Happy Friday. Hope you are all well. November, better known as “Movember”, is coming to a close. Secretly I couldn’t be happier. I dread this month for several reason: One- the weather usually sucks. Two- My husband grows a horrible, ugly moustache for a very great cause. He calls himself a Mo-Bro the whole month and insists on calling me a Mo-Sister. He posts moustache selfies to his Movember profile which you can find here http://ca.movember.com/mospace/1853472 to raise money and awareness about men’s health issues, predominately prostate cancer. Having several family members affected by this disease, the cause is close to our hearts. While I would never intentionally try to make light of this, I do believe laughter is the best medicine. Saying that, I’d like to thank Jheric (my best friend’s son) for telling me to write a short story about my personal Movember experience in a silly short story. So I dedicate this blog to: my hubby, whose worked hard all month growing that moustache and whom wears it proudly, to this great cause (http://ca.movember.com/), to all those who have been affected by it and to Jheric for encouraging me to write this. Happy last few days of Movember, my mo-bros and mo-sis’s.
The Hairy Ending
The hours are slipping away from me this cold and rainy day mid-November. Given the sun is setting earlier this time of year, it should be the ever-growing darkness making me feel uneasy. But it isn’t. Given the dampness outside, it should be this feeling of claustrophobia from being contained in my house making me feel unsettled. But it isn’t. Given that Christmas is nearing so quickly, it should be the hysteria of consumerism making me feel panic. But it isn’t. Given that my son has left his toys lying all over the house, goldfish crumbs on my couch, spilled his sippy cup all over the kitchen floor and left wet footprints down the hall, it should be the mess filling me with dread. But it isn’t. It is none of those things making me feel so anxious and panicky as I see the clock change over another minute. 5:21pm. I know it’s coming closer. I’ve done my best to distract myself all day; the laundry is folded neatly in the basket next to the stairs and there’s fresh-baked banana bread cooling on the stove, but I can’t deny much longer; they are coming for me. Sitting down at the kitchen table, my foot twitches as I try to come up with a game plan. I know they won’t just come for me tonight. They will come for my son as well. This I fear most. My motherly instincts instruct me to sacrifice myself, throw myself at them as they enter the door. Maybe I can create enough of a distraction that my son will have enough time to escape. The front door will open and he will run to it, excited to see who has come to visit, but I will run faster. I will stand at the baby gate guarding the stairs at that door and I will pretend that I am excited to see them. I will pretend that I’ve been waiting all day for them to arrive, mention that I was so excited for their arrival that I have baked fresh banana bread, which awaits in the kitchen while motioning for them to come see. I will lead them to the kitchen and my son will retreat to his playroom where I have strategically left cartoons on, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse to be exact, his favorite. Because of this, I know he will only leave the TV for a brief moment and not want to miss the ‘Hot Dog’ song the clubhouse crew is about to sing. I believe strongly this will spare him and the horror that is in store or at the very least it will buy him some time. Sometimes time is all we have. I briefly think about hiding him some where, that would only make it worse. Drawing attention to his absence would only force them to look for him. They would search until he was found and then make their attack. My son would squirm in their presence and attempt to escape, but it would be no use. They have their ways. Once they were done with him, they’d be back for me. In fact, I’m certain they’ll be after me all the rest of the night. Over the years I’ve built up some tolerance but still my body isn’t that strong. I am sensitive.
Just then, I hear the lock on the front door turn. My heart races and my body springs into action. My son appears from around the corner of his playroom, but I know he has trouble getting up those two steps quickly; I have bought myself another thirty seconds. The door is slowly creaking open and I race to the baby gate. My palms are sweaty, but I have a bright smile on my face. I must not show my fear. I feel my son’s arms wrap around my leg and that brings me some relief because I know he is behind me. I can still protect him. They are entering the doorway now and I say, hello. The anticipation is making my head swirl, but I keep my eyes locked on them. The ‘Hot Dog’ song starts playing in the background and my son runs off towards the TV. They are nearing me now, but I can only feel relief. My son is safe in his playroom and my plan is succeeding. They are only inches away from me, nearing still and I close my eyes, brace myself for impact. It’s happening. They are stabbing me, teeny-tiny swords, one prick after the other. The skin above my upper lip instantly screams out in torture; I can feel the blood rushing in defence underneath. In a jolt, I pull away from them and place my fingers upon my inflamed skin to calm it. As soon as it began, it is over and I can breathe a sigh of relief. The greeting is over, but I know there will be a goodnight still. I take one more slow, deep breath and remind myself it is all worth it in the end. I am sacrificing myself for the greater good and it only lasts a short while- the month of November in fact and I am already half way there. I have enough strength left in me to survive another fifteen days of… moustache burns. I have enough strength left in me to avoid looking at those hideous hairs, curling around his lips. The hairy ending is coming soon, at least for another year. Next November they will return for me again and I will be ready with my donation… will you?