It's not about the hair and other rambling thoughts

It's now two weeks out from my third chemo and I'm feeling pretty decent. Actually, I'm excited about having only ONE MORE chemo treatment . . . yes! Besides, Christmas is coming and I'm looking forward to this special time of year.

Yesterday, my husband, daughter, and I made the annual trek (literally one-quarter mile from our house) to the Big Lake Tree Farm in pursuit of the perfect Christmas tree. I felt downright jovial as we trudged through the falling snow. Year after year, we have made this identical pilgrimage, and yet, this year, I appreciated it so much more.

Maybe it's because this year, my daughter is a senior and I don't know whether she'll be with us next year to carry out our little excursion. Or maybe it's because this year, I was diagnosed with cancer and I'm so thankful to be alive and be with my family and do these simple things together.

Whatever the cause of my buoyancy, this is something that my cancer journey is teaching me: to live in the present. I have always been the person who thinks, "What if?" far more than is good for me.

When I was first diagnosed with cancer, I thought it was quite ironic that "Dana The Worrier" had a ticket on this train. How could someone who liked to plan the agenda and every pitstop along the way be expected to do this? This train doesn't let you know when it will stop or where. You just have to go along for the ride.

So I'm learning to set aside my fear of the future (I'll be struggling with that for a long time, I suppose) and to trust God for one day at a time. Not only that, but to be thankful and enjoy the simple, every day moments that make up my life. Like our annual trek to the tree farm, worshipping in church, or watching Andy Hardy movies with my daughter. Can I get a witness?

Normally, my fourth (and last) chemo would be the Monday before Christmas. Knowing that it would prohibit me from participating in or enjoying Christmas, I asked if I could have the treatment earlier. I will find out in two days whether I get to do the treatment early. I will have my blood counts taken (locally) and wait for my doctor's verdict. If she gives the go-ahead, I'll do the last treatment on Wednesday, December 17. I'll keep you posted.

I've been reflecting a lot lately about being bald (mostly bald, anyway) and the effect my hairlessness has on other people. I've come to realize that it really bothers certain other people in my life, particularly those who are close to me.

Let me say this up front: my husband is completely unaffected by it. In fact, I believe that if it weren't for his total nonchalance about it, it would have been far more difficult for me to handle.

I realized that I had been covering my head most of the time not only because I was having a hard time identifying with "that bald woman" in the mirror, but also because I was afraid of freaking out those closest to me.

Early on, my daughter caught a glimpse of my rapidly-balding head and I noticed her uneasiness. I asked her if it weirded her out. She responded very truthfully, "Yeah, a little." I told her not to feel bad; that it weirded me out a lot!

But I have also had a couple of people tell me that they didn't want to see me bald--that it would upset them (or else they gave me no explanation at all). I can't blame them, really.

I've also had people remark that they can't get over how good I look for someone going through chemo. And, although I appreciate the compliments, there's a part of me that wonders if I'm doing a disservice to people--that I'm not giving them a true picture of the whole process (do they really even want a true picture?).

Frankly, in the days following chemo, I'm not looking too great. I'm bald, pale, and kind of sick. But people aren't around to see that Dana (except my husband and daughter).

Am I doing a disservice to other cancer patients by allowing people to think it's a breeze? I hope not. It most certainly isn't. But I don't think most people are comfortable with the uglier aspects of cancer treatment. They may know about it, but they don't want to be reminded of it. It's too depressing.

So if I inspire or encourage anyone by not looking sick, so be it. I don't consider myself inspirational in any way, but I myself have been inspired by other women who have been through this. And all they did was what any woman would do--they got through it. If I can be a motivator to someone else, I will be humbled and privileged to do so. And to God be all the glory. He is merciful to me.

I mentioned in a previous blog entry a book I read called, It's Not About The Hair. It is a funny and heartfelt book that I recommend for anyone going through cancer treatment.

On the topic of hair loss, author Debra Jarvis writes, "It's true, especially for women, that when you lose your hair, you lose part of your identity. It seems unfair that on top of getting cancer you lose your hair. However, like losing your breasts, for some women it's a bigger deal than for others.

But the thing is, it's not really about the hair. It's really about death. People die from cancer all the time. But it's so impolite to say, 'Will you lose your life?' It's much easier to ask about the hair.

Because if you don't lose your hair, you can almost pretend that you don't have cancer. Sure, you may be tired and nauseated. Your surgery site may hurt. You may have sores in your mouth. Your fingernails may be falling off and getting infected. But these are not things that people notice immediately or at all.

No one can look at you and say, 'Chemo patient.' And if you have a sure hand with makeup, you can look downright healthy if you haven't lost your hair.

But if you go bald, you are marked. You can't pretend that everything is normal and that you don't think about death. It's hard for others to pretend they don't think about death when they look at you.

Your bald head shoves death in their faces. And most people really hate thinking about dying. So they struggle to ask the right questions. Is asking, 'What's your prognosis?' too nosey? The answer to that could just lead to more awkwardness. It's safer to talk about hair.

But here's the good thing about losing your hair: you can't pretend that everything is normal. One woman who had just lost her hair to chemo said to me, 'I had chemo for three years and never lost my hair. My family acted as if nothing was wrong. Where are my jeans? Did you call the travel agent? What's for dinner? But now, my God, they're freaking out and they're falling over themselves to help me.'

No, it's not about the hair, but people want to make it about the hair because it's so hard to listen to someone talk about fear and pain and grief. But if you can listen to someone talk about those feelings, then when you do talk about the hair, it will really be about the hair."

I had a hard time with that when I first read it. I wondered if she was right. But I hadn't lost my hair then. Now that I have lost my hair, I believe Ms. Jarvis is correct.

This blog has given me a place to process my journey by sharing it with you. It started out as a way for me to keep an online journal. I had no idea at the time I started it that anyone else would be interested in reading my rambling thoughts.

It has evolved into a way for me to vent my fears and hopes. So I'll keep on talking about my fears, the treatment, and the blessings in all of this. I don't want to gloss over any of it. And that way, when we talk about the hair, it really will be about the hair.

***WARNING***BALD PHOTOS AHEAD***