Dr. E. and my Mom conferred over a calendar, finally agreeing upon a date lying within the six week bounds. We would receive a packet containing specific appointment times in the mail shortly before our next visit. The doctor returned to my room as the nurse was wrapping my hand. After exchanging a few pleasantries of conversation, he sobered and said, "You'll have to buy a wig as soon as you can once you are home..." Hair loss would not be a gradual affair after having such a drug and his warning was not intended to be brushed off; I nodded that I would comply. "I'll see you in six weeks then," he drawled, and allowed us to depart from the room at our leisure. I took another white canister from the counter top and we stepped from the cubicle. Mom had already stowed our bags in the car for our departure, so upon our return to the motel, we merely inspected the room once more for articles we might have overlooked and then made our way to the car for our homeward journey. I was seated beside Mom, outfitted with two white canisters, while she packed a sack of apples as an energy booster through the seven hour drive. Knowing that we would soon be wrapped in our own blankets improved my spirits to a great degree, despite haphazard retching sprees and pervasive weakness. Toward evening my nausea subsided. We pulled into a rest stop and Mom stretched her legs. The sun hung low in the sky, undecided as to its course, casting shadows from the nearby benches and trees. I watched my mom as she walked about, surveying the fields under the suspended ball of fire, and then strolled back to the car. She suddenly seized upon an idea and opened the trunk, removing my camera from one of the bags. "I want to take a picture of you... your hair's so shiny." She positioned me on a rock and captured on film a being ready to metamorphacize; the changes had already begun internally, for bereft of energy, no smile escaped my ashen eyes or crossed my weary face. Soon my hair, shining in the sun's slanted rays, would be gone,too. Lives change not only by days, but by minutes as well. I slid off the rock and we climbed into our car once again; by late evening the streets of Moline were beneath us. It was good to be home. Apart from the presence of drugs, I was able to eat tremendously for the first few days. The grayness in my complexion was fanned into a spark, and the return of my smile (which seemed to parallel my homecoming) added a small glow to my features. My stomach muscles, which had for five days, been exceedingly over-worked, gave up their tenderness, and the needle marks disappeared. For two and a half days life leaned toward normalcy. It seemed a ridiculous idea to purchase a wig; as yet, my hair appeared fully intact.