Hi Friends,
I have been largely absent from posting lately. The kids have been back to school for over a month now, so routines have changed and needed adjusting. I have popped in to read posts off and on—always great support shown here, and that makes me smile!
I write on occasion, and today something spilled out of me that I thought might be worth sharing here. I know most on the anal cancer journey don’t face the systemic chemo and complete hair loss (thank goodness!) that was part of my treatment plan, but I bet there are sentiments here to which we can all relate. As always, I’m glad to hear perspective of how others move forward and embrace “survivorship.” Hugs to all.
Red
I washed my wig today.
It was long overdue, months, in fact. I took it off of my head on January 27th, after returning from six weeks of treatment in Houston, put it on the hot pink wig stand at the back of our closet, and left it. That’s it. It’s September 8th, and today, for the first time since that day in January, I touched it, I moved it, I cared for it.
I can’t say I haven’t thought of it, I have actually thought of it often. I thought of it the very next day, January 28th. We had somewhere to be, and I considered wearing it. Not quite shiny bald anymore, but certainly only fuzzy, at best, the wig would have probably made others around me more comfortable, but I’d have been less comfortable, and I reasoned that after a plane ride and multiple radiation sessions at MD Anderson, it deserved to be washed before it went back on my “survivor’s” head. I left the wig. I thought of it a few times, involuntarily, when I stepped into our closet, sometimes in the dark, and its beautiful, convincing shape fooled me into thinking I was not alone! I told myself, and at times, my equally startled husband, that I had to wash it and put it away, cover it, hide it. But inevitably, daylight would come and other things seemed more pressing, more of a priority, and over and over again, I just left it. I thought of it when, fully embracing my G.I. Jane head of buzzy hair, more than a few friends told me I looked beautiful, that I should consider keeping my hair that short! What a revelation…that my lifelong crown of long red curls was not the only beautiful thing about me, that my face could hold its own.
I thought of the wig in March, when we returned to Houston, eager for the green light of the final step in my treatment plan, surgery, a fairly major surgery. I thought of how out of place my buzz-cut head would look in the sophisticated hotel at which we‘d be staying downtown, of how my husband and I were on one of those oddly serene cancer-cations that we’d had alone while my father cared for our kids back home. I thought that maybe my husband would prefer to be with a woman who had a “normal” head of hair, and then I thought again. My husband would prefer to be with his wife. The wife who was beating cancer. I left the wig.
Someone might think I avoided the wig for eight months because I was disgusted by it, unhappy memories, some kind of traumatic aversion, but for me, that’s not the case at all. I feel profound gratitude for that wig, for the precious woman in the wig store who patiently took clumps of my thinning hair as I tried on one wig after another. Profound gratitude for the honest opinions of my husband and children as we tried to find one that was most like “me.” I feel profound gratitude that the wig allowed me to blend in when I wanted, to not have to meet the curious or pitying stares of strangers who had no idea that I was winning the cancer battle. I felt gratitude that the wig allowed me to meet my radiation treatment team over and over again, every day for six weeks, as someone who looked whole. I feel gratitude that I had a chance to try bangs without having to grow them out myself. I love the wig, but for the past eight months, every time I chose to leave it, I did so only because I love myself more.
And that’s the great challenge of survivorship for me. I am So. Darn. Grateful. for every part of the process that has brought me to now; to no more cancer, to no more treatment. It is a challenge, an odd one, and one which I embrace, to let go of the things that carried me through the past year and begin to embrace the things that will carry me through the next fifty. The poncho that wrapped around my newborn son more than eight years ago, and then wrapped around my chemo pump more than eights months ago was donated in the summer. Those Tom’s shoes that were enough coverage to keep my toes warm in the mild Houston winter, but easy enough to slip on and off for daily radiation treatments are now in a donation pile. They were super cute, they go with everything—everything except cancer-free me. The sweatshirts with a zip down neck that made access to my port-a-cath easy have been washed and stacked alongside the shoes. I’d maybe worn them five times. Those, and the comfy pants from Target that look like actual proper trousers but have an elastic waist, should all go to the shelter for human trafficking survivors. These things that helped me transition through the hardest part of my life ought to have a chance to do that again for someone else, after all.
So what about the wig? The wig is being washed because it ought to be washed, like a worn piece of clothing, things need washing, naturally. I have cared for myself very, very well for the past year, and I have the capacity now to care for the wig, too. No, I’m not donating it…yet. I actually have an opportunity to wear it again, in full joy, that is. This December, the city’s semi-professional ballet company, for whom I volunteer, will present its annual production of The Nutcracker. Last year, I wore the wig in the audience. It concealed my shiny bald head and looked fabulous with my glittery winter sweater and sequined skirt. This year, I’ll wear it onstage. I will be a “parent” in the opening scenes of the show, and though my new corkscrew curls are glorious, I doubt they will be quite long enough to be convincing as a Victorian era woman’s hairstyle.
The wig will see another life—a fun, beautiful, vibrant life that intersects with my own for that week in December. And when the curtain closes, the hairspray washed out, I will put it on the hot pink wig stand at the back of our closet and cover it with a pillowcase. (You’re welcome, dear husband.)
