It comes in the form of a wig.

Not just any old wig, a beautiful, custom-made, human hair wig that fit perfectly over my smooth bald head for nearly a year, giving the false impression to the world that I was in good health with my own mane of beautiful blond hair.

When a friend was diagnosed (the first in a series of six friends in four years since my diagnosis), I offered it to her as a gift that she could keep, pass on, throw away or burn, for all I cared. 

She gladly accepted it.  I was exuberant to let it go, like excess weight falling off my body, making me feel lithe, agile and aloft.

Within days it showed up on my doorstep with a note. "Sorry, it didn’t fit."

I held it cautiously like a snake I might pick up with a long, sturdy stick to keep it far from me until it could be tossed back into the woods where it belonged.

I could donate it to the American Cancer Society or just stuff it in the trash can, for that matter.  I don't have to keep it, but old wives' tales run through my head like, "If you get rid of it, you’ll need it." Or, "If you keep it, you’ll never need it again."

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