Dandelions

Last Wednesday I awoke at the usual time to get to my 8 a.m. HBO session (Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy for those not keeping up). I noticed a few hairs on the pillow. It was starting. Sigh.

As I ran my fingers through my hair my hand emerged with a handful. If I tugged even a little I could pull out a clump. It had started very slowly two days before, and today was the day I had anticipated it coming out with gusto. I had made an appointment to have my wig fitted later that day, and planned for Bill to shave my head after HBO. I swore after the last time that if I ever had chemotherapy again I would shave it and be done with it, rather than let it wist away one strand at a time.

As I left the parking lot and headed for the HBO center at the hospital, I took my usual route, which involved walking through a short tunnel that concentrated the wind, like a wind tunnel. As I walked through that tunnel, a gust of wind came along and blew threw my hair. I could feel the wind taking my hair with it. I felt like a dandelion that the universe was wishing upon, each golden strand carrying with it the hopes and dreams of not just me, but every cancer patient who's endured this experience.ever lost their hair. The anticipation had made me very emotional, and at this thought my eyes welled with tears. Then of course there was the wishful thinking. Maybe it wouldn't fall out. Maybe the relatively small amount that had already gone would be it. Maybe I would be in that tiny percentage who wouldn't lose their hair. All the while I knew these to be wishful thoughts, but not reality.

After my HBO treatment (#13), I headed home filled with dread. Bill would be waiting and ready to get the job done. What I didn't know was that he had set up his own private barber shop under the palapa in our backyard. This was so perfect it made me cry too ... I've been doing a lot of that. For those of you who don't know, a palapa is a thatch umbrella much like those you find on the beach in the tropics. I desperately wanted one in our backyard and we've had many wonderful memories out there. It seemed very fitting for this event. Bill even had a smock for me to wear. So I sat, sporting my smock, gazing out at the distant ocean view, trying not to think about what was about to happen. With the first pass of the razor I cried. This made it so very very real. But Bill was wonderful. He waited and indulged my need to emote. Then he continued, meticulously. Within 15 minutes it was done. I had a head full of stubble, that would scatter with the wind when rubbed.

I put a scarf on my head and we got in the car and headed to the wig shop. I was still full of anxiety. What if it looked fake, like all those ladies in the chemotherapy infusion suite? Was I going to be self-conscious for the next 6 months? Would I be able to function with any sense of normalcy? Ofelia, the woman at the wig shop, was waiting for us. She very carefully fitted the wig so it was just snug enough. Then she got out her scissors and trimmed it to keep the bangs out of my eyes. When all was done I took a moment to really look at myself in the mirror. Relief. I looked like me. I had hair. I turned to Bill. "Does it look natural? Can you tell it's a wig?"

"It looks lovely," he replied.

It felt weird. As we left the shop, headed for lunch out ... my first public appearance with my new do ... I felt very self-conscious, as if everyone knew my personal secret. She's looking at me ... she knows. Putting on sunglasses was a trick ... if I'm not careful I push the wig off center.

And so began my new look. One I'll be relying on for months to come. With each day I'm more comfortable. I've got some very cozy caps, and am getting pretty good with a scarf. The kids are no longer freaked out if I walk around the house with nothing on my head at all -- a true silver lining on a warm southern California day like today! It's really easy to do my hair and it always looks good. Then there are the added advantages of no tedious shaving, no barbaric waxing, and a strangely enlightening sense of who I am.

I am not my hair. Of this much I'm sure.