“Do you have any questions?” my surgeon asked.
She’d just delivered the news that my recent biopsy came back positive for breast cancer. She explained the general treatment process and assured me that the outcome for my diagnosis was very good.
Do I have any questions? Sure do.
Me? I’ve got cancer?
How is this real?
How did I get here?
Is this a mistake?
Could the biopsy results be wrong?
What am I supposed to do?
I didn’t voice those questions, they’d all jumbled together in my mind and I’d nodded along as she outlined the next steps: surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, and then longer-term drugs to prevent a recurrence.
“Will I lose my hair? I know it’s not a big deal in the greater scheme of things, but…” I quietly inquired.
“Yes. There are so many things we can do for side effects, but not that one. You might want to explore cold-capping, there is evidence it can be effective.”
It’s only hair, but it wasn’t really “no big deal”. In my family there are about 25% of us with curly hair. I inherited it from my dad and one of my four sons got it from me. It’s a trait that connects us.
Dad was also known (by only a select few) in his childhood as “Bubbles” due to his fluffy crown of curls. My mom tells an anecdote of a clerk in our hometown asking her if I was Bob’s kid because “if that isn’t his daughter, then I don’t know who could look more like him.” I’m proud to take after him. My second-born is the only one who looks like me and is also a reminder of my dad, it’s a little bit like our own tiny club.
It’s only hair, but I’d finally figured out how to manage it effectively. I’d embraced the grays that were showing up and had used them as a reminder that growing old is a privilege. I had a whole hair routine down pat and had long given up trying to straighten out my locks. These curls are also what confused some of the students at my school who often mistook me for my coworker friend, brown curls being our most similar feature. Their double-takes when they saw us together was both hilarious and endearing. It was another tiny club I belonged to.
It is only hair, so I cut it. My oncologist had advised cutting it shorter before it started to fall out and she was right. I gave myself a bob I did not like. Funnily enough, that made losing it easier – it wasn’t the me I was used to. In a time when I had little control over what was happening to my body, this felt empowering.
After the second round of chemo, my hair gave in and fell out. It was more sudden than I’d expected. Wednesday it was business as usual and then Thursday it started coming out in clumps. So I took my husband up on his offer and he buzzed it for me. I then spent Friday sitting on the couch and rolling a sticky lint remover over my scalp to catch the strays.
Did you know that when you lose your hair to chemotherapy, you don’t go completely bald? Most hair falls out, but there are some stubborn little bits that hang on for dear life. Those downy pieces reminded me that it was only temporary and my follicles would return eventually.
It is only hair, but now that it was gone, the reality of my diagnosis, treatment, and months of recovery became real. Now I looked like a cancer patient. This became especially true when my eyebrows and then eyelashes also disappeared. I did alright with pencilling them in, but on more than one occasion, after washing my face for bed, I scared myself when I looked in the mirror.
When they say you lose your hair, that includes your nostrils. I never fully appreciated my nose hairs until I ate a hot honey pizza when out with friends and my nose could not keep up with the heat. It’s amazing all the small things about our bodies that we take for granted. For a time I became that person who always has a pack of tissues in her pocket.
Everyone’s journey and approach to chemo-induced hair loss is different. I opted not to get a wig. I can barely tolerate tags on clothing so I knew that was not the right option for me. Instead, I got a large selection of cotton beanies to wear. When the weather warmed up and my hair began coming in, I couldn’t handle how hot they made me feel, so I mostly go about my day as-is now. The first time I took my beanie off in front of a non-family member I felt incredibly vulnerable. But I’d chosen well, this friend had gone through her own cancer journey a few years earlier, so was unfazed by my slightly fuzzy noggin. This emboldened me to do the same the next day with another friend. Slowly, I realized two things: one, I care more about my baldness than other people do and two: I don’t care anymore (well, maybe just a little bit).
The first part of my treatment was months of losses – loss of mobility from surgery, hair loss, energy was sometimes non-existent. I felt like a stranger in my own body as the drugs caused water retention (my record is four pounds!) and puffiness and brain fog. I felt like I was in a perpetual penalty box with short bursts of time out for good behaviour. I’m not done with active treatment yet, but it now feels like I am in my gains-era. Gaining strength and stamina, mental acuity, and also the thrill of watching it grow back – I’m like a human chia pet.
It’s only hair, but I’m glad it’s back.
Tough Bananas 