A Different Kind of Snow Angel

A Different Kind of Snow Angel
Editor's note: This story is a continuation of last week's column. “Call Jon in Minneapolis,” my husband urged when black stubble finally pricked through the surface of my skull. Black? Me? What happened to blonde? It was a relief to feel growth on my head, but I couldn’t get my brain around black. And who was Jon? “Actually, it’s more salt and pepper,” Gary said without looking up from the computer. “Salt and pepper is for grandmothers,” I said. My husband and daughter exchanged glances and smirked. Our conversations during that surreal year twisted and turned like one of those movies with about 12 stories happening simultaneously. After my diagnosis, my friend Rebecca sent me a box of caps, wigs, and scarves; plus crazy, playful, funny hats I couldn't bear to look at. I didn’t want head coverings because I didn’t want cancer. Lauren wore the green wig to school on Crazy Hair Day, and I threw the rest into my closet. By the time my hair started to fall out, I was so tired I didn’t even care. We snipped it off as a family and tossed it in the breeze. “The birds will use it for their nests, Mommy,” Lauren said, skipping around our backyard. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I finished treatment. I was skinny, which was weird; wo
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