Losing It
I’ve had people tell me that it takes 14 days from the start of chemo to lose your hair. I went ahead and cut mine short so that it wouldn’t be as traumatic. Brushing out big clumps of long hair sounded so sad.
The girls from my weekly Bible Study gathered around me in one of their homes and we had a friend (who used to do this professionally) come give me a chic, very short cut. It was a sweet time for such a hard thing. Everyone cut some: I took the first chunk off myself. We laughed. We cried. We cut. We prayed. And I actually love my short hair. It’s so easy! And cute. I get compliments all the time. Truly: I love it.
That was two weeks ago.
This morning, I sat at my early morning Bible Study with the same ladies. We occasionally meet at The Happy Envelope and that’s where we were. We sat around the table together. I had my coffee and my pages open; I saw some short dark hairs scattered across my notepaper. I brushed them off, thinking nothing of it.
A minute later, I looked down and saw short dark hairs all over my notes again. This time it registered. Oh, I thought. I’m losing my hair.
I looked up and said aloud: I think I’m losing my hair.
My dear friend Emily was sitting beside me. She said, I know. I saw that.
We finished up our morning. I got into the car to head home—I had to gather my things before my next chemo appointment. I sobbed the entire way.
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Just because you know something is coming doesn’t make it easier. We’ve been talking about losing my hair around the house for a few weeks now in the hopes that it would be less, well—shocking, I guess—for the girls to see me bald when it happens.
Esther and Nell are one thing. They’re teenagers. They’ve had a friend, Olivia, who had cancer. They’ve seen a bald girl before. But they still don’t want to talk about it.
Eden, however, is three years old. She is joie de vivre all day long. I wanted to prepare her. I wanted to explain that Mommy may look different in the days to come, but she is still the same Mommy.
One night at dinner it was just Ty, Eden and me. The big girls were at basketball. The three of us sat around our kitchen table and the conversation went like this:
Ty: Eden, do you want to hear something silly?
Eden: Yes!
Ty: Mommy is going to be bald. She’s going to lose her hair for a little bit. Can you imagine a bald Mommy?!
(long pause)
Eden: That’s not silly. I don’t like that.
I turned to look her little three-year-old face square in the eyes:
“You’re right. It’s not silly. We don’t like it, either, Eden. But it will grow back. My hair will grow back.”
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Eden reminds me regularly that I’m going to lose my hair, but my hair will grow back. She’s an eternal encourager. I’m so thankful we have her.
Nell brightened up the other day and said, “Mom! You won’t have to shave your legs for a long time!” Which is true. And a silver lining. Because shaving your legs really is kind of the worst.
In the spirit of keeping my Little Mercies list fresh (read that story here), I’ve decided to make note of some things that are good about losing my hair. Maybe that sounds ridiculous. Truthfully, it sounded ridiculous to me when I first decided to do it. And while I can’t think of a lot of things that are good about losing my hair, I can think of a few. And celebrating the little things is what I’m all about right now, so here goes:
-I don’t have to shave my legs until January (or whenever chemo is over)
-It will be easier to get ready for the day.
-Brian Joseph’s Lash & Brow Serum: this product is designed specifically for chemo patients. I apply it daily and my lashes and brows will stay put. Or at least somewhat.
-Mr. Clean, Friar Tuck, Gru, Charlie Brown: I’m certain I can think of a good way to up my Halloween costume game this year.
-I lose my hair because the chemotherapy drugs attack all fast-growing cells (like my cancer cells). On the bright side: I trimmed and painted my nails three weeks ago. And they’re still good as new. Nail cells are fast-growing and so they’ve just stopped right where they were. For a girl who loves short, easy nails: that’s a positive.
-As my friend Melanie reminded me: “Hair: an item of outward décor that when gone will bring to light all the other truly beautiful things about you.” Yes: I’ll pay attention more to my smile, my eyes, my skin. Of course, what she really means is that true beauty is reflected from the inside.
Which leads me to the last and greatest gift of losing my hair:
-I will be forced to look a deeper issue of the heart: Why does this bother me so much?
I have a temporary baldness. I know women with Alopecia who struggle with permanent baldness. Why is this so hard for me? Who am I without hair? How much of my self-worth, value, and identity is wrapped up in what I look like?
If I’m honest: more than I thought. I’ve come face to face with some things in myself that I don’t like to see.
This can be a time of a deeper healing—a healing of something I didn’t even know was off-kilter in my soul. It can be a time of shaking out the untruths that have been buried deep within me; lies I didn’t even know were there:
You’re only as good as you look.
Try harder. Stay current.
Keep up. Don’t be dowdy: You need that dress. Or pants. Or shoes.
Appear strong: You are what you present.
Maybe some of these resonate with you. Because I’m certain I’m not the first woman to fall for lies about beauty.
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That Tuesday morning when I realized my hair was falling out and I drove home in gusty sobs, a song by Ellie Holcomb came onto my car radio. While tears gushed, I listened to the words and let them pour over me:
It's not the news that any of us hoped that we would hear,
It's not the road we would have chosen, no.
The only thing that we can see is darkness up ahead –
But you're asking us to lay our worry down and sing a song instead.
And I didn't know I'd find you here, in the middle of my deepest fear,
But you were drawing near, you were overwhelming me with peace.
So I lift my voice and sing: "You're gonna carry us through everything!"
You were drawing near, you're overwhelming all my fears with peace.
You say that I should come to you with everything I need.
You're asking me to thank you even when the pain is deep.
You promise that you'll come and meet us on the road ahead.
And no matter what the fear says, you give me a reason to be glad.
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A few days later, as I sit here and write, I still have some hair, but little chunks fall out every time I touch it. I’m not really sure what to do with it, frankly. It’s kind of messy, but still hanging on. I suppose that when it gets thin enough, I’ll feel ready to have Ty shave it for me.
For now, I’m wearing a fantastic new head scarf that my friend Katie lent to me. And apparently my mom has been hoarding scarves for 30 years because she dropped off a huge bag for me to go through. I guess one more gift of going bald: I’m about to have some fun with a whole new accessory.
