It takes a village to raise a chemo patient (especially during shedding season). Even still, there are those moments when I have to wonder: will I ever be normal again?

By the looks of that photo from college? No. But why would I want to be? I’ve got my brothers and sisters to get me through this. My village peeps.

And this week, I’m feeling the love for two of my sorority sisters. One of them, Holly, stoked me last week when I did the chemo beanie video; “What? No Village People hats?”

Funny, she should bring that up because it comes with a story or three, and while we’re at it, the tale of two sisters.

It’ll be fun. We get to go back to my Freshman year before either of them were in the picture yet.

I had gone to a Freshman mixer; you know the ones where the loser seniors who can’t get dates go to meet up with the loser Freshmen who have no friends.

I knew that much because my roommate, Marybeth, was a senior, not that I needed her warning. But I was yearning for a social life, so I went with my other suitemates anyway.

Sure enough, this guy asked me to dance, so I said no. However, one of the girls I was with told me to be polite. It was just a dance. So we danced to one or two fast songs.

He asked to see me again, and I gave him the flat out, “No. Not interested.” Good riddance! But my friend told him I was playing hard to get–“as a joke”–gave him my number, my dorm, and my last name.

Armed with way too much information, this guy paid unannounced visits to my door, he called, he was a complete annoyance. I wanted to meet people, fun people, anyone but the only guy who showed up.

So one day, while my roommate napped in the top bunk, and I was studying at my desk, someone knocked at the door.

I didn’t want to wake my roommate, but I begged to know: who’s behind that door? So I got on my hands and knees and tried to look under the door. You know, maybe I could tell by the shoes.

My roommate woke up to the commotion and asked, “What are you doing down there?”

I said, “Looking for girl shoes or boy shoes–to make sure it’s not that guy.”

She yelled out, “Hold on. I’m coming,” while I went and hid in the corner. She opened the door to girl shoes that belonged to her old friend Heather.

And that’s how Heather walked into my life. She was the fun girl behind the door. It turns out she would have done the same thing had she been in my shoes.

Sisters of the same heart. I ended up rushing, and we became sorority sisters, no doubt, and better yet, she became my big sister.

She was a Senior, but one year with Heather would make up for three years with anyone else.

She’s like the father in Life Is Beautiful. She could make going to a concentration camp somehow seem like an adventure. But in college, we didn’t need an excuse to have fun.

We’d play games at frat dances. “Make the singer love you.” We’d get to the stage, paw, scream, and what have you. And, of course, he’d fall for Heather. After the gig, he’d come up to her to talk, she’d say a few words, dismiss him, and we’d go off laughing while he stood there stunned.

Or we’d go to her friend’s house and pull out the couch, listen to music (anything but country, which was my weird northern rule that everyone was okay with until I wouldn’t just find a station already), and watch the cars drive by.

Heather could make you forget why you had taken Nyquil and convince you to go out instead.

And Holly picked up when Heather graduated. She had her games, too. Pour warm beer over a guy’s leg while he’s peeing (and run like heck before he knows what hit him). No one was brave enough to play that game except Holly.

But she also could be the practical sister. She’d be the one to say, “Just so you know, this is a concentration camp you’ve got us marching into.”

And on a practical note, our dog’s named Holly. Typically, it should be weird to have a dog named after your friend. Granted, that was our dog’s name when we got her. You know that rule: it’s bad luck to rename a boat, well, a dog, too, especially when a name like that brings you such joy.

So, of course, when I found out I had cancer, Heather called. The one person who could make you feel lucky that you had joined her in the ranks (she had it, too). She’d found a way to turn it into a game.

We talked for an hour and a half, cracking cancer jokes and swapping stories. Her personal favorite, “I have cancer, give me a cupcake.”

She told me her bald ass and beautiful story. She said, “Hey, I wonder when my hairs gonna fall out. She grabbed a clump, and there it went. So she shaved it off.

The next day she wanted to go to the gym to meet up with someone there. She figured I could stay home and be bald or go to the gym bald. Nothing stops Heather.

Oh, the cancer card, I’ve got to use that someday.

And she got me out of my slump. She reminded me to keep laughing. I can’t say Heather took my fear out of going bald, especially with it being tinsel town over here. I’m still preserving it like a jar of pickles.

While I preserve and count my hair, luckily, I have Heather’s story of the fun way to lose your hair and how she made cupcakes out of cancer.

Then I immediately got my text from Holly. “You talked to Heather. Good call!” Code for: everything’s going to be just fine. We all know, with Heather, we’ve got this covered.

And just like in college, when she taught me the Nyquil trick (it does not mean go directly to bed), during cancer, she taught me the Altoid trick. “Every time they give you the saline, pop an Altoid in your mouth.”

Of course, I forgot, and she wrote back, ever so patiently, “Remember the Altoid.”

So that curiously strong mint brings us back to the curiosity of The Village People. That Halloween, we wanted to dress like an obnoxious noise so we could parade down Franklin Street and be heard.

We weren’t making a political statement, and we had no idea that one day our costume choice would make us politically incorrect (my daughter wants to point out that there was racial profiling in our disguise).

However, in the height of our innocence, we were incorrect after all. Someone pointed out to us that night that the army guy was never on stage at the same time as the cowboy, or someone or other. What did we care about historical accuracy? Come on!

If I could talk about everybody in my village who’ve brought me such joy–the photos, stories, jokes, gifts, food, offers for help, prayers, texts, emails, calls. I accidentally told a stranger “I love you” the other day. I guess I was assuming she was part of my tribe–she’d get me, too.

It takes a village to raise a chemo patient. Those moments when I take off my silk beanie I sleep in to preserve what’s left and count how many hairs came out during the night, I should know better.

I’ve got sisters to remind me, why would I ever want to be normal again? Make this an adventure, bring on the games, and as Heather would say, “Now give me a cupcake already.”