Like most people, for years I saw articles about cancer and thought it could never happen to me. I always thought that if it did, I wouldn’t let the loss of my hair bother me. I was wrong on both counts.
We all have a story . . .
In the span of four days, I went from what I thought was a healthy 35 year old to a cancer patient. As I exercised every day, I was alarmed one morning when I lost my breath walking into work from my car. Fortunately, my place of employment had a doctor on staff; she quickly realized something could be wrong. Two blood tests over three days returned disappointing results. She saved my life by calling in a favor to a hematologist. By day four, I was diagnosed, in a hospital bed and starting chemotherapy for leukemia.
The day prior to being hospitalized, I had gotten my hair highlighted and cut by Debbie Meredith, the co-owner of Hair Plus. While working on my hair, I explained to her what was happening but I never mentioned the word cancer. It hadn’t been mentioned to me and I honestly didn’t have a thought that my symptoms and blood tests results were showing cancer. I had been busy at work and didn’t Google my symptoms. Debbie asked me to keep her updated.
Feeling empowered . . . or not . . .
My first night in the hospital, some family members suggested I should shave my long, curly hair as soon as possible so I wouldn’t have to think about it. The previous week, I had read an article about a woman who had done this to feel empowered. However, at that point in time I was simply too stunned to feel anything but confusion. I didn’t feel sick and looked healthy. Things had moved at lightening speed due to the aggressive nature of the leukemia, not because I was suffering from physical symptoms. My husband, Gene, had been told if he waited just a week to get a second opinion I would have a major organ fail and possibly not survive.
It took only one day for me to realize my long, curly hair wasn’t going to be practical for a lengthy hospital stay. As the doctors weren’t 100% sure if I would lose all my hair or just have thinning, I called Debbie and offered to pay her if she would consider coming to the hospital to cut (not shave) my hair. Debbie visited me on Monday, her day off, and didn’t charge me anything but a hug.
About two weeks into my hospital stay, my mother noticed there was quite a bit of hair on my back and my pillow. She and my father asked the nurse for scotch tape and they both attempted to remove the loose hair. I reacted by sticking a hat on my head and not taking it off for over a week. I slept in the hat, I showered in the hat – it never left my head.
Gilligan has a Moonstruck moment . . .
One morning my nurse arrived with my medicine and gently spoke with me about how it may be time for me to take off my hat and wash my scalp. She explained that my hair hadn’t been washed or combed in over a week and thus it was going to be very unhealthy. With tears in my eyes, I told her I understood and asked for privacy.
Getting up the nerve to walk from my bed to the bathroom to look in the mirror was not an easy task. Slowly I walked into the bathroom and looked at the ridiculous image staring back at me – a 35-year-old woman wearing a hat only Gilligan from Gilligan’s Island could love. With more tears, I took my hat off and stared at the birds nest of hair on top of my head. With comb in hand, I touched the top of my head and told myself that perhaps nothing would happen and I was simply being silly. As I gently pulled on the comb, a massive amount of my hair came out.
The sink filled up with my hair as tears ran down my face. This was the first time I had allowed myself to cry since I was diagnosed. I took fistfuls of hair from the sink and threw the into the trash bin. After a few more moments, I looked at the “new” me in the mirror. I didn’t resemble myself. Two weeks ago I had stood there looking healthy with rosy cheeks. Everything up until this point had seemed surreal. Now I was gaunt, with wrinkled skin, black circles under my eyes and a balding head. I could no longer pretend I was different than everyone else because it had been caught early and I had walked into the hospital. I had being acting like Cleopatra up until I combed out my hair – you know, Queen of Denial! This was my Cher Moonstruck moment – “Snap out of it!” I took a deep breath. I told God cancer could take my hair as long as I was given the rest of my life to live. I placed my hat back on my head and headed back to my bed.
Over the next few days, I became frustrated with myself over how I was still feeling about my hair. Before leukemia I had never fixated or worried about how my hair looked, so why was this a now such a struggle? I thought about the courage it takes when someone has breast cancer, and I felt terribly ashamed. I thought about children who go through cancer treatments and aren’t able to have the childhood I had experienced. I realized my feelings about my hair were really my feelings about the cancer. Leukemia had landed a punch that would reverberate the rest of our lives. I stopped fixating on my hair. Instead, I admitted I had no control over what was happening; I only had control over my reactions. I forgave myself for my previous thoughts and moved forward.
Pleased to meet you Linus . . .
I wore the Gilligan hat during my entire induction period.I didn’t show Gene my head because deep down I didn’t want him to define me by the leukemia. I didn’t want the image of me being ill to be the last one he could possibly have. Once home, it was simply impossible to hide my head from Gene. I had switched to sleeping caps at night to keep my head warm and every morning I found it to the side of my pillows. He never pushed me. (In the hospital, he had offered to shave his head to show his love and support for me. I thanked him, but explained I needed him to look like “Gene.”) One day, I worked-up the courage to take my hat off in front of him. He responded by saying “It’s really a prettily shaped head.” We examined the scar from stitches I received when I was five years old. The two of us laughed at “Linus” staring back at us from the mirror and I began to hum the Peanuts theme. We laughed again when I put baby powder on my head to absorb the sweat as the talc made small wisps of white smoke. I said “Boo! Boo! I’m a ghost!” and we laughed more.
My mother urged me to get a wig. As I was on track with treatment, I would only be out of work for six months and thus returning to my corporate job with a completely bald head. I called Debbie at Hair Plus to see if she could recommend any places that sold wigs. Again, she surprised me by asking Gene to drive me to meet her on her day off. She took us to a local business and had me fitted for a wig that was similar in color to my natural hair. She then took my wig to the salon to cut it in the style I had been wearing before leukemia. I hadn’t even thought about color and styling. Again, the only payment she would take was a hug.
I visited the salon one day during Gene’s haircut and asked Debbie if she would take me from being a Linus to a Charlie Brown. I laughed and said although the stray hairs had fought the fight gallantly, it was time for them to go. She wouldn’t take money again from me. Instead we struck a deal that once my hair was grown I would have it highlighted again.
Tried as I might, I was never comfortable in the wig. I gravitated towards hats in denim or light colors that I could wear with the front flipped up. At the end of October, I rubbed baby shampoo onto my scalp and felt what I thought was stubble. Could it be my hair was already coming back? Having heard hair color and texture could change, I hoped for straight hair and then quickly forgot about it.
Comfortable in my skin . . .
On December 28th my blood was tested. My red, white and platelet counts were in normal ranges clearing me to return to work a few days later on January 4th. I did not wear a wig or a hat. I didn’t care who stared at my short buzz as I walked down the hallway. I didn’t care about the whispers. I didn’t care what people said or that their facial expressions conveyed their true thoughts. I was a cancer patient and comfortable in my own skin.
As my hair grew out, Debbie trimmed it so it would grow into a style. (And I made her let me pay her since I working again!) It always amazes me that I was simply a client at Hair Plus but twice she took time on her day off to help me. She didn’t look for monetary compensation, she did it simply because that’s who she is as a person. As the manager and now co-owner of the salon, it’s that caring nature that she stresses to her stylists and to her clients. As they say, you can’t put a price tag on it!
Renee Hedden is a freelance writer residing in Roosevelt, New Jersey with her husband, Gene, and their dog, Nina. Her doctor deemed her cured in 2009.
We all have a story . . .
In the span of four days, I went from what I thought was a healthy 35 year old to a cancer patient. As I exercised every day, I was alarmed one morning when I lost my breath walking into work from my car. Fortunately, my place of employment had a doctor on staff; she quickly realized something could be wrong. Two blood tests over three days returned disappointing results. She saved my life by calling in a favor to a hematologist. By day four, I was diagnosed, in a hospital bed and starting chemotherapy for leukemia.
The day prior to being hospitalized, I had gotten my hair highlighted and cut by Debbie Meredith, the co-owner of Hair Plus. While working on my hair, I explained to her what was happening but I never mentioned the word cancer. It hadn’t been mentioned to me and I honestly didn’t have a thought that my symptoms and blood tests results were showing cancer. I had been busy at work and didn’t Google my symptoms. Debbie asked me to keep her updated.
Feeling empowered . . . or not . . .
My first night in the hospital, some family members suggested I should shave my long, curly hair as soon as possible so I wouldn’t have to think about it. The previous week, I had read an article about a woman who had done this to feel empowered. However, at that point in time I was simply too stunned to feel anything but confusion. I didn’t feel sick and looked healthy. Things had moved at lightening speed due to the aggressive nature of the leukemia, not because I was suffering from physical symptoms. My husband, Gene, had been told if he waited just a week to get a second opinion I would have a major organ fail and possibly not survive.
It took only one day for me to realize my long, curly hair wasn’t going to be practical for a lengthy hospital stay. As the doctors weren’t 100% sure if I would lose all my hair or just have thinning, I called Debbie and offered to pay her if she would consider coming to the hospital to cut (not shave) my hair. Debbie visited me on Monday, her day off, and didn’t charge me anything but a hug.
About two weeks into my hospital stay, my mother noticed there was quite a bit of hair on my back and my pillow. She and my father asked the nurse for scotch tape and they both attempted to remove the loose hair. I reacted by sticking a hat on my head and not taking it off for over a week. I slept in the hat, I showered in the hat – it never left my head.
Gilligan has a Moonstruck moment . . .
One morning my nurse arrived with my medicine and gently spoke with me about how it may be time for me to take off my hat and wash my scalp. She explained that my hair hadn’t been washed or combed in over a week and thus it was going to be very unhealthy. With tears in my eyes, I told her I understood and asked for privacy.
Getting up the nerve to walk from my bed to the bathroom to look in the mirror was not an easy task. Slowly I walked into the bathroom and looked at the ridiculous image staring back at me – a 35-year-old woman wearing a hat only Gilligan from Gilligan’s Island could love. With more tears, I took my hat off and stared at the birds nest of hair on top of my head. With comb in hand, I touched the top of my head and told myself that perhaps nothing would happen and I was simply being silly. As I gently pulled on the comb, a massive amount of my hair came out.
The sink filled up with my hair as tears ran down my face. This was the first time I had allowed myself to cry since I was diagnosed. I took fistfuls of hair from the sink and threw the into the trash bin. After a few more moments, I looked at the “new” me in the mirror. I didn’t resemble myself. Two weeks ago I had stood there looking healthy with rosy cheeks. Everything up until this point had seemed surreal. Now I was gaunt, with wrinkled skin, black circles under my eyes and a balding head. I could no longer pretend I was different than everyone else because it had been caught early and I had walked into the hospital. I had being acting like Cleopatra up until I combed out my hair – you know, Queen of Denial! This was my Cher Moonstruck moment – “Snap out of it!” I took a deep breath. I told God cancer could take my hair as long as I was given the rest of my life to live. I placed my hat back on my head and headed back to my bed.
Over the next few days, I became frustrated with myself over how I was still feeling about my hair. Before leukemia I had never fixated or worried about how my hair looked, so why was this a now such a struggle? I thought about the courage it takes when someone has breast cancer, and I felt terribly ashamed. I thought about children who go through cancer treatments and aren’t able to have the childhood I had experienced. I realized my feelings about my hair were really my feelings about the cancer. Leukemia had landed a punch that would reverberate the rest of our lives. I stopped fixating on my hair. Instead, I admitted I had no control over what was happening; I only had control over my reactions. I forgave myself for my previous thoughts and moved forward.
Pleased to meet you Linus . . .
I wore the Gilligan hat during my entire induction period.I didn’t show Gene my head because deep down I didn’t want him to define me by the leukemia. I didn’t want the image of me being ill to be the last one he could possibly have. Once home, it was simply impossible to hide my head from Gene. I had switched to sleeping caps at night to keep my head warm and every morning I found it to the side of my pillows. He never pushed me. (In the hospital, he had offered to shave his head to show his love and support for me. I thanked him, but explained I needed him to look like “Gene.”) One day, I worked-up the courage to take my hat off in front of him. He responded by saying “It’s really a prettily shaped head.” We examined the scar from stitches I received when I was five years old. The two of us laughed at “Linus” staring back at us from the mirror and I began to hum the Peanuts theme. We laughed again when I put baby powder on my head to absorb the sweat as the talc made small wisps of white smoke. I said “Boo! Boo! I’m a ghost!” and we laughed more.
My mother urged me to get a wig. As I was on track with treatment, I would only be out of work for six months and thus returning to my corporate job with a completely bald head. I called Debbie at Hair Plus to see if she could recommend any places that sold wigs. Again, she surprised me by asking Gene to drive me to meet her on her day off. She took us to a local business and had me fitted for a wig that was similar in color to my natural hair. She then took my wig to the salon to cut it in the style I had been wearing before leukemia. I hadn’t even thought about color and styling. Again, the only payment she would take was a hug.
I visited the salon one day during Gene’s haircut and asked Debbie if she would take me from being a Linus to a Charlie Brown. I laughed and said although the stray hairs had fought the fight gallantly, it was time for them to go. She wouldn’t take money again from me. Instead we struck a deal that once my hair was grown I would have it highlighted again.
Tried as I might, I was never comfortable in the wig. I gravitated towards hats in denim or light colors that I could wear with the front flipped up. At the end of October, I rubbed baby shampoo onto my scalp and felt what I thought was stubble. Could it be my hair was already coming back? Having heard hair color and texture could change, I hoped for straight hair and then quickly forgot about it.
Comfortable in my skin . . .
On December 28th my blood was tested. My red, white and platelet counts were in normal ranges clearing me to return to work a few days later on January 4th. I did not wear a wig or a hat. I didn’t care who stared at my short buzz as I walked down the hallway. I didn’t care about the whispers. I didn’t care what people said or that their facial expressions conveyed their true thoughts. I was a cancer patient and comfortable in my own skin.
As my hair grew out, Debbie trimmed it so it would grow into a style. (And I made her let me pay her since I working again!) It always amazes me that I was simply a client at Hair Plus but twice she took time on her day off to help me. She didn’t look for monetary compensation, she did it simply because that’s who she is as a person. As the manager and now co-owner of the salon, it’s that caring nature that she stresses to her stylists and to her clients. As they say, you can’t put a price tag on it!
Renee Hedden is a freelance writer residing in Roosevelt, New Jersey with her husband, Gene, and their dog, Nina. Her doctor deemed her cured in 2009.