Chemotherapy. So much for the vanities of me. Before the chemotherapy begins, the oncology team warns of hair loss. I am fond of my long thick hair. I identify with my long thick hair. Secretly, I hope they are wrong.
The oncology team suggests I shop for a wig before my hair falls out. I do. I purchase one, bring it home, perch it on its little stand and stare at it with contempt. I hate it. I hate what it symbolizes. Secretly, I hope the oncology team is wrong.
One of my doctors, looking at my long thick hair, comments that the loss of my hair might be one of the most traumatic moments in this journey for me. Because I entertain the notion they can be wrong about this hair loss issue, I do not feel traumatized at the suggestion. Secretly, I hope his concerns are unnecessary.
The more brave and daring cancer patients, who begin to notice the first strands of hair showing up in places it does not normally show up shave their heads. They do not wait passively for the inevitable. They take charge. Not me. When I begin to notice strands of hair on the pillow, I think maybe it is just thinning. Secretly, I hold fast to the possibility they are wrong, that my hair loss is more about thinning. Not baldness.
Two weeks after the first round of chemo, I am still strong enough to drive myself to the cancer clinic. I remember a sunny, warm, delightful day of blue sky and white puffy clouds. My hair is still thinning but not enough to expose my scalp. With a slight confidence, I feel I have an edge. I start chemotherapy with a thick head of hair. Perhaps thinning will be the worst of hair loss for me.
I am thinking this possibilty as I drove home, car windows rolled down, when a noticeable clump of hair flys out the window. I am driving alone, no passengers in my car to witness this shocking moment of major hair loss. Still, I feel embarrassment. Passengers in other cars can see clumps of hair flying out the driver's side window of my car. Long blonde clumps of hair. What must they be thinking? That I am crazy as a loon? Mad as a hatter driving down the road literally pulling my hair out?
I stop at the next beauty salon and ask for a very short haircut. A week later I am bald.
I look like Yoda. After the second round of chemo, I am going to look like a pasty pale faced and very gaunt Yoda. I stop looking in the mirror.
Priorities change during cancer treatment, in ways I cannot anticipate beforehand, but which I do not regret. Without a shred of superficial self involvement in external appearances, I am freed to develop an ever deepening vulnerability and richer connection for the only things that do matter in this life: the love for family, friends, and the kindness of strangers.
