LETTERS AND FLOWERS
I took one look at Cynthia and was appalled. I knew she had cancer, but I hadn’t been prepared for her to actually lose all her hair. She looked like—I hated to even say it to myself—a skinhead. Not only that, but boy, did she look sad, sitting there in that hospital bed surrounded by letters and flowers. She greeted me with a “Hey, Donna” and a mopey expression on her face. I gave her a quick hug, feeling a little disgusted with myself. Then, I made the stupid mistake of wondering aloud if maybe there was some kind of hair loss treatment she could get, to help her get back some of her hair. Well now, wasn’t that a gaffe. There was a slight pause, and then Cynthia reminded me reproachfully that at this stage of her illness, no product such as that could possibly work. Not that she would try that even if she was merely going bald, she added, glaring at me. Oh boy, was this visit turning out to be a joke. I must have changed the subject about 100 times during the remainder of the visit. I was the one doing most of the talking, of course. I waxed romantic about Bruce Springsteen and Bob Dylan, two of her favorites, told her all the movies and plays I’d seen in, oh, about the last six years or so, recommended books, restaurants, classes. Cynthia listened very patiently, and finally this huge, overbearing nurse walks in with a tray of who-knows-what. I swear, she looked just like an overgrown version of Nurse Ratched from “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.” That was my cue to leave; I checked my watch in a grand gesture and promised Cynthia I’d be back.