My Brother’s Socks.

My brother David died suddenly of a massive heart attack three years ago. He was 62. I miss him every day. Despite the fact that I was his kid sister and a royal pain in his rear when we were growing up, David loved me and, in our later years, shared a number of things he admired about me. Courage and tenacity were at the top of his list.

When I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and it looked like I might only have a few months to live, David was ready to scoop me up and whisk me off on an Alaskan cruise. He knew watching the whales frolicking in the cold waters next to calving glaciers was one of my life goals, and he didn’t want me to miss it. Had it been necessary, David would have sold everything he owned to make sure I got there. And he would have made sure our family was together to share the experience. He was generous that way.

It turned out that my cancer was contained and I got out without having to have either radiation or chemo. I lived. He died. David never saw me bald.

I lost my hair two years after David’s death from alopecia not cancer. But I know my brother would have supported my decision to go boldly bald – he might even have shaved his head in camaraderie. He was quirky that way.

David’s belief in my courage and strength was a powerful confidence builder. When I didn’t feel brave, when weakness washed over me, he would remind me of past obstacles overcome, of forward steps taken. He was supportive that way.

When I was dealing with the emotional trauma of losing my entire body hair I missed my brother’s encouragement. I missed his presence. I missed the contact. One day I was acutely feeling the pain of work-world displeasure over my unwillingness to wear a wig. I wanted one of my brother’s enveloping hugs.

Suddenly I remembered a container of clothing his widow had given my husband. I ran to the basement and opened the bin…undershirts, underwear and socks. I took off my shoes and socks and slipped on a pair of his black crew socks. They were too long. I scooched them up and wiggled my toes. I could feel him laughing inside my head: Way to go Pamèlli, I knew you’d figure it out.

When I need a reminder that although being bald has changed my life, it hasn’t changed who I am…when I need a reminder that I have courage and strength to not only live bald boldly, but to use that baldness to shore up and encourage others, I smile and pull on a pair of my brother’s socks.