I loved Dr. B.
I felt it all when I checked in at the hospital. A flutter of the heart. A race of the pulse. And a trembling scan of the clinic for that first glimpse of his white coat. Sigh.
I didn’t have a crush on him in that I-wonder-what-it-would-be-like-if-his-lips-pressed-against-mine kinda way. No, my Dr. B. was a bridge of calm into the world of chronic illness.
We sat together in the exam room, him at the desk, me in a chair pulled up real close. On paper graphs spread wide, he walked me through my kidneys’ decline by numbers: creatinine, BUN (Blood Urea Nitrogen), hemoglobin, etc…Like a good student, I memorized everything, but couldn’t tell you what they meant. I could totally tell you where Madonna’s latest video was filmed.
It was hard to care about all this science when I felt fine. At 15, Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD) was a diagnosis I had no feelings about, just an obligation to swallow a handful of pills each morning, and show up once a month for bloodwork.
I’ve been asked many times if I was scared. Of what? To me, CKD was just a strand of words, no more ominous than “Look both ways before you cross the street!” How can you understand until you are rammed flat? I hadn’t yet connected that CKD ends in three options: dialysis, transplantation or death.
Maybe Dr. B. and Mum had an understanding to reveal this to me on a need-to-know basis. I never resented them for this. Explaining to a 15-year-old girl what will happen in three years, who is preoccupied with her boobs growing, is like giving a military recruit a pamphlet entitled “WAR WILL SUCK,” and expecting them to understand the horrors that await them.
In the fall of 1983, I found hair on my pillow. A lot. I ignored the lump in my stomach for a couple of weeks until the hair in my brush and shower drain and pillowcase added up to more than normal hair loss. Pulling out those plastic-sheathed pages from the library, I reviewed Imuran. Imuran is an immunosuppressant that reduces inflammation of the kidneys. I scanned the crazy side effects — tarry stools, vomiting, ulcers — until I found it — hair loss. I swallowed.
At our next clinic, I gently unwrapped the tissue-covered mound of hair I had collected. Breath held, I presented it to Dr. B. with reverence, certain he would know exactly what to do to make this stop.
“Yes, it looks like you have hair loss.” And that was it.
His hands were tied. He couldn’t take me off Imuran. He had to protect my kidneys. Scowling, I felt more than a flicker of rage flare up. I have to watch my hair fall out and just take it?
More hair fell out. I didn’t have bald patches, but it became thin and coarse and I was 15 years old and wanted to be pretty. I went to a hair stylist, although they were still called hairdressers in the 80’s, which made sense, because Madonna was singing about dressing you up in her love.
The stylist chopped off my crinkly red hair. It wasn’t quite a pixie cut. The back was almost shaved, and I insisted on long bangs, like, down past my eyes bangs. Google “A Flock of Seagulls” and you’ll know what I’m talking about.
I was thrilled. The cut was a cross between Jamie Lee Curtis mofo and Linda Evangelista glam. I looked older, too, which I adored. (Writing this as a nearly 56-year-old woman, is the height of irony.)
Recreating this look took effort. First, I washed my hair with shampoo and conditioner, not the two-in-one situation, but separate bottles. I spritzed styling spray into my damp hair, then combed in cool, gloopy Dep gel (Green was my favorite color. It smelled fresh and full of potential!), then raked in a generous dollop of mousse. I blow dried my bangs until they were hard, but not crisp, obstructing my view (although I would never cop to this). Finally, hairspray. Having read Rachel Carlson’s “Silent Spring” in English class and having lived through the acid rain / nuclear weapons disarmament / hole-in-the ozone layer era, I did my part and bought Rave spray instead of aerosol AquaNet.
I loved this morning ritual. No more rolling out of bed and into my pre-planned outfit with matching bangles and out the door with sleep in the corners of my eyes. Nope. Between my hair routine, wrestling Prednisone down my throat and not eating, my mornings were suddenly booked up. I also loved how the Boy with Dark Hair looked at me when I walked into Math class.
When I saw Dr. B. he loved it, too, engaging in a quasi-serious conversation about the various stages of hair styling, and what exactly was mousse? Wasn’t that a dessert?
“It looks like whipped cream coming out of a can!” I giggled.
He told me I looked great. He also told me I had lost enough weight. I knew he was right, but I wasn’t willing to give up how control of my eating made me feel. I had mastered Prednisone side effects, and now I was controlling Imuran.
Being thin with a new haircut made me prettier and older, making it easier to forget that I was progressively getting sicker.
My hair is falling out in clumps at the moment. I love how your writing can touch people who need it at the time. Can't wait for the next installment. Rebecca
I think "War Will Suck" is the title of your next book! Great post, friend. Fantastic writing, as always. ❤️