I’m in the thick of it. No, not suddenly showered with the thick tresses I’ve wanted my whole life, but rather I’m in the thick of chemo. The twitching eyes, the mouth threatening to develop a sore if I don’t swish with mouthwash thrice daily, and then there’s the hair, which now resembles a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. With each step around my house, its needles fall, and it seems the tree’s trunk has weakened and bent over.
Just this morning I submitted my third patient support ticket to the Dignicap folks inquring what I can expect as I’ve been diligently wearing their cold cap during treatments. Certain they’re sick of me, sick of all the questions, like a child incessantly asking, “Are we there yet?” But I need answers and their experience to settle me down. Seems I’ve lost at least 50% of my hair at this point, with most of the shedding occurring last weekend. Even though their literature warns this will happen, with only half of my treatments behind me, if the shedding continues at this clip, I can’t imagine I’ll have a head of hair left by my final chemo blast February 28. It’s uniform at least and has thinned out symmetrically, though I find myself stepping lightly so as not to loosen any more strands. Shhh, don’t wake the hair! Crazy how obsessed I’ve become. My doctor thinks since I still have hair at this point that it will remain, and despite his words, I’m not completely sure.
Shhh, don’t wake the hair!
Why does our hair have to be such a thing? I was born bald and by all accounts a plenty cute and happy baby. Yet as my hair grew in as full sheets of cornsilk and as I grew, like many girls, I don’t think I appreciated what I had. My hair was whisper thin, though to its credit a bright natural blond, and over the years I grew to love it, especially since I didn’t need to color it, but for the two times I did foils just for fun. All my life, my hair’s sleek softness, shine and spirit has wrapped my head and shoulders in health and bounce and in some ways, I suppose I took that for granted, assumed it would always be there, a pretty veil covering the nape of my neck.
I don’t think I appreciated what I had
These days, I pull my hands around my hair and realize the scant covering I now have, an oily few strands deep extending over my scalp which plays peek-a-boo when a little wind or head tilt reveal the sparsity. I know this is temporary and I know these drugs are doing what they’re supposed to do. They attack fast dividing cells, which are both the malignant ones and the ones affecting your hair, and digestion, too. It all makes such sense on an intellectual level, but I feel self-conscious even going to the grocery store at this point, though thankful that the weather is cold and I can wear a hat indoors. I bought a second bucket hat, camel corduroy, another option for ducking in and out of stores, hopefully unnoticed.
I feel a tad guilty about this vanity realizing I am lucky I’m even alive since my jarring discovery just three months ago. Still, I can’t wait until these drugs are done doing their thing and my hair and body can return to doing theirs, return to how they were, but that much stronger and better. Good hair days sure can carry you, help out a shabby wardrobe, dulling makeup, a bad mood. But good health, like a tall towering tree trunk, has the power to lift you like nothing else.