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| Original art from Dancing with the Diagnosis, 2003 |
One thing I've been asked throughout the years is whether or not I lost my hair during the leukemia treatments. I did. I was as bald as a baby bird. This post is an excerpt from the chapter that discusses that.
Excerpt from Chapter 6: Learning to F.L.Y. While Losing Your Hair
Many of us who choose to heal our bodies through chemotherapy are bound to lose our hair. I was told I would lose my hair within three to four weeks after receiving the type of chemotherapy required for my treatment. This scared me for a couple of reasons. First, as a woman in an image-obsessed society, I didn't know how I'd handle it. Would I be able to look in the mirror and truly accept who looked back at me? Would my then-husband still find me attractive? Sure, I was practicing the art of fully loving myself "as is," but I was forging into new territory.
The second thing that bothered me was that losing my hair would put me in the visual cancer group. Until I lost my hair, I still had days in which I appeared 'cancerless' to those who didn't know better. A bald head would signify my official initiation into the Cancer Club.
One night I contemplated the power of mind over matter and its relation to hair loss. Maybe I could will my hair to stay in. After all, I heard that some people never lost their hair despite receiving chemotherapy. Maybe I could be one of those! As if answering a question I hadn't yet asked, the next thought in my mind was "rebirth." I understood the message immediately. As a child is born with little hair, my hair loss would mark my personal rebirth into a new life of fully loving myself...as is. Acceptance replaced vanity.
Hair loss is a very small price to pay for an extension of life.
Each of our experiences may differ: for me, the physical process of losing my hair was much more upsetting than actually being bald. Before my first round of chemo, I had my shoulder-length locks cut short. I thought it would be easier to deal with the short hair when it fell out, but it wasn't. The truth was that no matter what the length, I couldn't stand having strands of hair falling out all over my clothes, in the shower, and on my pillow. I felt like Charlie Brown's Christmas tree: one touch and pieces of my hair fell out like dried pine needles!
My then-husband, "Jim," had the perfect remedy. "Let's shave it!" he enthusiastically offered. Seeing an opportunity for some control, I agreed. If losing my hair wasn't optional, I'd be in charge of how, where, and when.
Jim got the clippers, and we went outside. As he shaved away, I let him know that this was the only time he'd ever cut my hair! He made it magical, though.
He repeatedly told me he loved me and said that I was beautiful- hair or no hair.
We laughed with nervous excitement as he said, "This is for all the times we've been late because of your hair!" He asked me to sing "Nothing Compares to U" (Sinead O'Connor), and I did.
What could have been an extremely emotional time was...but the emotions present were love and laughter, not the fear and sadness I had anticipated.
Eleven days passed before I looked at my bald scalp in the mirror. I decided that I'd see it when I was ready to see it. When I finally took a peek, I wasn't thrilled, but I didn't despise it either. I accepted it for what it was. I then realized that my beauty, my femininity, my being, was not in my hair; it was in my soul.
As I became used to my new look, I marveled at my scalp. It was so smooth, so delicate. It needed special care: sunscreen or hats on sunny days (trust me, a burnt scalp is not fun) and cotton nightcaps to keep warm at night. My scalp also needed to be loved, not scorned. Someone told me to experience rain on my naked head. When I got the chance, I did. It was wonderful!
My hair was about one inch long when my treatments ended, and I was temporarily free from clinic visits. Proud of success and more comfortable with my thinly covered scalp, I didn't want to wear a wig anymore. My newly sprouted hair was a testament to my accomplishments. I fought cancer! Sometimes though, I felt a bit awkward in public. Friends reminded me that fully loving myself still meant "as is," with or without hair or wigs.
A few times, male acquaintances whom I hadn't seen for a while would stop me and say with disbelief, "What happened to your hair?!" Mentally prepared for such comments, I would muster all the enthusiasm I could and reply, "Isn't it great? I am recovering from cancer!" The look on their faces was well worth the disclosure.
Losing my hair and growing it back again made me a braver and more confident person. ❤️