Staring head-long into the gaping mouth of week seven, Marc Schmid casts a cool glance to his right and says to me, "Steve, brother, I do believe the beard is taking over my mind. In time, dear brother, there may, indeed, be nothing left but a mere shell of the man I used to be. Remember me, please, as a man who risked it all, while daring greatly."
I nodded slightly. "Of course, Marc. Of course," I managed to mutter as emotions welled up behind my eyes. Fighting them back, as any good Schmid is taught to do, I took a long, slow pull of my beer trying to choose my next words carefully. It was, afterall, only the 42nd day of the year and not even 2 full months into the fray. I thought back to when I first learned of The Bet and how much I supported the venture. But now, face to face with my youngest brother's struggle, it was all I could do from weeping out-right.
Marc's head lolls back to looking straight ahead at my dogs sleeping on the couch in front of him. He smirks. I wonder if he's contemplating a simpler life. One that didn't involve growing a beard. But the half-smile quickly fades and the darkness returns to his eyes, like the beard is now growing inside of him. "Sometimes I dream about it, you know," he says suddenly. The remark catches me off guard and I jerk my hand, spilling some of my beer. "It's becoming more and more frequent and everytime I wake up in a cold sweat. Visions of my hair just falling off in clumps. I run to the bathroom, crashing into every possible obstacle in my path." He shows me multiple brusies and cuts on his shins and hands. Some are new and you can still see the thin line of blood that was drawn on some random sharp object. Many are old but still very visible. The bruises are many. I jest that he child-proof his house. He snickers and cocks his head to the side, showing actual contemplation.
"It may come to that," he offers in his usual dead-pan delivery. "I crash through the house to the mirror in the bathroom and switch on the lights. I stare deep into my reflection and touch my beard to make sure it's real." He shudders. "In some dreams, I dream that part and my beard is gone." The bearded man leans forward and puts his head in his hands. "I just don't know how much further I can go..." His voice trails off.
"Marc, if there's ANYTHING I can do for you, you know I'm here for you," I offer. It feels weak. Like I should be able to give him more. More words of encouragement. Of hope. Of... something. Something better than that. I put my hand on his shoulder and he turns to look at me, head still in his hands. His eyes are sunken from the sleepless nights.
"Are you kidding me man? I'm gonna win this."
And suddenly there's a renewed energy that fills his voice. He stands and takes a deep breath. The room seems to react to his presence and widens as if being blown up like a balloon. I know he'll be okay in this moment. I smile and agree with him.
But there are many more weeks to come. Many more dreams...
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