to bed after it ended. I don’t remember watching Lawrence Welk, but I doubt champagne music would have appealed to me as a kid. As an adult, I can’t stand it and have always hated accordions, Welk’s chosen instrument of torture. Honestly, I’d rather listen to off-key bagpipes.

These days, the clock ticks past 8:30 and I am ready for bed. The word “weary” has taken on new meaning. From tomorrow, I have to push myself through three more weeks of radiation and then my poor body will finally be allowed to rest. I’ve been pumping it full of drugs and poison and nuclear fallout for ten months. Enough, already. It feels like I’m several dozen tokes over the line.

*******

Little known fact: Lawrence Welk talked funny because English was his second language. He grew up in the German speaking community of Strasburg, North Dakota. I had always assumed he was Italian, “A-one and a-two…”

Ode to the Hot Fudge Sundae

I had a dream that my mother got all done up in a Victorian costume complete with granny glasses, a bonnet and petticoats. She was spinning alpaca hair. When she tired of that, she went to work on an heirloom quilt with a futuristic theme of celestial orbs and other heavenly objects. Toto was looking on, barking encouragement.

Oh, wait. That wasn’t a dream.

space ma with Layla

I had a dream that a bunch of strangers in white coats and masks came at me with needles and knives and bits of thread and hacked away at my torso until it looked like a dart board after a frat party. Then they pumped me full of poison for months on end and put me on a strict regimen of daily exposure to photon torpedoes until my matter and antimatter were scrambled eggs. To get revenge, I made a voodoo doll to represent all foolish mortals who dare to wear white. I grew feverish as I jabbed pins into its vulnerable body. My eyes rolled back into my head and I laughed the laugh of the possessed. Bwahahaha!

Oh, wait. That wasn’t a dream either.

Voodoo doll

I had a dream that I sat with a spoon poised over a hot fudge sundae. The quickly melting ice cream was just starting to drip over the edges of the fluted glass. The succulent cherry poised on top glinted in the afternoon sun. My spoon hovered. I hesitated, savoring the moment, the whipped cream taunting me with its sensual froth. My taste buds quivered in anticipation, while minuscule droplets of drool percolated at the corners of my parted lips. My ego calmly rationalized, “There’s a cherry on top. That’s a fruit. It’s healthy and nutritious.” At the same time, my id ran around in hysterical circles, waving its arms and screaming, “Cream! Sugar! Calories! Fat! Gimme! Gimme NOW!”

Now THAT was a dream. There’s no hot fudge in Japan, silly.

Peko chan

The Bald Ambassador

We had some business at the American embassy a couple of weeks ago. Because of the pissing match going on between the spoiled brats in Washington and Pyongyang, security at the embassy is tight. It’s a good thing we were early for our appointment because it took twenty minutes to get inside.

army knife with quarter

They didn’t go so far as a cavity search, but they did confiscate Rochi’s 1.5 inch Swiss army knife. It would have taken some pretty serious Shawshank Redemption style effort to do any damage with that. I was starting to lose my patience when, at the final checkpoint before entering the hallowed ground, a guard asked me to take off my head scarf. I stared at him, raised my hand as if to touch it and started to shake my head, “No.”

I’m usually a fairly cooperative and obedient citizen when it comes to things like that, where arguing usually causes more trouble than it’s worth, although it does piss me off when they make old ladies take off their shoes and get out of their wheelchairs to hobble through airport metal detectors. This wasn’t so very different from that. I understand security and one rule for everyone, but I will not be balded at the entrance to the embassy.

The guard stared back at me. I could see him mentally clicking through his training manual, then his eyes flew open and he said, “Gan desu ka? (Is it cancer?)” Too annoyed to be surprised at such a direct and personal question from someone it is safe to assume is a normally reticent Japanese, I raised one of what was left of an eyebrow and slowly nodded once. He let us pass.

As annoying as the experience was, the story gets better with time. I told a gay friend about it and he burst out laughing. “Did you just use ‘bald’ as a verb? I guess if you can ‘out’ someone, there’s no reason you can’t ‘bald’ them.” Indeed.

me in pink