Reflecting

There was a point, near the end of Aimee's stint at NIH, where she got to go shopping for wigs.  She was given a voucher to get two wigs because it was fairly certain that her hair would fall out.  We had to schedule an appointment with a taxi driver to take us there and pick us up. He arrived, and we rode quietly and patiently to the depot.

We spent a long time at that wig store.  Although nothing, of course, matched her hair, so there had to be some sort of change.  I think Aimee had a little fun with it, trying on different personas. Aimee mentioned Alias. She treated it like she was outfitting herself to be a spy, so there was an air of playfulness to the whole outing.  But she increasingly tired, and we had to go back.

Once she had chosen two of them, we called the cabbie.   He arrived, and he started driving us back to the institute.  By then we had already forgotten about the wigs. But, as it turned out, this was the exact time that the chemotherapy took its full effect.  It was in the evening, near dusk. And the taxi had no air conditioning, so the windows were rolled down in the front seats.

Suddenly, Aimee's hair started flying.  The blast from the open windows was enough to detach her hair from its roots.  She ran her fingers over the top of her head, and each strand of hair leapt into the air.  She kept rubbing her head and giggling.  But the sunset reflected off of every piece of hair.  It was like the chaotic production of Rumpelstiltskin's industrious fury. (I suppose on this reading, Rumpelstiltkin would be cancer) Then she sat there, smiling, looking at me like this was one of those rare sights to see, one which we just needed to observe and take in.  The cab driver was unfazed when laces of her hair landed on his face, as if this were some sort of ritual he had been through before.  He just draped them on his hand and shook them off, releasing them out the window.

It was a very strange moment, but a moment where Aimee was clearly very happy.