Perspective

Here I am, with this horrible progressive disease, constantly riding me like a monkey on my back. I never know when that monkey will be there, or how heavy the monkey will be, or if he will be cracking coconuts on my head. I sat in the hematologists/oncologist's waiting room this week, perusing Time magazine. I then looked over and spotted a brochure for TLC, a mail-order company for women undergoing chemo for breastcancer.

There were artificial breasts to slip into bras, some with nipples, made of silicone for that natural
'hang". There was page after page of hats, and wigs, and parts of hair so you could wear a hat or a wig and not look bald at the same time. On every page or so, there were suggestions on how wear a hat, look confident, etc. I sat there, thinking...yes, I lost my hair, but it was shaven, not burned out at the roots by a toxic chemical designed to keep me alive. I had brain surgery, and it was scary, but not at all as terrifying as it must be to have to fight for your life.

I never bought a wig, although I thought about it. I decided to wear my head bare to the world, and let the world deal. After my surgery, with my scars and stitches standing out in broad relief, I kept my head covered with a light hat. I recall the day before surgery in Pike Place Market with my sister, stopping at a booth that made creative, fun, warm hats. She insisted on buying me one (she had already gifted me with a beautiful one). When I removed my own hat to bare my head, I could sense the women around the booth kindly envelope me in a warm hug in a sort of esprit de corps. The seller set the hat gently on my head, fluffed it up, and gave me a mirror to look with a glance of sympathy in her eye. I did not explain why I had no hair, but I realized later that she, and all the women who saw my head, thought I was undergoing chemo.

Now, there is a difference between shaving your head and having it fall out. My hair grew back evenly, thickly, all one length. I have disfiguring scars and bumps on my chest, yes, but they keep me moving, took me from being home to being a contributing member of society. I like this. I like feeling like I exist in the land of the living. I know how it feels to be drifting on a tide of pain and fear and hope. But I do not know how it feels to watch my hair wash down the drain and see my breasts gone, and not know if I will see next Christmas or not.

I greeted my doctor with a smile. All of a sudden, that monkey didnt feel so uncomfortable back there.