Eye of the Beholder
Clearly, I’m bald now.
Most of the time when I’m out, I wear a headwrap. Especially now that it’s cold outside. But sometimes my head gets hot and other times, I just don’t want to deal with all the fabric (especially in a time of mask-wearing: I feel so covered). I go bald. Many people have told me what a ‘beautiful head’ I have.
So many people, in fact, that I started to think: Do they just not know what to say when they see me bald for the first time? Is that the nice thing to say? They feel awkward and so, ‘Oh my! What a beautiful, bald head you have!’ just comes out?
I don’t like when people feel sorry for me. I don’t want pity. And that’s kind of what it feels like: meant to be nice, but really just something to say.
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Last weekend, I noticed a small rash around my waistline. True confession: I was worried that my pants were getting tight and it was causing tension on my skin. Because while some people lose weight on chemo, I seem to keep gaining!
Chemo will last about five months for me. We all know that the most common side effect of chemo drugs is nausea. And it’s true: for three solid months I’ve had this undercurrent of an uncomfortable tummy. But it fleshes itself out differently than I expected. Basically, only carbs are appealing. So, I am not vomiting (yay!) but I am getting…. Fluffier.
Pair this with weird chemo diet restrictions (no fruit with thin skins; no raw veggies—ie: no salads), add steroids—it’s a dream team for weight gain. Oh boy.
As it turns out: this rash is actually Shingles, which have blossomed into a huge, itchy and painful area all over my left side and waistline. Apparently, this is not uncommon with chemo patients due to the weakened immune system. But, because of this, I can’t wear jeans. That hard fabric against my skin is just too much.
Cancer has stolen my jeans, dammit. That’s a low blow.
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At The Happy Envelope, we have a fairly strict dress code. Whenever we hire new staff, I go through an onboarding session with them and we always talk through attire expectations as a part of that conversation. Some of the items on our (long!) list of what not to wear:
Workout attire
Chacos or outdoor shoes
Leggings (as pants)
Shorts
Low cut tops
Spaghetti strap tops
Bra or Bralette showing
Exercise attire
Sweatpants
Joggers
You know it must be hard times when I wear my Soma pajamas to work. Yes, yes, last week I wore pajamas to work. The loose elastic waist was all I could bear. True, they are black and flowy. And I paired them with a duster cardigan and a long necklace. All of this was pulled together into an acceptable outfit, but I had a hard time with the shoes: what shoes coordinate with pajama pants?
On Saturday, I was heading in to work wearing joggers—again with the loose, elastic waist. Side note: I don’t wear workout gear in public unless I’m working out. Maybe all of you Size Two Tennis Moms can get away with that business, but as a girl with more meat on her bones, I don’t feel like my best self in athleisurewear. Joggers as an outfit? Never.
Ty was sitting on the edge of the bed in our room looking at his phone. I was standing in front of our full-length mirror, feeling a bit sorry for myself. I say to Ty:
Me: I can’t believe I’m wearing joggers to work today. These make me look fatter than I already am.
Ty (looking at me): I think you look great. Really.
Me (walking over to give him a kiss): Thank you. This is why I love you.
Ty: I mean it. I think you look great. Those are very slimming. You should order another pair.
And he did mean it. He sincerely means it.
I had just put on my makeup and noticed that one eyebrow is almost completely gone. And I have a few eyelashes hanging by a thread, but those are pretty weak these days, too. So, I’m completely bald. I have no eyebrows and eyelashes. I’m twelve pounds heavier than I was three months ago. I have a gross rash all over my middle. And I’m wearing pajamas to work these days.
But my partner, this man that loves me: he sees something different.
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Last night we celebrated my niece’s 4th birthday. Halfway through the evening I took off my headwrap. My niece warily approached, with her eyes fixed on me and my bald head and grabbed her mother’s hand.
Me: Evie, does my head looks a little crazy right now?
Her mother, my sister-in-law, Catherine:
Evie: do you see Aunt Sarah’s head? Isn’t it beautiful?
Me: Well, not beautiful. Different, maybe. It looks different.
Catherine: No. It’s beautiful. I think it’s beautiful.
I know she’s just trying to be kind. I am not beautiful right now.
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Later that evening, I snuggled up with a book that someone had given me called, “Dear Friend: Letters for Women with Breast Cancer.” Women who have survived breast cancer or loved someone with breast cancer write notes and they’re compiled into this little book. I had never picked it up before.
I came across this passage, written by a 12-year old girl:
My grandmother went through chemo treatments for breast cancer last year. The one thing that remained with me is the day that she called herself ugly as she looked in the mirror. To me, my grandma is one of the most beautiful people in the world. And so are you. No, I don’t know you. But you are, and there is someone in your life who sees you for the strong and beautiful woman that you are.
And just like that, I was undone. The tears rolled down my cheeks. Because with the baldness, the sweatpants, the eyebrows, and the rash: I may not feel my most beautiful right now. But that’s not what other people see. Somehow, people think the shape of my head is nice.
My sister in law sees my bald head as a beautiful picture of strength. And just like this little granddaughter sees her grandmother as ‘one of the most beautiful people in the world,’
my sweet husband sees the same wife he’s always loved.
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What if we all checked our cynicism at the door? What if we grabbed ahold of the good will of our fellow man? I want to receive the encouragement, embrace it as the truth that it is, and let it buoy me to run this race. And then I want to turn around and share that joy and hope with those around me.
And if I can take this a step further: We’re right smack in the middle of the Advent season, and I can’t help but see a parallel. Isn’t this a picture of the Gospel, the Good News of Jesus Christ? When God looks at me, he doesn’t see my sin. He doesn’t see my ugliness. Rather, he sees Jesus in my stead. He looks upon me and sees perfection. He does not see me as I see me.
It is a Merry Christmas, indeed: When you grab ahold of Jesus, his perfection covers all of your flaws. God sees you in a new, covered, perfect way. And this vision of you can’t be undone by your bad choices or your wrong attitudes, your mistakes, or even the way you feel about yourself. It’s a new, forever vision of you through the most important eyes in the Universe.
It’s the Great Exchange: my flaws, anger, selfishness, and all of the other Ugly traded to him in exchange for perfection, white as snow. Not because I’m worthy. But because He sees me as worth it—a valuable treasure. His most beloved and cherished one: that’s me, on the days I feel like it and on the days I don’t.
Yes. That’s a truth I want to cling to.
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My Oncologist says I’m now allowed to eat fresh fruits and veggies again. Halleluiah: my new chemo meds don’t antagonize my stomach the way the first-round drugs did. And the shingles are definitely on their way out. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel.
But hopefully, more than my diet is changing. I want to put less stock in what I see in the mirror in front of me. Because none of that really matters, anyway. I’d like to lean in to the light and life that comes from the confidence that I’m seen as perfect. Because it’s only when we are not focused on ourselves that we can share that light and life with those around us.
Happy Advent.
