stage Zero by Sarp Sozdinler
My dad shaved his head last week because he’s, quote, “statistically due for a cancer diagnosis.” He said it plainly and calmly, as if announcing the day’s forecast.
I looked up from my tuna sandwich. “Okay.”
He rubbed his bare scalp like a genie might come out and offer him some wisdom. Some skull-shaped answer to everything and nothing. “You gotta get ahead of this,” he said after a moment. “Like flossing. Or rotating your tires.”
I watched him clear out the bottom drawer on his nightstand and stow a full Ziploc of hair into it. He sealed it shut and labeled it with red Sharpie: Hair, Pre-Cancer Era.
He’s not even sick. Not even slightly unwell. He’s just a man in his mid-fifties with too much time on his hands to Google things like “symptoms of lymphoma” and “early-stage pancreatic signs” and “should I pre-shave my head before the bad news hits?” His hair was already thinning but not, like, bald guy balding. Just recession chic. But now he looks like a former Marine who sells camping knives to youngsters in parking lots.
He started walking around the house doing chemotherapy cosplay. Practicing how to sit weakly in a chair. Watching YouTube videos of people barfing in buckets. Drinking ginger tea and saying “Mmm” like it was helping. He sipped Ensure like it was a fine brandy. He bought a blanket with sleeves and called it “a smart fatigue garment.” He turned his old office into what he called “a healing space,” which only consisted of a recliner facing a humidifier and a sad-looking ficus.
He asked me if I’d still visit him if he lost all his eyebrows. I said yes, and he said, “You didn’t even hesitate. That’s how I know you’re lying.”
At dinner he asked Mom to rate the shape of his head on a scale of one to “Tom Hanks in Philadelphia.”
She said nothing. Just shoveled mashed potatoes onto her plate, pretending not to notice he was wearing three layers of sunscreen and an SPF hat indoors.
He also asked if we thought he should start pre-losing weight. “You know, to lessen the shock later?” Then he ate four pudding cups in a row and said he’d reconsider tomorrow.
Soon, he rented a room in the care home. He reserved a spot in the cemetery as if the inevitable was nearing. He started keeping a fake pill organizer on the counter filled with Tic Tacs and vitamins he didn’t take. Sometimes he opened it slowly, like it cost him effort. Once, I caught him looking into the mirror and practicing his “brave, but humble” face. Like if he got the news, he wanted the doctor to think, Now here’s a guy who’ll handle it well.
Eventually I asked, “What if you just…don’t get cancer?”
He blinked at me. Long and slow. Like I was the crazy one.
“Then I’ll be the healthiest dying-looking man alive,” he said, and returned to his homemade anti-toxin drink.
The next morning I found a sticky note on the bathroom mirror:
“WEEK 4 – STILL NO CANCER.”
Then, the same day next week: “DO NOT GROW COMPLACENT.”
After breakfast one day, he pulled me aside and asked if I’d be kind enough to write his eulogy. “Just in case,” he said, then suggested a playlist to go with it. He wanted Cat’s in the Cradle but only the acoustic cover version so people know he “went in peace.”
Sometimes I think he’s just scared. Like actually scared. Like he needs a different kind of help. But then he does something ridiculous, like start researching what chemo fluids smell like so he can “simulate it at home for mental toughness,” and I stop worrying. Mostly.
We still ate waffles in the morning. We still walked the dog together. He shaved his head every Sunday just in case his hair tried to grow back too soon. He left little notes for me and Mom in the different corners of the house. Our lives rolled into a new rhythm where we pretended we understood each other. And somehow, it was comforting. Like he was training for grief so none of us would have to. We felt ready.
Sarp Sozdinler has been published in Electric Literature, Kenyon Review, Masters Review, Vestal Review, Hobart, Trampset, and Maudlin House, among other journals. His stories have been selected or nominated for such anthologies as the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and the Wigleaf Top 50.
