Hair today, gone tomorrow

Limbo time.

The doctors gave me a hiatus to recover from chemo before starting radiation. I’m still wiped out and still have lots of medical appointments but am enjoying feeling slightly more normal. I don’t miss those weekly enforced Benadryl naps and grogginess.

My hair, she is gone, baby, gone. There were still cottony strands remaining even after five months of chemo, but I finally had Mark buzz it all off so the new hair will grow in all the same. Everyone says post-chemo hair comes in curly, so I’m placing my order now for adorable ringlets like Keri Russell in "Felicity."

Now all that’s left is perhaps five eyebrow hairs on the left and three on the right. Very, very few eyelashes either – not a pretty look at all. You know how one of the really unattractive things about vultures is their brooding, hooded eyes? Well, that’s a case in point of why eyelashes are a must-have accessory.

Chemo’s finale was anticlimactic. Mark and I brought in cookies to thank the nurses who’d been great throughout. But otherwise it was just Day Number 20 of having toxic substances pumped into my veins.

A couple of days after the last chemo, some women friends gathered to commemorate the rite of passage. This faithful village has been bringing me food, books and flowers; accompanying me to chemo; lending sympathetic ears; taking me out on walks; and just being there throughout. We ate good food, decorated prayer flags, and wore silly hats and wigs.

As I told them: “Some chemo patients expect their friends to shave their heads in solidarity; all I’m asking is that you wear a funny hat for a little while.” Actually it was amazing how the hats brought out different aspects of people’s personalities – a Nashville-style tumble of long auburn tresses turned one friend into a seductive vixen; a jaunty red fedora offset another’s face perfectly; a gentleman’s top hat brought out another friend’s debonair side. I wore a propeller beanie that Ben had sported in fifth grade, and gave the propeller a spin now and then to signal my giddy relief that chemo is over.

As a prelude to radiation, it was time for another mammogram. Even though it would be highly unusual to develop a new tumor right after all that chemo, I was a nervous wreck. It was my first mammogram since the one a year ago where they kept calling me back over and over again to take more images, and then eventually ushered me in to meet with the radiologist. When she said, “Unfortunately we found …” it seemed as if she lingered on every single one of the 17 or so syllables in “unfortunately,” leaving each one hanging in the air like little cartoon thought bubbles.

Adding to the PTSD, this mammogram was at the same location, a chic breast care center with plush terry robes, museum-quality art and comfy upholstered chairs. But all those upscale touches can’t camouflage the fact that at core it’s centered on a malevolent disease. I was the only bald woman in the Butterfly Waiting Room, and I wondered if the other women there, who glanced at me occasionally and then immediately looked away, were flinching at how I represented a stark reminder that they weren't there for mani-pedis.

Unlike normal “screening” mammograms, the ones for breast cancer patients are considered “diagnostic” and they give you results on the spot. Mariann, the technician, was competent and compassionate.

She returned a few minutes after taking the images and said: “Dr B. says everything looks absolutely normal.”

My whole body unclenched and air escaped from my lungs with a whoosh.

“Absolutely normal” -- that’s my goal from now on.