(Originally written in 2005. Today, I am 5 years and six months cancer free – CURED! Part Two will appear on Friday)
One year ago today, I took control of my attitude towards breast cancer, the
loss of my breast and the inevitable loss of my hair. For most women
diagnosed with breast cancer, hair loss can be more devastating than losing
a breast or the the acutual cancer diagnosis itself. I was like most
women…the thought of losing my hair completely freaked me out and this
after already losing one breast to the cancer beast.
I whined and moaned to friends, family, anyone who would listen. But no one
really understood. Well intentioned responses simply made it worse. ”You
have short hair anyway,” or “It’s temporary,” or, my favorite, “it will grow
back.” When I asked for volunteers to take my place for the bi-weekly chemo
treatments that would cause my hair to fall out, no one raised their hand.
Between my mastecomy and the start of chemotherapy, I wallowed in self-pity.
I’d look at myself in the mirror and wonder if I’d ever be sexy again. If
anyone would love me. If I’d be desirable. Then, I’d slick my hair back
with gobs of gel and throw a hat on and try to imagine myself without my
short brown curly hair. Bald. Left breastless. How sexy is that? I felt
like a Frankenstein experiment gone horribly awry.
I remember the last pity party I threw for myself. I was staring at myself
in the mirror and I suddenly realized the my self was starring back at me.
And she was more than a little aggravated with me. She made me look at my
dark brown eyes. ”Chemotherapy can’t take away your beautiful eyes,” she
said. Then she made me smile, a real smile, not a frozen Polaroid smile.
So I smiled and I noticed my full lips and my straight “no, I never wore
braces” teeth. ”Chemotherapy,” my self said, “can never take away your
fabulous smile.” I listened as my self made one more observation, “Cancer
and chemo can’t take away your spirit.”
I knew my self was right. At that moment I decided to stop feeling sorry
for myself and I wondered, “what are my silver lingings?” I grabbed my
journal and wrote the following list -
I’m alive.
I won’t have to shave my armpits.
I won’t have to shave my legs.
Bikini wax – not necessary.
If I’m bald on top, I’ll be bald down there.
Who needs a Brazilian? Not ME!
I’ll save money – no need for hair products or getting my hair done every
six weeks.
I can sleep in – with no hair to shave or hair to style the extra bathroom
minutes can be returned to my sleep bank.
I’ll be cooler in the summer.
It’s temporary.
I’m ALIVE.
I still didn’t like the thought of losing my hair, but as suggested my
Michael, my hairstylist, I scheduled a head shaving party two days after my
second chemo treatment. My daughters, my step sister, my youngest brother,
and three of my closest friends joined me as I dictated where, when and how
I would lose my hair. I sat in the only chair that didn’t have a mirror in
front of it. Michael gave everyone clipper 101 lessons so whoever wanted to
shave a path through my hair could. While I summoned the courage to have my
head shaved, not everyone who was with me had the courage to weild the
clippers.
My youngest daughter, Christina, opted to stand next to me and hold my hand.
My best friend, Sandy, quietly cried and kissed my head. My step sister,
Rebecca, stood behind me offering words of support and her loving presence.
For those who did shave my head, I think they rather enjoyed it. Especially
my oldest daughter, Jessica. Like me, she uses humor to ease the burden of
a crappy situation. ”You know, mom,” she said as she zig-zagged the
clippers through my curls, “I’ve been waiting a long time to do something
like this to you.” We all laughed. That’s my Jess!
Danielle, my girlfriend from work was a little nervous. She hurried the
clippers through my hair as if my hair had something contagious in it.
Colleen, my friend from high school, took her time – as if shaving my curls
had to be done with the greatest of care and precision.
The last to help shave my head was my youngest brother, Michael.
Brandishing the clippers he declared that this was payback for all the times
I used to sit on him and spit in his face when we were kids. I don’t ever
remember spitting in his face, but I laughed so hard my cheeks hurt. I can
always count on Michael to make poop smell good.
Michael, my stylist, finished my new bald do. When he was done, he spun me
around in the chair and proclaimed, “darlin,’ you’ve got a perfectly round
head.” He then instructed me not to waste my money on a wig, only wear a
hat in the sun and to stay away from baseball caps. Since he’s the expert
on all things hair, I took his advice.
I spent the next six months bald and adopted the attitude that bald really
is beautiful. I chose to put a face on breast cancer. I’m what it looks
like.
I went to work – bald.
I went to the grocery store – bald.
I traveled and flew on airplanes – bald.
I wisited the World War II Memorial in Washington, DC – bald.
I watched 4th of July fireworks – bald…and sick.
I attended a huge family reunion – bald.
I went to my cousin’s renaissance wedding in costume and bald.
I went on my first date in nearly a year – bald.
I made love for the first time in eighteen months – my hair barely stubble
and my chest under reconstruction.
Half way through chemotherapy, my oncologist, Dr. Ann Partridge asked if I’d
be willing to be interviewed by a writer from Self magazine who was writing
a piece on breast cancer in young women. I didn’t mind at all. Dr.
Partridge introduced me to the writer as her “poster child for
chemotherapy.”
I sat on the edge of the exam table, swinging my feet and smiling as the
writer and I became comfortable with each other. She asked me a few boring
questions, “Did you have a mastecomy?” ”What kind of chemotherapy are you
on?” “How bad are your side effects from treatment?” ”Are you always this
cheerful?”
I ran through the medical facts – I had a modified left radical mastecomy.
My chemo cocktail is 4 treatments of andromycin and cytoxin followed by 4
treatments of taxol. Side effects – I’m bald, I’m bloated, I get tired easy,
mouth sores, water tastes gross, and I’m operating at about 80%. Am I
always this cheerful? No. Catch me on the third day after a treatment. I’m
downright cranky.
With the small talk out of the way, she asked me the sixty-four million
dollar question, “what makes you so different from the previous patient I
just interviewed. She’s your age, same diagnosis, same treatment, yet she
is still completely devastated over losing her breast and even more so over
losing her hair.”
I paused before I responded because I knew I had the opportunity to say
something meaningful. I began slowly, choosing my words very carefully.
“Breast cancer is a devastating diagnosis,” I began, “and my initial
reaction was the same as most women. Disbelief followed by despair. I got
angry. I had a nuclear meltdown when I realized that I could die from this.
The surgery removed my cancer but the follow up treatment is no walk in
the park. Chemotherapy is far worse than the surgery. When Dr. Partridge
told me that I’d loose my hair and gain weight I threw myself a pity party
and no one came. I had a serious heart-to-heart with myself, stopped
whinning, got a grip on chemo, and decided to look for the silver linings.”
I took a breath.
“Silver linnings?” the writer looked puzzled.
“It’s the middle of summer and guess what I don’t have to do?” I raised my
right arm and pointed to my hairless armpit. The writer looked even more
confused. ”I don’t have to SHAVE…Anywhere…”
She smiled. She got it. But before she could say something, I continued.
“I found a silver lining that helped me cancel the pity party and get on
with living. Every morning when I wake up, I have the wonderful opportunity
to choose my attitude and every morning I look out my window and say ‘Thank
You.’ I choose LIFE and if losing my breast and being bald for the summer
is part of that choice then that’s okay because it means I’m alive.”
It’s been eighteen months since my original diagnosis and one year since my
head shaving party. Breast cancer hammered home a lesson I needed to learn.
I am responsible for my attitutude and my attitude can make the difference
between triumph or defeat. By uncovering the silver linings I tapped into
strength, courage and a reservoir of energy that helped see me through
sixteen weeks of chemotherapy and 28 rounds of radiation therapy. As for my
breasts, I have a beautifully perky mathcing set. Not only can no one tell
I had breast cancer (unless I’m naked) but no one can tell I breast fed two
children.
As for my hair, it came back healthier, thicker, and curlier than before and
I’m positively delighted with this unexpected silver lining.
One year ago today, I took control of my attitude towards breast cancer, the loss of my breast and the inevitable loss of my hair. For most women diagnosed with breast cancer, hair loss can be more devastating than losing a breast or the the acutual cancer diagnosis itself. I was like most women…the thought of losing my hair completely freaked me out and this after already losing one breast to the cancer beast.
I whined and moaned to friends, family, anyone who would listen. But no one really understood. Well intentioned responses simply made it worse. ”You have short hair anyway,” or “It’s temporary,” or, my favorite, “it will grow back.” When I asked for volunteers to take my place for the bi-weekly chemo treatments that would cause my hair to fall out, no one raised their hand.
Between my mastecomy and the start of chemotherapy, I wallowed in self-pity. I’d look at myself in the mirror and wonder if I’d ever be sexy again. If anyone would love me. If I’d be desirable. Then, I’d slick my hair back with gobs of gel and throw a hat on and try to imagine myself without my short brown curly hair. Bald. Left breastless. How sexy is that? I felt like a Frankenstein experiment gone horribly awry.
I remember the last pity party I threw for myself. I was staring at myself in the mirror and I suddenly realized the my self was starring back at me. And she was more than a little aggravated with me. She made me look at my dark brown eyes. ”Chemotherapy can’t take away your beautiful eyes,” she said. Then she made me smile, a real smile, not a frozen Polaroid smile.
So I smiled and I noticed my full lips and my straight “no, I never wore braces” teeth. “Chemotherapy,” my self said, “can never take away your fabulous smile.” I listened as my self made one more observation, “Cancer and chemo can’t take away your spirit.”
I knew my self was right. At that moment I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself and I wondered, “what are my silver lingings?” I grabbed my journal and wrote the following list -
- I’m alive.
- I won’t have to shave my armpits.
- I won’t have to shave my legs.
- Bikini wax – not necessary.
- If I’m bald on top, I’ll be bald down there.
- Who needs a Brazilian? Not ME!
- I’ll save money – no need for hair products or getting my hair done every six weeks.
- I can sleep in – with no hair to shave or hair to style the extra bathroom minutes can be returned to my sleep bank.
- I’ll be cooler in the summer.
- It’s temporary.
- I’m ALIVE.
© Peggy Nolan, 2005, 2009
6 Comments
September 2, 2009 at 12:53 PM
Oh Peggy, ANYONE who has ever self-indulged themselves at a pity party needs to read this post! What a beautiful turn-around! Isn’t journaling just the best tool? I am a journal junkie – I don’t know how I would have gotten thru 62 years of chaotic life without it! And here I’m calling it IT! It really is my heart and soul triumphing over ego and monkeymind!
September 2, 2009 at 1:07 PM
Hi SuZen (I so wish I could comment on your blog while I’m at work…for some reason, blogspots are a dead zone here…)
I LOVE journaling! I have a cubby filled with my journals that I started in 2002 – when life as I knew it ended and I had to start all over again. I also have journals that I wrote for both my daughters during their first year of life – so much more than baby books!
I seem to work everything out in my journal…me talking to me….with the occaisonal me swearing and throwing good old fashioned temper tantrums
xxoo
September 2, 2009 at 1:50 PM
Wow Peggy,
This is beyond making lemons out of lemonade. We can all stand up now and get off the pity pot! Looking forward to reading Friday’s post.
September 4, 2009 at 7:46 PM
Peggy;
I love both parts of you cancer story. They are both magnificant and a must to follow by. Silver linings is number one in my book. Thanks for posting it.
Pam
September 5, 2009 at 7:30 AM
Ohhh, that was good. I’m on to the next one now – thank you, Peggy, for not only beating the cancer beast, but sharing your experiences along the way.
December 30, 2009 at 9:30 PM
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