That was just the beginning. The whole body needed work. I wanted to be a stunning corpse. I wanted the “wow” factor. I wanted people to think I looked too good to be dead. The hair was the next thing I noticed. It needed colouring. But I was afraid to. I read somewhere that some hair dyes caused cancer. That was ironic. Ha! Fuck it. I bought a box of Clairol dark blonde permanent hair colour. It was darker than I usually went but then the roots wouldn’t be so noticeable to the hospital staff, the mortician or the mourners. I kept my legs shaved and my underarms waxed. Later the chemo drugs took care of the need to buy any hair products or even a razor.
My
style of shopping also changed. I was detached from those around me. The
practicalities of being on the precipice meant trying to keep myself as healthy
as possible. So instead of engaging with my fellow humans, I saw all shoppers
as potential contaminants. I made bananas around anyone with a cough and
stepped out of the way when groups of people walked toward me. I felt like an
alien who had no resistance to earth viruses. While at first I was consumed
with my own safety, my isolation hit home. I watched the other shoppers, the
“normal humans” from a distance with jealousy. They
were healthy and I was sick. They shopped with gusto, oblivious to me or my
condition. It reminded me of moving house. You know that period of time when
mentally and emotionally you’ve left your old home behind even though
physically you still lived there? The customers, the conversation, the store
products, nothing was relevant anymore. I lived somewhere else. I would go home
from these brief shopping excursions, no I would run home from these brief
shopping excursions and curl up on a soft chair. I wanted to put a blanket over
my head and disappear. I didn’t feel a part of the world anymore. I revealed
this to my brother Ben. He said: “You know what that is? It’s depression.” He
was right, but knowing what it was didn’t help. I couldn’t talk myself out of
it.
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