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"Sometimes I forget I have cancer and behave as though everything is normal, including me. While this suits my family and friends, who knew me B.C. \u2013 Before Cancer \u2013 it didn&amp;#039;t work well with a bunch of twenty-somethings who were apparently just trying to be nice to the sick woman sitting on the bench by the sea. It was a big outing for me. I was going to the beach near our vacation rental house to watch my kids fly kites even though the walk alone could have exhausted me. I had just finished my second round of chemotherapy, and I was tired, woozy and bald.  I wrapped a headscarf my mother in-law had made for me around my head, put on an oversized blue button-down shirt I&amp;#039;d bought from an online store that sells special SPF-protected clothing and slathered on sunscreen, even though it was dusk. After twenty minutes of watching the boys fly kites, I got a little chilled, so I walked up to the entrance to the beach and sat down on the bench. That&amp;#039;s when the trio of twenty-somethings showed up, cigarettes in hand, lugging a cooler on wheels. The two women smiled warmly at me and the man gave me a polite nod before putting his cooler down in the middle of the walkway. The women teased the man for blocking the entrance to the beach, so I made a joke about it, a joke that would normally elicit knowing laughs and the &amp;quot;Hey, she&amp;#039;s cool&amp;quot; look I love to get from people so young that I could have babysat them when I was in high school. Instead, all three of them glanced at me nervously before whisking the cooler off to the beach. And that&amp;#039;s when it hit me: I was no longer the funny forty-something with the cool haircut. In just six weeks since my diagnosis, I had become the crazy, bald, sick woman on the bench by the sea. My new image was sealed by the cat designs on my headscarf, printed next to the word &amp;quot;meow,&amp;quot; which was repeated throughout the scarf, and, therefore, all over my head. Then there was what I like to call, &amp;quot;The Alaskan Pipeline,&amp;quot; a small, yet noticeable, tube for chemotherapy placed surgically under my skin and up my neck like something out of &amp;quot;Bride of Frankenstein.&amp;quot; No wonder they scampered away. I&amp;#039;d have rushed off, too, if I were them. I&amp;#039;m sure I scared them, just like I scare myself when I forget I have no hair and catch a glimpse of my bald head in the mirror, fearing for a moment that some sort of evil Mr. Clean had followed me into the bathroom. If I frighten myself, it&amp;#039;s no wonder how other people feel. But inside the crazy, bald, sick woman is me \u2013 the real me. At least my friends and family don&amp;#039;t mind if I act as though nothing has changed. They must know that next year, I&amp;#039;ll be the funny forty-something with the cool haircut again. Perhaps I&amp;#039;ll celebrate with a little something from that cooler on wheels. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/parenting/a20359/good-grief-blog-080207/?src=shelter_footer>