Life challenges you everyday. The hardest thing to do is to face it and stare right back because it can all change within a blink of an eye. This post is here simply as a pause for thought. I'm so grateful for your good thoughts and for a positive outcome. I'll be back to my normal rants and stories tomorrow. But today, I am of very few words.

In this short Life by Emily Dickinson

In this short Life
That only lasts an hour
How much — how little — is
Within our power

My dad may have prostate cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. That's all I can hear right now. Please say a good wish for my family.....and to those men out there, get checked out. Early detection is a life saver.

Dear Ether, 

I’m really scared.  My dad just had a test for prostate cancer and they found that it was hard (a healthy prostate should be soft and spongy).  They are doing a biopsy tomorrow and won’t have the results until Friday.  All is gloomy around the household.  

My uncle, his brother, was diagnosed with prostate cancer just last year.  They say if you have sibling who has had the disease, your chances go up.  

My father, whom I just recently posted about (Read: The First Man I Ever Loved Was My Father) and wrote that he never had an injury in his life, could be thrown a very heavy blow.  I know prostate cancer, if caught early, is very curable.  But cancer is cancer and that’s an ugly word.  They say that it’s most virulent in men in their 50’s.  My father is in his early 60’s.  But, again, whose to know.  All is speculation.  

My mom, always positive, thinks he will be fine and will be healthy as he always has.  I can tell by the sallow look on his face and his body language that he does not feel the same way.  

This is the man who I thought was infallible.  A man who I thought was perfect, may have something that will mar him internally and change him psychologically.  I do not fear anything as serious as death, but I do fear suffering for him and the severe shake to his belief in his youthfulness and health.  My father.  Mr. Perfect.  The man I love most.  I can’t bear that he is potentially living with something destroying him. 

Everyone always told me that I took after my father.  I always felt so proud of that because he had a constitution like a rock and had aged handsomely.  If HE is bound for any sort of demise, than I, too, am not going to be always strong and healthy either.  

I’ve never really been unwell.  My brother takes after my mother.  He has a zillion allergies, and always complains of aches and pains (whether this is psychosomatic, I don’t know).  He is always taking off work because he is sick.  I can’t remember the last time I visited a GP. 

But back to my Dad.  He is aging.  He has graying temples, sagging skin, a few scattered sunspots and thinner hair (though a full head—he is not even close to bald).  Aging is a reality, but to see your perfect father lose to the inevitable hands of time.  That even HE can’t beat the clock………it makes you realize that you too, are bound for the same fate. 

My dad wont be alive when I reach his age.  He won’t see me with paper thin skin on the tops of my hands, fat blue veins popping out of them.  He won’t see me chop of my lovely hair and wear it as a woman of my age should.  He’ll never see my lens prescription grow thicker or my eyes grow less clear.  I’m grateful for that.  Because watching him vanish is terrifying and painful.  

Please send out a good word for him.  I hope he is going to be okay.  You’ll remember from my earlier post that I have so much I still must work out with him.  I can’t lose him.  I can’t allow anything to harm him. 

Nobody’s perfect.  I know that.  But to give him cancer?  No.  Please.  No. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

Sometimes curiosity DOES kill the cat! Locked means locked....even if it was slightly ajar for just a second...20 years later and it still makes me wonder....

Dear Ethers, 

Wipe. Wipe. Spray. Wipe. Wipe.  Okay?  How does this page look today?  Spotless?  Fresh?  Good!  I really want to have a clean slate and get out from under the duvet.  I woke up this morning, opened my eyes, saw the sunshine (even though it was late October) and said, “Today I’m writing about a fond memory.”  That’s a great way to re-start a week, I reckon.  So Ethers, let me take you away from a very dusty One of 365 to a smaller set of numbers.  A girl yet to be tainted by the mysteries of love, or worries about the future.  Just a nutty memory that still makes me curious almost 20 years later. 

I had a childhood friend who had 2 older sisters.  They were in college when we were just in elementary school so I never met them. I had heard stories about these fabled girls.  They were supposed to be very beautiful and talented.  One was an Olympic medalist in horse riding and the other was a very accomplished medical student.  I’d heard that when one of them was little she’d fallen ill, but I never knew from what and frankly, I never asked.  

I used to hang out with his childhood friend daily.  Her house was really grand.  She lived in Bel Air and had an amazing backyard with a fantasy-like pool and screening room with every movie you could think of (even a popcorn making machine).  I had died and gone to heaven!  When I would sleep over, I always stayed in the guest room.  I really wanted to stay in one of her older sister’s rooms but was always told sternly by my friend that they were off limits.  I always found it really strange that their doors were the only locked ones in the house.  

One weekend that I was sleeping over, the sisters were coming home to stay for a short trip.  I was extremely excited.  It was the age when older girls were heroes—especially beautiful ones you heard stories about and had doors that were locked.  I recall my friend being anything but pleased. 

They tumbled in and were as glorious as I had imagined.  They both had long golden hair, sparkling blue eyes and pale skin.  Slim and well built, they were elegant and well dressed.  The only thing I noticed was one of them had a slight limp, but I figured that was from an injury from horseback riding. I glommed on to them immediately.  I could tell they were flattered but my friend didn’t seem very thrilled.  Especially about me getting terribly close to the Olympic champion sister.  

We had a great weekend and we’re just preparing to eat breakfast.  I’d just showered and noticed the door was slightly open to the normally locked room of the sister who rode.  I thought we were friendly enough so I could take a peek in and see what she was up to.  I was also dying to see her sanctuary.  I pushed open the door and there it stood.  Right in the middle of the room.  A prosthetic leg!  It was in a black sock with one Doc Marten laced to its ankle.  Being young and stupid, I burst out and told me friend what I had discovered.  “You’ll never guess what was in your sister’s room.” I said in a fit of laughter.  “A joke leg!”  My friend’s face fell and she turned crimson.  I began to color too.  “What’s wrong?” I asked.  “This is why I didn’t want to hang out with them.  And that’s why their doors are locked.  My sister had cancer in her leg and it was amputated.  She has several false legs that she owns and leaves here when she visits.  Some are in her room and some are in my other sister’s room.  She’s really sensitive about it.”  I was horrified that I had laughed.  But I still didn’t get it.  “But she is an Olympian….”  “In the Special Olympics…” my friend said.  I didn’t know what to do or say.  I knew that my friend was upset because she felt I knew some dirty secret (even though it wasn’t at all).  

After the leg incident, my friend stopped inviting me over, slowly stopped hanging out with me and didn’t take my calls.  I was confused, but I guess I understood that I had seen something she didn’t want me to, and now she had to get rid of me because I knew this secret.  When I turned 12 I went off to a different school than her and we never spoke again. 

Just recently I saw her name in the LA Times.  She had gotten married!  There wasn’t a photo—but I wonder, maybe if I hadn’t discovered that leg, if I would have been a bridesmaid in that wedding.  It’s strange how little things in life change fate.  If only that door had remained locked and I hadn’t been so damned curious.  What an odd memory, eh? 

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

I'm not going to say much, because it'll ruin the story. But see this girl. She looks somewhat surprised, but not in a "I'm going to kill myself because someone shaved off all of my hair" kinda way. Well. This photo could have been me....but with a VERY different expression on ol' One of 365's face. Seriously---don't ever fuck with my hair.

Dear Ethers, 

OH MY GOD.  I have the CRAZIEST story to tell you.  Right.  So, you know how I’m always going on about my hair and its length.  I mean, by this time you know the diameter of each follicle.  But you also know how much I treasure it.  I swore the only way I would ever cut my hair is if I became destitute and it was the last thing I had to pawn to eat that night. 

So, I had straightened my hair for an event and had been wearing it down because I usually don’t take much care to make a fuss over it (you know, tying it in a messy bun etc…) and wanted to work my “do.”  I’m walking down the street and this woman comes up to me and says, “You have the most beautiful hair.”  Well, of course I was pleased and thanked her very much.  But she went on.  “Is that your natural color?”  I politely responded, “Yes, it’s my own.”  “So you don’t use any dyes at all?” Okay, now not only was I getting annoyed, but I was getting weirded out.  I said, “Look, I’m real busy…” and she cut me off and started telling me that she worked for this charity called “Locks of Love” and they were really desperate for donors because all of the salon owners were paying a fortune to girls and it was the recession. 

Now, I’m not saying I’m the most benevolent person in the world, but I do give to certain charities.  But they are ones that I choose and that I approach.  I make it a policy NEVER to give to charities on streets or on the phone.  I like to do my research on the net and donate via e-mail.  But regardless, where was this woman’s badge?  Who the hell was she?  And I’m sure “Locks of Love” didn’t have a bombard you policy that freaked young women out on the street.  

I calmly told her that I had no intention of cutting my hair and that I would appreciate her leaving me alone as I felt this was very inappropriate.  Now, a normal person would walk away.  Oh no, this lady got PISSED.  “Don’t you care about kids with cancer?  Women who’ve been burned and lost parts of their scalp?”  Did I mention I’m standing on a street where there were cafes and people were staring at us?  I just started walking away—but she followed.  I started to reach for my cell phone and my keys. 

And then I felt a tug. 

My whole body went numb and I swear to god for a second I thought she took out shears and lopped my hair off. 

I spun around and screamed at her to never fucking touch me again and that I was dialing 911.  I’ve never seen a skinny woman with a bob-cut run so fast in my whole life. 

When I got home I called “Locks of Love” and told them my story.  And Ethers, I’m not joking (and you might think I’m a pussy) I was crying.  I think they were afraid I was going to sue for assault charges.  But the truth is I didn’t have the woman’s name and they said they have so many volunteers that even with my description of her, it was hopeless. 

I think “Locks of Love” do a wonderful thing and I do not want to incriminate them for one woman’s insane breakdown.  But I have to tell you that I will never forget that moment.  I did wonder if that woman was really from “Locks of Love” because they told me that dyed hair WAS acceptable though bleached wasn’t.  And if the lady had cut my hair without it being in a braid or ponytail first she would have done it for nothing—they can’t accept it loose.  Oh and FYI, if you ever DO want to donate, your hair needs to be 10” tip-tip minimum (and they do request it to be clean, thank you very much).  

Later that night I took a shower, used my special Kerastase shampoo that I pull out for special occasions and my Redkin conditioner that is for VERY special moments, and lathered up grateful for something to still be attached to my head.  My waves re-appeared, and as my hair dried, up it went into its lazy bun happy to be protected.  I was just so happy to have given my OWN locks some love that night when it all could have been snipped away by some nutter with a bad bowl cut.  Sheesh.  Only in L.A. 

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365