Dear God,
I saw the other kids in my ward.
Most of them are going through chemo and losing their hair.
I'm just sitting here waiting to die.
They look at my hair like they remember when they had their own.
I shaved my head so I would know what it feels like.
Love,
Peyton
Peyton’s P.O.V.
I watch as a girl gets wheeled out of her room, her bald head shiny in the bright florescent lights of the hospital. I think to myself that I’m lucky that I don’t have to go through chemo. I just have to sit here and wait to die.
They’re so much braver than I could ever be. I admire them so much more, and it’s not that I can finally understand their pain, they just… to lose their hair is a stark reminder of why they’re here, and I think that my hair, when I look at it in a mirror, reminds me that I can at least pretend to be normal, and live my life, and keep my illness hidden under the dark locks.
They can’t.
So I decide on the spur of the moment to call my nurse, Bridget. She comes running in, worried that I’ve been getting sick or a headache.
“Yes?” she asks, completely out of breath, bent over. “Are you okay?” she straightens up and realizes that I’m okay. “Oh.”
“Sorry,” I apologize.
“It’s okay,” she tries for a smile but fails. “So what did you want?”
On other people, that would sound rude, but Bridget is always nice. “I want to shave my head.”
“Oka-” Bridget agrees then pauses. “Wait, what?”
“I want to shave my head,” I repeat.
“Why?” Bridget sounds and looks bewildered. “You aren’t even going to lose your hair.”
I point to the kids across the hall, getting hooked up to countless machines. “For them.”
Bridget follows my finger and her eyes soften when she realizes what I mean. “Oh, okay, yes, that’s fine, Peyton, you can do whatever you want.”
She smiles kindly at me and I smile back before standing up, straightening my t-shirt.
“You mean now?” Bridget says, sounding alarmed.
I look at her like, ‘duh.’
“Oh, alright, I’ll take you, they won’t even allow it otherwise,” Bridget fusses before following me out the door.
In no time, Bridget has explained my situation and I’m sitting in a chair, ready for my hair to be buzzed off. I run my fingers through it one more time, before closing my eyes and hearing the buzz of the razor and I can feel my head getting lighter as my hair falls to the ground.
“All done,” the woman says, and I open my eyes.
The person staring back at me doesn’t look like me. She looks pale, and gaunt, and sick. Perfect. I didn’t realize how much my hair had hid me from the world, and from the realness of the fact that I’m going to die.
Now I know what they feel like, those kids. And I wouldn’t have it any other way, to be completely honest.
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cover by @FillesBleu
