I still didn’t like the thought of losing my hair, but as suggested by my hairstylist, Mike, I scheduled a head shaving party two days after my second chemo treatment.  My daughters, my sister, my youngest brother, and three of my closest friends joined me as I dictated where, when and how I would lose my hair.  

As I  sat in the only chair that didn’t have a mirror in front of it, Mike gave everyone clipper 101 lessons.   Mike passed the clippers to those who wanted to shave a path through my hair.  While I summoned the courage to have my head shaved, not everyone in my posse had the courage to wield 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 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 precision and the greatest of care.

The last to help shave my head was my youngest brother, Michael. Brandishing the clippers he declared 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 a shitty day smell good.

Once my posse finished their part in my new look, Mike finished off the 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.

Colleen just had to ask, “why no baseball caps?”

Mike explained that men who try to cover up thinning hair or bald spots with baseball caps actually make their hair loss worse. 

(So men:  No baseball caps!)

Losing my hair was not as bad I as I thought it would be.  Maybe because Mike helped me believe that I had a perfectly round head.  Or maybe it was another friend who told me how striking I looked with big hoop earrings, pink lipstick and no hair.  

Maybe I just have friends who like bald heads. 

Even my male co-workers stuck by me.  The first day at work with no hair, I wore a funky hat and my boss said, “Peggy, you don’t have to wear a hat to join our club.”   I looked around our small office space and realized that my male co-workers were either bald or going bald. 

I was in good company.

I spent the next six months bald and adopted the attitude that bald really is beautiful.  I chose to put an undisguised head and face to breast cancer.

• 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.

On my bathroom mirror, I wrote in bright red lipstick,

 ”Attitude is Everything.” 

And it is.  Changing my attitude from “poor me” to “Go Me” made me stand out from the majority of breast cancer patients at Dana Farber.  I showed up for chemo treatments dressed up, makeup on, and usually with part of my posse.  Staff members stopped by to specifically see me because no matter what section of the infusion floor they put me, that’s where the party was.  And my oncologist, Dr. Ann Partridge, made sure I was the last patient of the day. 

I asked why. 

“Because, ” said one of her nurse practioners, “she likes to end her day on a good note.”

Half way through chemotherapy Dr. 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 took a moment 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 but 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 paused for 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, either.

As for my hair, it came back healthier, thicker, and curlier than before and I’m positively delighted with this unexpected silver lining.

© Peggy Nolan, 2005, 2009