Dad’s going to be in the paper in a couple days for being such an extraordinary accountant, etc., so the photographer came to the house today to capture the essence of Rick Hahn in his natural environment. Somehow Mom and I were convinced to be in the picture with Dad, too. That might have been alright, I’m not shy, but in the past few weeks I’ve developed this unfortunate reaction to the Bleomyacin (chemo drug #2). The nurse calls it a rash, but I call it my face.
Fair enough, I suppose, Bleomyacin is known for it’s skin reactions – but couldn’t it be somewhere else? Like on my arm? Or my ankle? Or, for god’s sake, ANYWHERE that’s not going to be plastered all over the local paper? Come on now, my face?! Is that necessary? What kind of bad karma have I gathered that makes the noticable side-effect of this treatment located on the one patch of skin people look at?
I’m not a pretty boy or anything, and I’ve never spent enough time on my looks to invest much emotional attachment to them, but, by design, they are sort of…noticable. So it can be difficult to restrain an identity crisis everytime I look in the mirror and I’m either 10 lbs heavier, 10 lbs lighter, karma-faced, puffy, or basically – staring at somebody I’ve never met.