Part 7 – A Look Back at my Cancer Journey – Blood work, balding and other business

Chances are you don’t have a wig lying around your house. That is, unless you frequent costume parties, or have small children with an elaborate dress-up collection. I’d had fun donning one or two for dramatic theatre presentations, but certainly had never purchased one.

When my cancer treatment started, I was told that my hair probably wouldn’t fall out, just thin a bit. No big deal. However, about 10 days after receiving mytomycin through my chemo port, my scalp felt like I’d been dragged around by a pony tail. It itched, ached, and felt tender to the touch. It almost gave me a headache. Then I started shedding like an old barn cat. Running my hands through my hair resulted in what looked like a clump of dead brown spaghetti — between my fingers, on my lap, on the floor, on the couch. Hubby Tim was sure this was just the thinning. I had plenty more follicles attached and no bald spots were showing through. Except the fallout rate was increasing by the day. I had to use packing tape to clean off my pillow. My neck and back itched from the tickling hairs that fell down my shirt. Showers were a nightmare. It felt good to massage my scalp while shampooing, but a cascade of hair would run down my back with the water, clogging the drain. I had to kick soggy wads to the side and scoop them into the trash later. Thinning, huh? I was thinking up smart-aleck remarks for my oncologist. How many pounds of hair constitutes thinning!!!???? So much for looking somewhat “normal” through this ordeal.

Clearly, it was time to get a short haircut so the weight of my hair wouldn’t pull out any more than necessary. There was some argument in the house about this decision, but I was not going to sport some comb over look just to keep longer hair on parts of my head. It was looking dull and feeling coarse anyway. I called my wonderful son, the hairdresser, and asked him to schedule me for a trim – preferably at a time when very few  clients were in the salon. I didn’t want to frighten anyone if it started to look like we were shaving a St. Bernard. (I later learned this was one of the hardest cuts he had to do. He fooled me completely and was calm and professional about creating my new, stylish “pixie” look.) The hair piled up deep on the floor, he had to clean his comb frequently, and we both knew this was a race against time – a very temporary fix for the inevitable. I kept apologizing for what a hassle I was. It hardly seemed worth the effort. It was all going to fall out anyway. When I got home, my daughter’s reaction was swift and straightforward. “I don’t like it. Now you really look like a cancer patient.” Super! As you might imagine, within a few days, the top of my head was mostly bare and the rest was brown straw hanging on for dear life. I lived in baseball caps or bandannas. There was no turning this bus around – I needed some fake hair. Now.

Towel – check. Razor with new blade – check. Camera – check. Courage – sure. Sense of humor – umm, we’ll see. I leaned over the kitchen sink with a towel around my neck. With the water running, my daughter started at the back of my head and carefully began drawing a Venus razor over what was left of my pixie cut. It felt tickle-y and a bit creepy and then just tedious. Heads are lumpy with lots of curves and a pair of clippers would have been much easier and faster. Didn’t have them. Just before finishing, we stopped to take a break. My nose was getting stuffy, my back sore and patience thin. There was a triangular swatch left where my bangs should have been and without much coaxing, it flipped into a baby curl turning me into an alien with a mini-pompadour. Hysterical laughing and silly posing filled the next few minutes as we captured the moment and cracked jokes.

At the same time, I could feel a lump forming in my throat. It was official. It would be months before I’d need a blow dryer or curling iron, let alone hair products. I’d joined the ranks of cancer victims of all varieties, ages and genders. Relief and resignation collided in my heart and only an act of will kept me from bursting into tears as my first bald pictures were taken.