As I stood in the shower, staring at a clump of hair in my hand, I thought about the day the doctor warned me that my hair would fall out.
The doctor sat me down and reviewed the side effects of my chemo plan. At the top of the list was hair loss.
“A lot of men are bald,” I thought. “No biggie.” The doctor proceeded to further warn me, “Once it starts falling out, it falls out quick.” “Good. It’ll save me money on shampoo,” I joked.
But, there I stood, in the shower, not finding it as funny. With each run over my head, another clump of hair would fall out. I rubbed my beard to see if that was safe. It wasn’t. I tested my eyebrows. They were jumping ship too.
In the duration of one shower, I went from having a full head of hair and a beard, to looking like Patrick Stewart—minus the sophistication. I didn’t think losing my hair was going to affect me the way it did. Sure, I had a nice head of hair, and sure, I am a bit vain…but this really bothered me. I felt like a piece of me was giving up, or better yet, giving in, to the cancer. I felt, for the first time, like my body was admitting that it was sick.
The next day, I had to sit in the infusion chair for five hours. I spent the first two hours wondering if I looked better than Bruce Willis without hair. The third hour I spent feeling sorry for myself. The fourth hour, I noticed a woman bald and proud as could be. She sported her shiny head like she was an Olympic swimmer. I watched her and thought to myself, “If this woman can be brave enough to stand there bald, feminine, beautiful, and proud, then I owed it to her, myself, and everyone else that ever had to go down this road, to suck it up”.
I decided to accept it. Sure, I still wore a lot of hats, but I never felt sorry for myself again. I reminded myself of all the people that had it worse than me. Most importantly, I reminded myself that all of this was temporary. One day, I would be back to complaining how bad I need a haircut. I would be at a place where the word “cancer” wasn’t in every conversation. I would go back to being “normal.”
Today, after five months, I got my first haircut. And I will admit, it looks damn good (thanks to Parkers Barber Shop).
Am I back to “normal?” God, I hope not. I think I have a new normal that I want to hold onto for a little. A new normal where I appreciate something small, like a fresh haircut. A new normal, where I think about the amazing people that gave me peace of mind through their own acts of heroism, even if they didn’t realize they were helping me; especially if they didn’t realize they were helping me.
I like this new normal—more grateful, more aware. And I hope that I can be that woman in the infusion room for others, even if it’s just for one person. That I can be proof that nothing lasts forever.
Eventually, we all get a new normal. Just hang in there.
See also:
Our Rebuild: Climbing Past The Plateaus
Our Rebuild: Unity in Our Differences
Our Rebuild: The Lasting Legacy Of 'Tyler's Ride'
Our Rebuild: A Vacation Performance In Florida
Our Rebuild: Juice And Science Stuff
