Stories of Survival

Anonymous

Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma

One morning, exactly two weeks, three days and thirteen and one half hours after my first chemo treatment at McLeod, I awoke to discover my pillow had grown hair overnight.

"I know our cats shed during this spring season," I said to my husband, "but this is ridiculous."

"Well," he said, then remained silent for a disturbingly long moment. "I think you might consider approaching the bathroom mirror gently this morning." His eyes were very large and his eyebrows were at least an inch higher than usual.

Yeah. I know you know. And yes, it's one of the more endurable side effects. But let's be honest. Her hair is a woman's Crowning Glory, right? Not that I had ever felt that way about mine, but now that it was hanging in tattered lengths over my eyes, on my shoulder, and dripping down the front of my body, I felt an overdue attachment to it.

Not all my hair fell out at once. It took three days before there was so little left that I got tired of shedding all over the place, locked myself in the bathroom and saved the entire noggin bare. There now, that's done.

I saved some of the long strands of my own hair. I'm not sure why. A piece of myself in a box on the closet shelf. Then someone reminded me that in the spring birds love to find horse hair with which to line their nests, so I hung some of my hair in the pear tree in our yard. There are now two nests, one settled by a robin and another by a cardinal nearby. I would like to know if my hair softens the beds of those unhatched eggs, but of course, I will wait until a later season and homes have been vacated to find out. Maybe by then, I'll have some of my own hair back as well.

On my head, for visits to the outside world, I wear scarves and earrings. Being rather Mediterranean in coloring, I probably look quite ethnic. No... I know I do. One day, at the mall, within three minutes of each other, two older women asked me separately, "Do you tell fortunes?" and "Do you have a booth out here?" Now that I think about it, I might be able to earn a little money to pay medical bills if I set up shop.

There are some positive aspects to this barrenness. It's easier to take a shower, I'm not spending money on hair cuts and sprays, I don't worry about the wind dishevelling my 'do, and it's cool in the heat of summer. And the loss is not painful except psychically. I can handle that. Small price to pay, and in most cases, not forever. And if it were forever, the price — still small.

In the meantime, I'm still considering presenting my hairless head in public claiming to be some exotic creature from Saturn. Should I actually indulge in this drama, I'll be sure to let you know how it turns out. Either I'll have made a breakthrough for all us chemo creatures, or you'll have to contact me at the mental hospital... or jail. Whatever.

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