Then, in the shower in the morning, you find little clumps of hair in your hand and think - oh. It seems you will not be spared this indignity after all, and you sigh to yourself.
In the hospital, for pre-chemotherapy, you go for bloods, and the nurse says - you look well. You smile at her, grateful for the affirmation. She is quick, efficient, friendly, sending you on your way with a sympathetic pat on your shoulder, and once again you are touched by the supportive gesture, the kindness of strangers. Then there is an X-Ray, and, waiting, you text Gav and your brother D, each with their own troubles today. It does you good to remember that life goes on, that the world doesn't revolve around you. You walk - slowly, otherwise you get out of breath - to the restaurant. You know all the shortcuts around the hospital now. Wandering repeatedly has taught you the routes. It feels like when you were learning to navigate around Cambridge, the shortcuts through your college or to lectures, but this time with a different, much less pleasant, purpose. You sit with a coffee, amongst the families and groups of nurses, until it is time for your appointment. It is nice to be lost, anonymous, for a while.
H joins you and you see Dr G's registrar. She says - your X-Ray shows you are stable, and catching your quizzical look, she says - stable is good. We'll know a lot more from the CT. Otherwise, she says, things seem ok, we'll see you on Friday for Chemo.
On the way out, H bumps into a friend you haven't met before. The friend says - I'm sure that they can make you better. And there it is, the old temper, as you snap - I doubt it somehow, then amble away, leaving a trail of greying strands in your wake.
