Part 3. The Beast Strikes Hard

Few days after my first chemotherapy session, when I awoke from my sleep, my hair was all messed up. My sister, whose favorite subject is me, offered to comb my hair. I accepted her offer since I can’t comb my hair because my right hand was connected to the intravenous (IV) feeding bottle.

I sat on the bed and gave her the comb. After a while, she fell silent. “Yam,” she said showing me a handful of black hair. That black hair was mine. The sight of my hair falling around the white sheets each day saddened me. All my mom and sister could do was save my fallen hair in a plastic bag. To make a sad fact alluring, I joked to them “Pwede na yan na ipagawa na wig ni daddy!” (You can save my hair for Daddy's wig)