Chronic Illness

Bitter Pill

/ Hyacinth Hale / Leave a comment
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I asked my hematologist if there was anything that I could do about me losing my hair. You see, I knew it was a side effect of Coumadin, but at 30, I was not quite prepared to be the spitting image of my father; which is to say, my hair receding further and further back first, covered by the comb over and then, teased just got thinner and thinner; until, it was starting to spin into a salt and pepper speckled horse shoe singular like thread, and my fear was it would continue this way until all of my femininity was wiped away. 

My doctor looked at me, wall eyed, ready for a fight, triggered by my question. He fired back, 
     “It’s a lifesaving drug!”
I nodded timidly and say, 
     “I know. I just want to know if I should just start wearing wigs.” 
I smile a little to ease the tension, and he releases the grip from my metaphorical shoulders, and tells me all my options, but I did my research already. I just needed confirmation. My hair is not growing back. 

Can we just take a minute to recognize the doctors who day in and day out work tirelessly to save lives only for someone to willingly choose to die for their vanity. I could imagine how many conversations he had just like mine being a Hematologist/Oncologist, and how much it would burn the insides of his soul like molten bubbling tar to know a drug could save a patient, and they chose to die for their beauty, for frivolity. I felt incredibly kindred to him in that moment. Trauma recognizes trauma. We forget doctors even though they hold scalpels; they too have scars. 

But in that moment, I could not find the words to explain my hair, that frivolity, while I deemed it not worth dying for, it certainly was worth living for. The moment I came out of the hospital after almost dying from my blood clot, the wind whipped my hair. My baby nephews, when I held them up to my shoulder, they used to pull on my brown chestnut ringlets. I’ve had men nuzzle into my neck and whisper secrets into my ear as they tug on my ponytail. As I aged and my gray hairs were coming in, I actually loved how the sun gleamed over my hair. My grays sparkled like diamonds in the ground! I will never know what it’s like to go full granny haired white.

So yes at 30, the life-saving drug is a hard pill to swallow; I swallow it. I will swallow it every day of my life. Hopefully, it will be a long one. Hopefully, I will learn to love my body in all states of being glorious main, thin tail, horseshoe, shaved head, cue ball, wig, weave, scarf, topper, hat and my personal favorite messy bun it’s a lifestyle don’t you know!

By Hyacinth Hale

Healing Scars

/ Hyacinth Hale / Leave a comment
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You are medicine, you are healing, you are what I need. Not the constant dopamine hit that I took, and the withdrawal of the last twenty men that I tried to love but that never seemed to love me back because they left and came back and left and came back before leaving for good. 

They left me searching for the next hit. Truthfully, I still search sometimes. My body still remembers the rush of knowing a man is undone just by the site of you. A quick glance from the eyes to the lips even lower studying the curvature of your body is enough to send shockwaves through a man. Make him buy you drinks, buy you dinner. It’s the first sign of his interest. The first sign that leads to love, but it does not show respect. Show me a man that respects women, and I will show you a man that was raised by a woman who respects herself and taught her son to do the same. 

When I say you are medicine, I mean my scars still itch, but you kiss them anyway. When I say you are healing, I mean you set boundaries for me, and they are good. When I say you are what I need, you, darling, are what I wish I had from the very beginning, but I’m glad. I’m glad that I went through those men because now I will cherish you like licking the whip cream off the cherry on top of a sundae, slow and sensuous, relishing every moment, you can taste the cherry bursting flavor, the sticky white whip cream residue oozing down the sides. The best part about eating the cherry is the rest of the sundae. You still have the rest of the sundae below to eat, and we have so many more Sundays of our own, and someday I hope to spend forever and a day kissing old scars that are faded and no longer itch because we took the time to heal them. 

By Hyacinth Hale

A Veiled Christmas Tree

/ Hyacinth Hale / Leave a comment
Photo by Norexy art on Pexels.com
The veil was torn, and like a rug pulled from under me, I fell to the ground. Laid out like a corpse for all to see for the first time, I was exposed. You didn’t ask to see me like this, and I didn’t want to show you. I never hid who I was or what I go through, but plucky charisma goes a long way to assuage the burning hell I walk through on a daily basis.

Incapacitated, emaciated, gaunt, breath shallow until I smell life and my lungs hold on to that oxygen desperately like a toxic relationship pushing and pulling my chest. My heart working double time to compensate. I wake disoriented to see you in the doorway smiling at me as I come to. Your eyes heartbroken for the both of us. At first, I thought you were a mirage.
Something I dreamed of often so when you spoke, and I heard the kind timber of your voice,
I was taken back.

“Feliz Navidad” you said. A Merry Christmas it was indeed. Maybe this year this was our gift to each other. Pain and tenderness like a Christmas tree’s twinkling glow in the darkness such beauty and life from a plant that was violently severed from its roots oozing sap. Death always smells so sweet when it’s dressed up.

I am not dying, but a part of me did that day. The part that checks all lists twice and tries to make everything perfect. No one, especially me, could have predicted this would happen. I could not plan for it. I could not prepare you. My plans go to shit anyway, but at least we would have had a plan. Destiny interceded for us.

Like vapor clearing from my eyes you vanished. A plane to catch, a continent between us, you might as well have been a mirage. I could explain away an illusion of my fragmented mind but not a man who leaves. I know I was in good hands my friends rushed in, tapping into what all mothers know and only the ones they love benefit from, the nurturing touch of the scared yet courageous. Makeshift nurses, battle tested, and battle ready. They swarmed me in a frenzy, and you made your exit. All I wanted to know for months was if you would cross that fence you’ve been hugging like the door jam you left. I guess I got my answer.

I couldn’t help but think that this was our chance. Your chance to show me what I am to
you. In the frenzy, your voice rang out “feel better” before everything went black, and all I heard was the hollow sound of your footsteps walking away. I should hate you for leaving, but I don’t. You did as much as you could. Loved me as much as your heart allowed. Your veil was pierced today too. You could no longer hide behind the Casanova bravado you bolster. You were exposed under the twinkling light of a Christmas tree.