Thursday, April 7, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
To Hair is Human: A Daily Dose of Jealousy
To Hair is Human: A Daily Dose of Jealousy
It was a cold, wintry day here
in Buffalo, New York. Three years to the day since I had my last chemotherapy
treatment, this December 23rd. Typically I am one with a positive spirit,
finding my cup overflowing with the delight in life itself. However, on this day
my mind could not help revisiting the past. I was in the check-out line at the
market when all of a sudden, my eyes opened wide and my mouth fell open, I
wanted to scream, oh my gosh!!! To say that I was staring is an understatement.
I could have sworn I was drooling upon the nape of this woman’s neck, feeling
like Dracula getting ready to pounce on my next victim. For what you ask? HAIR!
There before me stood this woman with the most beautiful hair, pulled back in a
rubber band that went well past her rear-end. Could it be? I was full of joy,
jealousy and pure ecstasy!
Now giggle if you must, but I wanted to take in
this beautiful site. I immediately conjured up visions of all the women, young
and old, that would benefit from her hair, this stranger full of Locks of Love,
INDEED! While I thought about approaching the woman, I wrenched inside, fearful
of her response. I had to ask myself, does this woman have a story of her own to
tell? Was I so selfish to think that my thoughts were to be imposed on her,
right here, in the check-out line? I never lost my hair during my chemotherapy
treatments. I always felt as if this rite of passage somehow minimized my
diagnosis. Are we such a society based upon appearance that I placed
immeasurable worth on this woman’s hair? YES!
Well, what happened you ask? I
did not approach the woman. I contained my voice. It is my hope that her life is
full of happiness, health and blessings. With so many uncertainties in life, in
the end, I determined it was not my place to tell my story, not my place to be
an intrusion on her life. It is with great conviction that I respect her getting
her groceries, and I will never forget the pleasure I felt seeing hair for the
first time.
It was a cold, wintry day here
in Buffalo, New York. Three years to the day since I had my last chemotherapy
treatment, this December 23rd. Typically I am one with a positive spirit,
finding my cup overflowing with the delight in life itself. However, on this day
my mind could not help revisiting the past. I was in the check-out line at the
market when all of a sudden, my eyes opened wide and my mouth fell open, I
wanted to scream, oh my gosh!!! To say that I was staring is an understatement.
I could have sworn I was drooling upon the nape of this woman’s neck, feeling
like Dracula getting ready to pounce on my next victim. For what you ask? HAIR!
There before me stood this woman with the most beautiful hair, pulled back in a
rubber band that went well past her rear-end. Could it be? I was full of joy,
jealousy and pure ecstasy!
Now giggle if you must, but I wanted to take in
this beautiful site. I immediately conjured up visions of all the women, young
and old, that would benefit from her hair, this stranger full of Locks of Love,
INDEED! While I thought about approaching the woman, I wrenched inside, fearful
of her response. I had to ask myself, does this woman have a story of her own to
tell? Was I so selfish to think that my thoughts were to be imposed on her,
right here, in the check-out line? I never lost my hair during my chemotherapy
treatments. I always felt as if this rite of passage somehow minimized my
diagnosis. Are we such a society based upon appearance that I placed
immeasurable worth on this woman’s hair? YES!
Well, what happened you ask? I
did not approach the woman. I contained my voice. It is my hope that her life is
full of happiness, health and blessings. With so many uncertainties in life, in
the end, I determined it was not my place to tell my story, not my place to be
an intrusion on her life. It is with great conviction that I respect her getting
her groceries, and I will never forget the pleasure I felt seeing hair for the
first time.
A Tattoo For You
A Tattoo for You!
By Pamela
“What would life be without art?
Science prolongs life. To consist of what – eating, drinking and sleeping? What
is the good of living longer if it is only a matter of satisfying the
requirements that sustain life? All this is nothing without the charm of
art.”
~ Sarah Bernhardt
A Tattoo for you?
The love
between a parent and child is unconditional and without boundaries. It is this
unconditional love that was recently reciprocated that brings me to write this
latest submission for In the Loop. As a mother, I have never understood the art
of tattooing but I know that my son Sean, a 6’3” very handsome Irish 24
year-old, is smitten with them. Now, it is an understatement to say that I am a
conservative person who enjoys a splash of color in my wardrobe when I feel
daring; adding lipstick when I am out of control!
For the last three years I
have grown accustomed to my son and his tattoos. My older sister even recently
had a tattoo placed on her back which caused me to shriek: WHAT’S WRONG WITH
YOU? So, when I mentioned in passing to several family and friends that I
thought about getting a small pink ribbon on my foot for each year of survival
the world seemed like it was ending. This has been an ongoing conversation for a
year and just when I had gotten up enough nerve to make an appointment, my son
said he didn’t think it was a good idea, so I put the issue to rest.
To my
surprise, the next week my son came home from “running errands” and lifted his
pant leg, a pink ribbon tattoo!!! I started to cry and his remark, “mom, c’mon,
your whole foot would have been pink if you got a tattoo for every year you are
going to be alive”. Those words were the most beautiful ones I have heard in a
long time. My son has turned into a walking billboard for breast cancer
awareness!
By Pamela
“What would life be without art?
Science prolongs life. To consist of what – eating, drinking and sleeping? What
is the good of living longer if it is only a matter of satisfying the
requirements that sustain life? All this is nothing without the charm of
art.”
~ Sarah Bernhardt
A Tattoo for you?
The love
between a parent and child is unconditional and without boundaries. It is this
unconditional love that was recently reciprocated that brings me to write this
latest submission for In the Loop. As a mother, I have never understood the art
of tattooing but I know that my son Sean, a 6’3” very handsome Irish 24
year-old, is smitten with them. Now, it is an understatement to say that I am a
conservative person who enjoys a splash of color in my wardrobe when I feel
daring; adding lipstick when I am out of control!
For the last three years I
have grown accustomed to my son and his tattoos. My older sister even recently
had a tattoo placed on her back which caused me to shriek: WHAT’S WRONG WITH
YOU? So, when I mentioned in passing to several family and friends that I
thought about getting a small pink ribbon on my foot for each year of survival
the world seemed like it was ending. This has been an ongoing conversation for a
year and just when I had gotten up enough nerve to make an appointment, my son
said he didn’t think it was a good idea, so I put the issue to rest.
To my
surprise, the next week my son came home from “running errands” and lifted his
pant leg, a pink ribbon tattoo!!! I started to cry and his remark, “mom, c’mon,
your whole foot would have been pink if you got a tattoo for every year you are
going to be alive”. Those words were the most beautiful ones I have heard in a
long time. My son has turned into a walking billboard for breast cancer
awareness!
Wrinkles In Time
Wrinkles In Time
I sit and stare at my hands, at the wrinkles
and
wonder what time has done to me?
My face is tired, my eyes weak, what has
time done to me?
I have no energy, it is suppressed for times that I need
it most.
Energy to be harvested like a garden, stored for winter
use.
I am not happy inside, but on the outside I appear to
shine.
For those who see me from a distance, I look vibrant, young and
free.
To those who know me, I am scarred, worn out and tired.
I am
but a survivor in time, no more, no less.
Pamela K. Embury
I sit and stare at my hands, at the wrinkles
and
wonder what time has done to me?
My face is tired, my eyes weak, what has
time done to me?
I have no energy, it is suppressed for times that I need
it most.
Energy to be harvested like a garden, stored for winter
use.
I am not happy inside, but on the outside I appear to
shine.
For those who see me from a distance, I look vibrant, young and
free.
To those who know me, I am scarred, worn out and tired.
I am
but a survivor in time, no more, no less.
Pamela K. Embury
Silence Is Not Golden
Silence Is Not Golden
The house is silent. Just a hint of time standing
still.
Time waiting for change, time waiting for life.
What should I do
with this moment to myself?
There is always a list, a task needing to be
done.
Shall I take this moment for myself?
Do I deserve this moment for
myself?
Do I know myself?
Do others deserve my silent time?
Should I
always give of my time?
The noise returns slowly, first from
within.
Telling me to move, regain my energy, be loud.
As the loudness
returns, I feel rage.
Rage that demands attention, yet no time to
hear.
The silence was too much.
The energy of noise and confusion is what
I love.
The silence is too hurtful.
Too much time to think, too much time
to cry.
Bring me the noise
Pamela K. Embury
The house is silent. Just a hint of time standing
still.
Time waiting for change, time waiting for life.
What should I do
with this moment to myself?
There is always a list, a task needing to be
done.
Shall I take this moment for myself?
Do I deserve this moment for
myself?
Do I know myself?
Do others deserve my silent time?
Should I
always give of my time?
The noise returns slowly, first from
within.
Telling me to move, regain my energy, be loud.
As the loudness
returns, I feel rage.
Rage that demands attention, yet no time to
hear.
The silence was too much.
The energy of noise and confusion is what
I love.
The silence is too hurtful.
Too much time to think, too much time
to cry.
Bring me the noise
Pamela K. Embury
What Might Have Been
What Might Have Been?
As I sit and wonder
what might have been,
I
look at my life and wonder,
what might have been?
I think about my
broken life and wonder
what might have been?
Had I not been riddled
with cancer,
what might have been?
Had I not been diagnosed,
what
might have been?
There is no use wondering
what might have been,
it
will never be.
Pamela K. Embury
As I sit and wonder
what might have been,
I
look at my life and wonder,
what might have been?
I think about my
broken life and wonder
what might have been?
Had I not been riddled
with cancer,
what might have been?
Had I not been diagnosed,
what
might have been?
There is no use wondering
what might have been,
it
will never be.
Pamela K. Embury
The Day I Wept
The Day I Wept…
They were days full of confusion, the days after
diagnosis.
Children being transported from school to scouts, to
dancing.
Was I really functioning? Really getting by?
The days,
weeks and months are a blur.
I shall only weep while the family is
asleep.
I will allow myself one day.
One to cry, scream and release my
rage.
One day to act my age.
There is no day as a survivor.
Every
day is a battle.
Every day inside I weep, to myself. For my
release.
Pamela K. Embury
They were days full of confusion, the days after
diagnosis.
Children being transported from school to scouts, to
dancing.
Was I really functioning? Really getting by?
The days,
weeks and months are a blur.
I shall only weep while the family is
asleep.
I will allow myself one day.
One to cry, scream and release my
rage.
One day to act my age.
There is no day as a survivor.
Every
day is a battle.
Every day inside I weep, to myself. For my
release.
Pamela K. Embury
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