Fuzz

Pentecost, late afternoon

After her chemotherapies last year, Lara's hair began to grow back over the rest of the summer and appeared at first in the form of soft stubbles, reminiscent of stuffed toy animals. Through October Lara would hide her hair under a cache-misere. By X-mass time she had turned into a Audrey Hepburn (see "Picture").

Stuffed animals, in French, are called peluches. The Dutch word pluis is related etymologically, but refers to anything soft and fuzzy, I suppose. Anyway, despite incipient indigation over lack of reverence, I started to call her 'Pluis' - or 'fuzz' - and the nickname stuck until it became a batch of honor to her. By September she habitually asked me to validate it, several times a day. ("Am I your Pluisje?") This afternoon I promised I would never use the term in relation to anybody else. Ever.

I know this may all sound corny, but I am not writing these words for cheap effect. They matter to Lara. In dire circumstances, small things, especially those with a sentimental attachment, help you stay connected to the here and now, to living reality. They allow you to anchor firmly instead of drifting away over uncharted waters. Habits, pet names, a breakfast routine, down to mundane things such as a favorite dress or dish, become a life insurance; you cling to it. They become fixed markers on a terminal course. As long as I have that, I am safe!