Today I washed my hair for probably the last time in several months. Tomorrow Gail is coming round to cut it all off. Right off. Gone. Hair today, gone tomorrow (sorry!). It’s due to fall out in the next few days and I’m not going through that trauma again. I’ve bought some hats, which I may or may not wear. I’ve ordered some buffs, which I’ll probably wear. I’m in the process of choosing a wig, which I’ll keep for best, otherwise known as “not standing out from the crowd”.
The week in hospital was most definitely a detox week, the sort of system clean out that I suspect people pay good money for. Flush the system out first. Then remove anything unsavoury followed by several days of clear soup and a spoonful or two of porridge. Definitely no alcohol. It was one way to lose 6kg but perhaps not one that I could recommend.
And this was all in preparation for the retox which began about ten or so days ago. Oh it all came flooding back. The bottle of tablets to swallow at 3am. The talk from the nurse about the dos and don’ts and the long list of side effects. Soaking my hands in warm water to bring up a vein although this time there was a major hunt to find one that worked well enough for a cannula. And sitting there for several hours while these toxic chemicals dripped in.
So after all that cleansing, I leaked toxins from every pore. I felt sick. My mouth tasted disgusting. My eyes and nose stung. My head was woozy. I couldn’t sleep. My joints hurt and my fingers and feet were tingling. It’s so brutal and it was so much worse than I remembered; I suspect I have just blanked that period from my mind. Now, nearly two weeks on, I feel normal, apart from the tingling, and wonder what I was making a fuss about. But I’m through the worst of the first round and there are only five more to go. This week I feel like I’ll cope.
First of all, though, the hair has to go.