Why I Shaved My Head...

Back again, after 8 or so months, most of it spent without a computer.  You'll be glad to know I wrote many posts for my blog in that time - all in my head, while showering, hanging washing, commuting (esp. that last one - a 3.25 hr daily commute 2 days a week adds up to 26 hours a month on a train).  To my 5 readers (no, I'm flattering myself!) - to my 3 readers, I apologise.  But at this point, why bother covering the year-that-was, let's just jump to NOW -

BLW, I'd like to say I don't know what I was thinking, but in fact I knew exactly what I was thinking.  I was thinking lots of things.  And did them.

I know there's lots of blogs out there, where people touch so many readers with their writing on people they love, people they've known, people they've read about, who are dealing with cancer and dealing with loss.  It's such a good process, in helping the writer express their feelings and their grief, and helping readers, who hear their own inner voice reflected in what they're reading.

This is not one of those blog posts.  Although if it was, I could write about my son's best-friend's dad, who passed away last month, who was a great dad to his boys, and to mine when they were all hanging out together, as they did.  He taught the boys to cook, to BBQ, to drink in moderation, to love people, to dream, and to do. He was big into doing things.  All sorts of projects went from dream to reality with this guy.  He built a catamaran from scratch, in his garage (and out of the garage, under a tarp when it got too big).  And while he was doing all this stuff, his boys (and mine) were alongside, maybe only doing their teenage stuff in parallel, but still they saw it all, and there was always an open invitation to have a go and join in.  He loved his boys, he was proud of his boys, and he showed it.  I only met him a few times - everything else I know about him came from my son, who spent a good bit of his growing up years as the 'extra child' in this man's home.

The kind of love and acceptance he gave these kids, was enabling, and awesome.  Together as friends, they aren't frightened to have a go at something, even if it involves making many mistakes, and they aren't sure how it will all turn out.  (I put their recent forays into car improvements into the latter category).  He taught them all sorts of stuff, not formally, but by doing it, and just being who he was.  He walked alongside his boys as long as he could, and when he left this life, he left his boys so much, with skill, love, 'how-to', 'get-on-with-it', and 'bugger-what-anyone-else-thinks'.  They will, in their own way, be men in their dad's image, and that is something I can't be sad about.

And so.

To another lovely friend, whose stock-standard greeting to me, as her voice sails across the room, is "How are you, gorgeous girl?" - a tall lady, with bold strides, bold humour, and a manner about her that can lift a whole room into good spirits.  She is in the middle of treatment, still greeting me the same way, and wearing the most awesome blonde wig, that never has a bad hair day.

To these special people in my life, I doff my cap.  And my hair :-), gone to be 1/6 of a wig for someone with cancer.