This is not a goodbye letter: April 26, 2022

My mom, my step-dad and I drove to Cleveland yesterday after a Saturday spent packing and a Sunday full of goodbyes. Full disclosure: I am terrible at goodbyes. The joke goes that Jews say goodbye and never leave; this Jew is more of a French Exit kind of girl, preferring to leave without saying goodbye. Goodbyes are hard for me, imbued with a finality that I don’t feel, or maybe just that I don’t want to feel.

And yet, transitions are full of beginnings, too. Yesterday morning, after Larry drives the kids to school, he shaves my head for me. I will lose much of my hair in two to three weeks’ time after receiving Cytoxan this Friday, and the rest of it will fall out soon after I’m admitted to hospital in June. Yes, shaving my head is a practical alternative to finding clumps of hair on my pillow, but it also marks the occasion of starting my transplant - and I am so ready to get going. When I look in the mirror after Larry is finished his work, I am a surprised to actually love my badass, GI Jane vibe. It suits me, and hope my new haircut will imbue me with both the toughness and vulnerability that a shaved head conveys.

After a very long day yesterday, I awake in Cleveland this morning from the most restful night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks. Because I’m here. There is no more worrying about whether Covid will interfere with my plans to get to Cleveland on time to start my schedule. No more anticipating the last goodbyes, the last hugs, the last time I tuck my beautiful children into their beds and relax into their sleepy affection. The last time I share a bed with Larry as we contort around our dog, her compact body stretched out horizontally between us.

Yesterday was hard, and today I wake up to a new beginning.

This is not a goodbye letter to those I’ve left in Toronto.

Hello from Cleveland.