The thing I dreaded most wasn’t telling him he had cancer; it was telling him that he was going to lose his hair.

Cancer’s meaningless to a seven-year-old. It doesn’t get in your eyes when you swim, or get sweaty when you run, or messy when you sleep.

As a kid, there was so much he still didn’t know. What he did know is that he had blue eyes, a September birthday, a best mate called Beau, and a head of brown hair.

His lashes were the first to go. They’d fall into his eyes or land at the end of his freckled nose. Initially, instinctively, we’d hold them between our fingers to make a wish. It wasn’t long before that ritual felt too cruel and futile to observe.

The rest of his hair followed soon enough. It mostly rubbed off while he slept. We started using dark pillowcases so that he wouldn’t notice. Eventually, he did.

So, he started wearing The Cap.

He added something, so that he wouldn’t be defined by what he had lost. Instead of being The Kid without The Hair, he became The Kid with The Cap.

He’s a year into his remission now.

His hair has grown back.

And he still constantly wears The Cap.

Only now he doesn’t use it to hide his cancer. Instead, I think he uses it remind us of it.

What he now knows about himself is that he has blue eyes, a September birthday, a best mate called Beau, a head of brown hair … and he had cancer.

It’s why he’s scarred from one side of his tummy to the other. It’s why he missed so much school and still doesn’t quite understand fractions, and sometimes cheats in tests. It’s why he’s shorter than lots of his mates, a bit worse at soccer and a bit slower in races. It’s why he cries uncontrollably when he gets needles. It’s why he has such big reactions when things don’t go his way. “My Nintendo is broken, I came fifth in the race and I had cancer. My life is not fair!”

For him, being The Kid without The Cap is an affront to his suffering and sacrifice. In not wearing the hat, he would be hiding the most difficult year of his young life from public view. People might forget. He’s not ready for that.   

He’s not ready to be gas lit. He’s not ready to be convinced that the world is normal. He’s not ready to be told that all is well and that he looks great without it.

In that little cap, he’s carrying all his fear and courage, his pain and healing, his uncertainty about all that was and all that might be.

In that little cap, he’s asking us just to “forget not yet”.

Forget not yet the great assays,

The cruel wrong, the scornful ways;

The painful patience in denays,

Forget not yet.

– Thomas Wyatt