I… am not… my hair.

Not many people know what it’s like to lose their hair.

As you age, you lose hair.  When you get a haircut, you lose hair.  I’m talking about a different kind.

It depresses me every time I move my head, wake up, shower…  there are clumps of hair…  everywhere.  Falling out.  My hair is dying to help keep me living.  My hair could be dying, while I too, began to die.

If you put it into actuality, I’ve been dying for almost 3 years now, only now has it began to really come through.

I am dying, and I have accepted my fate.  I have not accepted the fate of my hair.  Nor have I accepted the fate of my legs, which I could possibly lose in a race against time to safe my life.

But nobody knows what too late is.  And nobody knows when it’s going to be.  We don’t know.

We just know it’s coming.

This whole time, I have stood by the fact that cancer is a word not a sentence,but soon, it may become a sentence.

Fighting the fight has changed me in hundreds, thousands of ways. Every day, I just hope that I’ll make it past Christmas.   That’s the only thing that really matters to me anymore…  Christmas.  I must… get past Christmas…

And every day, I hope like hell that it won’t be the last day…  Because every day, I lose more hair, and it is the end of my hair…

ButI…  am not…  my hair.

And this is not the end of me.  This cannot be the end, this will not be the end.

Cancer, you cannot take me.  You will not take me.  Not without a kick, a scream, and a fight.  You will not win.

You can kill my hair.  You can make me feel like every day is absolute hell.  You can make me depressed and sick and sad and everything in between.  You can ruin me.

But I am not my hair.

And I will win.