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"  The cameraman was making a face. He wasn&amp;#039;t happy about something in his shot, so he shut off his video camera, asked the interviewer to hold on a second and headed over to my chair where I had just begun talking about parenting. &amp;quot;Where&amp;#039;s the hair spray?&amp;quot; he asked. &amp;quot;These hairs are sticking up here.&amp;quot; Oh, how he made my day. I had been invited to the Chrysler Building in nearby New York City to film an interview about parenting for www.drugfree.org/ Partnership for a Drug- Free America. It was my first video shoot since before I&amp;#039;d lost my hair to chemotherapy last summer, and I was happy just to have eyelashes, let alone enough hair on my head to hold up a video production. As the cameraman and his assistant worked on my stray locks, I smiled. Finally, my hair had become troublesome for being there rather for than being missing. I was enjoying all the fuss. When I drove home from the video shoot, I passed a construction sign with flashing lights that were supposed to read &amp;quot;Expect Delays.&amp;quot; Only, extra lights were lit up so that it read, &amp;quot;I Expect Delays.&amp;quot; I chuckled, and checked my hair in the rear-view mirror. In a year when I&amp;#039;ll have PET scans every three months to make sure my lymphoma hasn&amp;#039;t returned, I do indeed expect delays. I expect to have blood drawn and doctor&amp;#039;s appointments and afternoons when I won&amp;#039;t be able to concentrate on much of anything until the test results come in. I expect to pause to think about how cancer is affecting other people, people whose hair is missing, people who are missing. A few days later, I found a package in my mailbox marked &amp;quot;Return to sender.&amp;quot; It was addressed to Virginia, one of my hospital roommates -- the one who had no qualms posing for a photo in the purple feather boa a friend had given me to dress up my hospital gown and shiny bald head. When I had visited at her apartment back in February, 82-year-old Virginia was ready to go to Heaven, which she envisioned as a &amp;quot;mile-long cocktail party.&amp;quot; While she waited for her invitation, I had promised to keep her entertained with a box of chocolates, celebrity gossip magazines and a bell to summon her nurse. Only now, I was holding her package next to my mailbox. I went inside and called her phone number, but it was disconnected. Later, I dug up her neighbor&amp;#039;s phone number and asked what had happened to Virginia. &amp;quot;The memorial service is today at three in the city,&amp;quot; she informed me. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m sorry, but I didn&amp;#039;t have your number.&amp;quot; Virginia had gone to her cocktail party. I hope she has a purple boa. She had promised to chill Champagne for me, but that I couldn&amp;#039;t get my glass-full for another 50 years. Don&amp;#039;t worry, Virginia. I expect delays. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/parenting/a20450/the-death-of-a-friend/?src=shelter_footer>