66 Choices Part 1: Hair

Me with our dog Wendy - Nov 2008

HAIR

It was a night of joy in a grocery store when I spontaneously decided over a year ago to buy a package of two hair clips. They’re silver with blue rhinestones. I remember the elation I felt then – the hope. My hair was growing back and I knew that someday my hair would be long enough to make use of the clips.

I must have put them under my bathroom sink in anticipation of the day – and then forgotten them – because it was with a jolt of recognition that I accidentally discovered them this morning.

For the first time in a long time, I pulled my hair back.

Many female cancer survivors I’ve known have grown their hair long as soon as they possibly could. They have rejoiced in the first time they could pull it back into a ponytail again. I was happy for them but I didn’t share their desire to wear a ponytail at the first opportunity.

When my hair grew back I was shocked to discover that I liked it short. I had never had short hair in my life before it grew back after chemo. It felt rather liberating to sport a “short and sassy” style. I kept trying to recreate with haircuts the cute pixie look I noticed one day in December 2006 on an especially good new hair day. I especially loved my short cut even as it grew out after the makeover in October 2007.

It took a while before I felt ready again to dedicate 20 minutes or so each morning applying styling products and heat to try to make my hair look good or at least good enough not to be embarrassing.

This morning when I pulled it back with the clips I felt like shouting out with joy, “Hey! Look what I can do!”

It’s not about having hair long enough to style. It’s about having choices.

I know that I have some blog readers who are still in treatment, or who are in treatment once again, and I’m not trying to rub it in that I have hair and they don’t. They are in their place and I am in mine. My place at this point in my life is one of immense gratitude. Cancer took a lot away from me. In this one area I am rejoicing because this particular loss was reversed.

When I was in chemo, hair loss embodied the wide loss of control cancer and its treatment forced upon me. Surgery, chemotherapy and radiation put me through a lot of discomforts that made it clear that I did not have the control over my body that I had had before. Hair loss wrapped that concept into a neat package and reminded me with sharp jabs every time I saw myself in the mirror or felt my naked scalp. My own body had become unfamiliar and alien, and it stayed that way for months. Every time I started to adjust to the new rhythms my body had taken on, another side effect would change everything and bring me back to the beginning of figuring out how to care for myself.

Losing my hair was hard. Some days I had confidence in my new look and took solace in the short showers and the freedom from hair care. Some days I grieved it bitterly. I chose to go through chemo, though, and I knew that choice would come with a price steeper than mere money. I believed the chemotherapy gave me a chance to continue my life without recurrence. I’m still waiting to see if that gamble paid off but it’s looking good so far. It just never ceases to amaze me how knowing something bad is coming doesn’t shield you from experiencing the swings of heavy emotions that come with that event. The knowledge just helps you hold onto your sanity while you’re in the throes of the event.

So I made my choices and I paid the emotional dues.

Now I brush and spray and blow and spray some more and find myself disappointed when the perfect helmet head collapses an hour later. But it’s my choice to spend time every day trying to coax it into a shape I find pleasing.

And it was my pleasure this morning that I could trade more intense styling efforts for cheap silver blue clips with blue rhinestones. I’m 32 months out from diagnosis. My eyes brimmed with tears this morning – because I have that choice once again.



December 12, 2008
I have two things to add to this post.

1. I realized that just as rape and sexual harassment are about power and not about sex, losing one's hair is about control and not about vanity. I would encourage anyone upset about losing hair - be it from chemo or from male pattern baldness - to not beat themselves up too much about grieving that change.

2. Our beloved dog Wendy died from old age this past Saturday, December 6th -- just two weeks after these photos were taken. She was 12 1/2, which is very old for a Great Pyrenees. We miss her very much and will always cherish her years of gentle protectiveness, love, and super soft fur.

She passed away quietly in the house overnight, after spending a happy day outside in the cold weather she loved. We loved her and she knew it. She loved us and we knew it. Right now everything reminds us of her and of the pain of losing her. The back yard is too empty. The house is too quiet. The bowls have been washed and put away but the uneaten dog food still sits in the pantry with no one waiting to eat it. Mourning Wendy hurts, and yet I'm grateful for that pain. We're alive to feel this heartbreak, and we ache from this separation because of the love that came before it. I'm glad we risk heartache to experience joy.

This morning my son awoke in a happy mood. He knows I miss Wendy. Kelric cuddled with blankets and his toy owl in his bed and I put my hand on him in quiet companionship. He responded with, "I love you too, Mommy." Then he told me, "I don't want to miss you." I had to fight to hold back the tears that suddenly filled my eyes. I thought about my cancer and my fear that it will return, and I thought about how grateful I am for every day I get to spend on this earth with my son and husband. "You don't have to miss me, Sweetie," I told him. "I'm right here."

And so I shall remain.

Next - 67 Choices Part 2: Parking
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