![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I was talking today with a friend who we're seeing this weekend. And I mentioned that Otter has lost a lot of his facial hair. What was once a full mustache and beard is now... wisps. In the picture that got taken by the staff at Benihana's as part of my birthday dinner last week, you can't even see it. (It's a pretty crappy picture, but the only recent one.)
He'd had the mustache and beard through all the first treatments. It was the docetaxel/i can't recall the other drug that had it fall off... like you see in cartoons. or you bonk a xmess tree that's been in the house without water too long, and you can hear the needles fall...
That chemo was useless. It didn't - at all, as far as we can tell - even slow down the tumor growth. It didn't do anything worthwhile, and additionally it radically changed the way he has looked since 1989. *I* have never seen him without a mustache, tho I had to convince him to grow the beard.* His own self image is fucked up, hearing him talk about being glad that he can finally stop spitting out mustache hairs from his food, they were falling out so much.
Since realizing that, I've been filled with rage. I've been coping, mostly; these are the decisions, these are the fallouts (... literally), this is where we move forward. This is the next step, assimilate this new thing, take a breath, step forward. But now my hands are shaking, my face is hot, and I want to break things.
Time to go solo a dungeon in wow. I have nothing else I can even mentally take angry wild swings at.
*Beard. So around 1984 or so I decided I had a job, I had money, I could do something about the fact that I was utterly bored with dead-straight hair. So I got a perm. I think I might have had highlights put in too at the time, since my hair is matte-brown, no natural hightlights. Well, I was freaked out a bit, and wore a hat for a week :D but Otter was livid. He was absolutely angry that I'd gone and changed something about my look. I came back with well first, you don't get to decide. (But I have to look at it!) and second I've been asking you to grow a beard for years - we'd been together a few by then - and you keep adamantly refusing. You're not going to accomodate my desires? I'm not accomodating yours.
Fast forward a few years, he gets in a car accident that slices up his rigiht arm, and his hand is shaky enough that he doesn't want to shave for a few days. A month later he comes to me and says, "I decided I'm keeping the beard." So that was the end of me having a perm. Last one I got was just before our wedding, Oct 1988. Which is probably just as well, as I would have dropped it as soon as I started looking like my mom. And I don't like the 'ball on top of a pyramid' look that most overweight-women-with-short-hair has, to my view. I continued to get it colored, tho, intermittently, until the 6 years on prednisone changed the texture of my hair to the point where it wouldn't really take it.
He'd had the mustache and beard through all the first treatments. It was the docetaxel/i can't recall the other drug that had it fall off... like you see in cartoons. or you bonk a xmess tree that's been in the house without water too long, and you can hear the needles fall...
That chemo was useless. It didn't - at all, as far as we can tell - even slow down the tumor growth. It didn't do anything worthwhile, and additionally it radically changed the way he has looked since 1989. *I* have never seen him without a mustache, tho I had to convince him to grow the beard.* His own self image is fucked up, hearing him talk about being glad that he can finally stop spitting out mustache hairs from his food, they were falling out so much.
Since realizing that, I've been filled with rage. I've been coping, mostly; these are the decisions, these are the fallouts (... literally), this is where we move forward. This is the next step, assimilate this new thing, take a breath, step forward. But now my hands are shaking, my face is hot, and I want to break things.
Time to go solo a dungeon in wow. I have nothing else I can even mentally take angry wild swings at.
*Beard. So around 1984 or so I decided I had a job, I had money, I could do something about the fact that I was utterly bored with dead-straight hair. So I got a perm. I think I might have had highlights put in too at the time, since my hair is matte-brown, no natural hightlights. Well, I was freaked out a bit, and wore a hat for a week :D but Otter was livid. He was absolutely angry that I'd gone and changed something about my look. I came back with well first, you don't get to decide. (But I have to look at it!) and second I've been asking you to grow a beard for years - we'd been together a few by then - and you keep adamantly refusing. You're not going to accomodate my desires? I'm not accomodating yours.
Fast forward a few years, he gets in a car accident that slices up his rigiht arm, and his hand is shaky enough that he doesn't want to shave for a few days. A month later he comes to me and says, "I decided I'm keeping the beard." So that was the end of me having a perm. Last one I got was just before our wedding, Oct 1988. Which is probably just as well, as I would have dropped it as soon as I started looking like my mom. And I don't like the 'ball on top of a pyramid' look that most overweight-women-with-short-hair has, to my view. I continued to get it colored, tho, intermittently, until the 6 years on prednisone changed the texture of my hair to the point where it wouldn't really take it.
