“That’ll go away,” Dr. Hope Rugo told me.

It was my first visit with an oncologist after my breast cancer surgery.

I could hear a vacuum cleaner in the background, and janitors emptying trash cans. The doctor, whose day had probably started very early, was focused and unhurried, even though it had to be hours after her quitting time.

She was looking at the fur on my cheeks, whisper-soft and pure white but thick as shag carpet. My head was still nearly bald but I had grown plenty of hair on my face, hundreds of silk-like strands almost transparent in their delicacy. Facial hair is one of cancer’s almost comical cruelties.

Almost

comical.