My Hair!

Cancer Diary

My Hair!

When I got the news of my diagnosis on September 25th (15 days after my first symptom), the only thing I could focus on was NOT DYING. When presented with possible side effects and/or potential problems, I said I didn’t care. 

The possibility of losing more vision, or even all of my vision, didn’t phase me. I even told the neurosurgeon that if it meant he could get more tumor I had no problem with losing my vision. My attorney daughter scolded me for saying that. “Mom, don’t ever tell your doctor it’s okay to blind you!”

When warned that hair loss was a possibility I think I may have laughed. Who cares about one’s hair when faced with a terminal diagnosis? Well, apparently that would be me. I didn’t think it would matter, but it does.

My hair began falling out on 11/17. I showered and thought, “Oh my, that seems to be more hair than I typically lose when I wash my hair.” When I ran a wide-toothed comb through my hair, huge clumps of long gray hair came out. Two days later I had a wig thanks to the Inside Out Foundation. theinsideoutfoundation.org I’m extremely grateful for all this foundation does, but the wig does not suit me. It is the exact color of my real hair, but to me it screams, “Hey everyone, I have cancer!”

I got an emergency appointment with the wonderful woman who cuts my hair and a friend met me there for moral support. I wasn’t sure if I was going in to get my head shaved or if I was just getting a good haircut. The stylist cut my shoulder-length hair to chin level. I cried when I saw the piles of my silver hair on the salon floor. At least the clumps of hair that came out every day were no longer a foot long. Somehow the shorter clumps were easier to tolerate. 

I soon became adept at the old-man-comb-over. If I could get my hair brushed over the back of my head, I could put on a hat and look fairly normal. I come from a long line of hat wearing women. All of my glamorous aunts wear hats. I have aspired to be like my glamorous aunts and have amassed a collection of hats so large as to require a department store hat stand display to house them all. 

Alas, the hat solution didn’t last long. I’ve lost so much hair from the back of my head, where the radiation was focused, that the comb-over doesn’t really work anymore. So now it’s “cancer hats,” soft skull caps designed to not irritate one’s bald head, cover the baldness, and provide a degree of warmth. These hats also scream - CANCER!

Please don’t misinterpret what I’m saying. I am truly grateful for the radiation treatment I received. I know that “it’s only hair,” but losing my hair made everything real in a way that nothing else had - not even brain surgery. I now carry an outward sign of my illness. I can’t forget or pretend that I don’t have cancer. 

It’s just hair, but it was also part of my identity. My identity as a strong, healthy, active, fun, person. I could pull my long gray hair into a ponytail, go to the gym, and do anything anyone else there could do. I could braid my hair, put on a western hat and go hear live music. I could blow-out my hair, dress up, and go out for an evening with my husband. Now who am I with a mostly bald head and a shit show of a prognosis? 

I’m trying to figure that out. No one is ever the same once they get a “term-limit” diagnosis. I’m learning who I am now. I’m learning that I’m the person who can put on a beanie and go to the park and walk two miles every day. I’m the person who is going to perfect the comb-over and attend a live music performance wearing one of my favorite cowboy hats. I am the person who orders every “cancer hat” on Amazon. I may even be the person who eventually breaks down and shaves her head. Yes, that will scream “cancer” even more, but I may even become the person who doesn’t care about that. We shall see.