Illustration by Alex Chen
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Losing my hair is one of the most challenging aspects of my cancer journey. And it sucks! I hate that losing my hair makes my illness visible to everyone, eliciting pity looks from strangers just by going to the store to buy some apples.
I had hoped that maybe I’d be one of the few who wouldn’t lose it. But as the weeks progressed into chemo, I started to notice more and more hair stuck in my brush in the mornings. I tried to keep it in a ponytail so that I wouldn’t be shedding all over the place, and I had been told stories of finding it on my pillow and everywhere in the house. Then the volume increased and my scalp felt sensitive each time my brush touched it.
That was the day I decided to shave it.
I had offers of help from my family, but I needed to do this on my own. I needed to face cancer – face to face in the mirror – and tell the disease that this act was under my control. I decided when the hair went! I may not have had a lot of control over other things, but this I could.
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A good friend of mine who has struggled with cancer for many years said to me that she refused to let cancer define her. I heard that loud and clear, but how could it not define me if I had a bald head, telling the world that cancer lived here? I decided to go for flair. I bought three bamboo hats in my favourite colours and embellished them with scarves to match whatever outfit I was wearing that day. Purples, greens and blues decorated my closet as I created new combinations.
Next came the wigs. To be honest, I never came to like them all that much. I was advised to get one before I lost my hair to match the style. I remember going to the wig store with my daughter and trying out a few, settling on a lovely auburn-colour that seemed similar to my greying hair in length. My family complimented me, telling me that I looked terrific, but I knew that they were just trying to comfort me. The woman I saw in the mirror wearing that wavy auburn wig just didn’t look like me.
Facebook somehow got wind of my wig needs and started showing me ad after ad of a vast array of wigs. I ended up buying a couple of cheaper wigs online, as the first expensive one just wasn’t sitting right with me. (The truth is, I only wore it about three times.)
I opted for a short-haired wig, rationalizing that this would help me get used to short hair when mine grew back. In the end, that’s the wig I wore the most, mostly when we went out. At home, I was comforted by my coloured bamboo hats, which kept me cozy.
By the last day of radiation, my hair had started to grow back. It took about three months after chemotherapy was over for my new hair to feel ready for its debut. So, on my drive home after my last treatment, I took my wig off and thought about throwing it out the window but instead tossed it into the back seat. I was done with wigs! I was done with hats! My hair could now grow in peace and lead me back to whatever normal was.
Interestingly enough, I’ve received many compliments on my short hair. Folks who don’t know about my illness, thinking that I chose to cut my hair this short, comment on how great and freeing it looks. Go figure!
Another good friend who has been through cancer treatments said to me, “I do what I can!” That idea, along with not letting cancer define me, became my motto. If I could do it, I did. If I couldn’t, I let others help me. But I stayed in control. If I could do the dishes that day, I did. If I was tired, I told my family that they needed to finish them.
Each day, I did what I could. I chose colour over sorrow, funky looks over dread, I claimed myself through this journey that I didn’t choose.
I grieved the losses and welcomed the opportunities. Cancer didn’t define me, it simply offered a chance to discover myself and God in new and different ways. Yes, it sucked, but I was often surprised by glimmers of joy.
Elisabeth Kroeker Bach lives in Nanoose Bay, B.C.
