What kind of Cancer blog would this be if I didn’t devote at least two posts to my formerly shiny noggin? There are lots of pretty horrific side effects from repeatedly injecting your veins with poison. Many of them are permanent. Why is losing your hair (not permanent) the one that proves so difficult for so many? I don’t pretend to know the answer. It obviously has a lot to do with traditional notions of beauty. But the whole issue of “hair/no hair” goes much deeper than that. I am about to admit something that I have never said out loud. I think it makes me shallow … or crazy … or both. [Sidenote: One of the things about being on a first name basis with the “C” is that you constantly analyze whether you are the most screwed up person on the planet or it’s just the “C” talking.] Those of you who know me know that I have never worn a wig and rarely a hat. I could just never wrap my arms around the idea of walking around with removable hair on my head. But for all of the trauma initially attached to losing my hair, my transition to the new “style” was pretty easy. I was very oddly comfortable being shiny-headed from almost the beginning. I would like to attribute that to my amazing self-confidence. That, of course, is the comfortable answer. It’s more twisted than that. I realized something psychologically screwy going on the first time my hair started growing back. I remember noticing a woman who was obviously going through treatment and almost fondly remembering when I wore that hairdo. I don’t think I was self-aware enough at the time to understand why seeing her in her baseball cap was evoking that emotion in me. I just sort-of filed that scene away. Fast forward to the Recurrence. When I lost my hair the second time, I shed a couple of tears when two years of re-growth was shaved. After that, I do not think I cried over it again. I now realize that is because I use my baldness almost simultaneously as a crutch and a weapon. Let’s be honest. It is the ultimate sympathy-getter. It was my badge of courage. Powerful. Silencing. What kind of person would dare to hold me accountable for anything when I am bearing such a huge and visible burden? But now I am in that “in between” phase. I no longer look like a poor, long-suffering Cancer victim. Now I look like a boy/girl with a VERY bad, way-too-short haircut. Now it is time to start learning to walk through life as me again. No more extra slack. No more sympathy for sympathy’s sake. Just me. Responsible for the impact my actions have on those around me. I have gotten a little used to being the victim everywhere I go. I am going to have to start working on a new shtick.
Trying to get the sympathy vote is another "fun" thing I wish I didn't know about Cancer.
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As the Carrot who tagged along with her bald daughter, I couldn't understand the "no wig, no hat" policy. Within days of her first surgery and before chemo had attacked her hair follicles, I wheeled Andrea downstairs to the MDA styling salon to try on some hair replacements. None of them said "Andi." Next, I secretly appointed myself her personal shopper and sneaked off to find some "here, honey, try these on and pick one you like" wigs. Fortunately for me, Houston health codes dictate a no return policy, so I left empty-handed. Then someone brought Andi a wig catalog, and her precious niece sent her a note saying she couldn't wait to go wig shopping when Aunt Andi got back to Austin. None of these ploys worked. In Andi's defense, she has ALWAYS hated having foreign objects on her head. Even as an infant, she rebelled against bonnets and bows. FINALLY I got the message: "No wigs!" But I really didn't understand, and I would grumble to PJ about it. (Talking behind the patient's back is a "fun" thing I wish I didn't know about cancer.)
ReplyDeleteGradually I accepted Andi's mantra "It is what it is," and her attitude made sense to me. It still makes sense. You can run from cancer, but you can't hide--not behind denial, or wishful thinking, or wigs, or even prayer. More often than not, it plays the world's largest game of blind man's bluff, tagging its victims with indiscriminatge abandon.
Maybe Andi did use her baldness as a crutch and weapon--when you're fighting the "C" your independence gets ripped from you with lightning speed, and decisions about everything seem to get made by everyone BUT you. Perhaps the one tiny piece of autonomy that remains is "To wig or not to wig." Kudos to you, Andi, for sensing when to use the shtick and knowing when to put it down. I think most of your friends would agree that you have handled this challenge with amazing grace.
Most of the time we grasp at illusory straws to say something positive about cancer. Seeing the gravel in Andi's guts and the spit in her eye are two of the remarkable things cancer has taught me about my daughter.
Today is the first day I have logged on to read this blog...I'm already waiting for a more recent post.
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