All my life I have had a round face, a cute face. A face that made people think it was ok to chant Monchichi while trying to peg me in dodge ball, later it was Gizmo from Gremlins. Freshmen year of high school a senior told me my face was round like a pancake and I have hated him ever since, even though he routinely bought me and my friends peach-flavored Bartles & Jaymes, I hated him. Still do. Fact.
All this to say that my face is no longer round. Or as round, maybe. I have cheekbones. I guess that's the silver lining of chemo: you get cheekbones. Like actual definition, I have an angle. I've always wanted to have my own angle.
Yesterday my dad and I discovered a park a few blocks away with a little workout area. It's the funniest thing, surrounded by a primary colored playground that looks a little worse for wear there sits a circle of Eastern European-looking fitness equipment. Nadir says that he did his part of the job, giving me chemo and the transplant, but now it's up to me to work my muscles. So when I showed him these photos I thought he would be proud. Instead I got in trouble for not wearing gloves.
So today we went back and I wore black latex gloves making me feel dangerous, the coupling of having cheekbones and latex gloves, like a Russian spy or at least a one episode arc character from Dexter.
I realize you can't see the cheekbones beneath the mask, so you will have to take my word for it. I am a dead ringer for Gisele Bündchen under there.
Of course soon I will look more like Sigourney Weaver circa Aliens, as any day now my hair should be falling out. Then the real fun starts, I suppose. That's when people know you're sick and not just paranoid. The funny thing is, even though I will look it I won't really be sick anymore, but healthy. And eventually my cheekbones will disappear, my face once again round, because that's all an angle is anyway, two rays sharing a common endpoint, and that endpoint, in this case, is my future.