On Monday, Shady, Rookie, and Carrie came over and the guys drank beer while the women sat and gossiped, or did whatever in the hell it is women do. Saylor was doing so good that I figured the increased dosage on the steroids was enough to keep her body fighting against the medicine. But it’s Tuesday morning and Saylor has been puking her guts up for the last ten minutes.
I know she doesn’t have much dignity left and if it gets worse, she will lose it altogether, so I give her some space. She had said that the vomiting isn’t as embarrassing as the diarrhea. It doesn’t bother me though. I love her, and nothing she does could ever make me think less of her. I just see it as her body ridding itself of poison, no matter what orifice it chooses to come out of.
I fix Saylor a glass of water, grab the trash can and a bottle of Gatorade, and then head back to the bathroom. When I tap on the door, I get no response. So I open it. And my heart stops. Saylor is lying on the floor in her pajamas that are covered in vomit and feces, shaking and crying. Sobbing. And in her hand is a clump of her beautiful hair.
“It just keeps falling out.” She cries, pulling another wad of loose hair from her head. I fall to my knees beside her and take her in my arms. Not knowing what do to. She wails so loud, it scares me. She hiccups in the back of her throat, and another round of vomiting begins. It’s all over me before I have the chance to position her over the toilet, but I don’t pay it any attention. My eyes are drawn to Saylor’s scalp, which is visible through the large bald spot in the back of her head. “I’m so sorry,” she manages, while trying to catch her breath.
“Baby, it’s okay,” I tell her, rubbing her back while her head rests on the side of the toilet. The scent of the room is off and I take notice of what’s around me. This isn’t vomit; it’s bile. I’m glad I’m equipped with a wrought iron stomach; I just wish Saylor was too.
She continues to vomit until there is nothing left and the scent alone has her gagging and dry heaving. I struggle to pull her pajama top over her head, which is a task considering she lacks the strength to hold herself up. I sit her on the toilet and remove her pants, hiding them so she can’t see what they’re covered in. Not wanting to wash her hair for fear that it will fall out and add to her distress, I sit her in the tub and grab the glass beside the sink to bathe her.
When she is clean, I leave her sitting in the tub while I clean up the bathroom. Once her clothes are washing, the bathroom floor and toilet are clean, and the loose strands of hair are disposed of, I wrap her in a towel and carry her to the bedroom, propping her in the middle of the bed against the pillows.
“Saylor,” I say and a piece of me dies at the sight of how sad she looks. I could beat around the bush, but I’m not. This is her and I’m me and she wants it straight. This shit might affect our daily lives, but it doesn’t change who we are.
“Your hair is falling out pretty bad. I remember what you said to me the other week. And if you still want me to, I will.” She cries a little harder, but nods her head. I leave her to get a chair from the kitchen, a towel, and the scissors. Then I position her in front of the floor-length bathroom mirror behind the door so she can watch.
“Will you take a picture?” she asks, and I leave to retrieve the camera and throw some sweats on in the process. I come back and take my first-ever bathroom mirror picture. She manages a smile and I give her a smirk before snapping a few more. I grab her hair in my hand, at the base of her neck, watching as some of the strands fall out with the slightest pull.
“You ready?” I ask, meeting her eyes in the mirror. She takes a deep, staccato breath and nods. I lean down to her ear, never taking my eyes off of hers. “You will still have your power, Saylor. It’s in your heart, not in your hair. And you will still be you.” A tear falls from her cheek and it causes a burning in the back of my own eyes.
I look away long enough to line up the scissors, then meet her gaze before making the first cut. She closes her eyes when the sound echoes in the bathroom, and I look down to finish cutting the ponytail in my hand away from her head. When it is gone, I hold the long locks out to her and she takes them from me.
While she strokes them, I concentrate on cutting the remaining long strands, then take the clippers and run them over her head until the only thing left is a short fuzz that I’m sure will wash off in the shower. I step in front of her, kneeling down and lifting her chin so she is looking at me. “You are beautiful.” And she is. Her hair was something I found remarkable about her, but now I find that she is even more perfect without it. It allows me to see a part of her that I haven’t seen, which is just as flawless as every other part of her body. “I like that I can see more of you. Too much of a good thing is a good thing, and I will never get too much of you.”
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