Ch-ch-changes

"I can be changed by what happens to me. I am not reduced by it." - Maya Angelou

Rockin' a Rosie the Riveter look to visit our dear friends

Until my hair started falling out, I would have told you I thought losing my hair would be the most traumatic part of having and being treated for breast cancer. Now that I have a close-cropped buzz and multiple bald patches, I'd like to amend that presumption.

Losing my hair is ABSOLUTELY the worst part of this ordeal thus far. For multiple reasons.

I'm embarrassed by this. I mean, over the course of five months, I will walk into a cancer center 16 times for chemotherapy infusions that make me tired, weak, and sick to my stomach. I'll have a lumpectomy to remove tissue from my left breast - God willing that's the plan. Worst case scenario, if I'm BRCA-1 or BRCA-2 positive for genetic mutations, I could have a double mastectomy and a hysterectomy to be sure I don't get cancer again. I'll undergo a month of near-daily radiation treatments. All those things should be more concerning, more troublesome, just plain worse.

Instead, I'm crying about my hair. It's more than the discomfort of the little remaining shards falling out, poking me like pine needle projectiles. I know I said I needed this experience, and that I'd learn from it - I do, and I am. I just didn't know how incomplete I would feel as a person without hair. It's not that I want to be perfect or fit some socially constructed mold of what a pretty woman is. I know true beauty lies within. I believe I am much more than my exterior. But, I don't feel whole or healthy or feminine or like myself.

And now... I look like I'm sick. Losing my hair has been the first real outward appearance of this illness.

A small snapshot of my growing
hat collection!

All along, people who've seen me - family and friends at Thanksgiving, office pals, the Giossis, friends and colleagues via video chat - have said, "you look really great" or "you have so much color" or "I didn't expect you'd look so healthy." But, only my mom, dad, and Sean had seen up close what I look like without hair. My wig comes in on Wednesday, so until then, it's all hats, bandanas, and scarves.

So, yesterday we went to visit some very dear friends for the first time since the Great Hair Escape. It was wonderful to spend time with them - they're like family to us, and being with them is easy. Their adorable kiddos are delightful, and playing with them is a way to be truly present in a precious moment. For the outing, I donned a red bandanna à la Rosie the Riveter, and I felt pretty good about it. In a moment of strength, I shared my bald head with the adults, since I don't want to feel shame of this step in my healing process.

A few hours later, though, we hung outside in the sunshine (gotta love winter in Colorado!), and I tossed on a stocking cap to keep out the slight chill. When I went back inside, I didn't bother switching back to the bandanna. As sweet young boys might be tempted to do, the cap was easy for little Jude to tug off while we were playing. He and Zoey are nearly three-year-old twins, and they both stared for a moment at my balding head. I reassured them... "It's okay. I have a sickness that makes me lose my hair. It'll grow back though. I'll have pigtails like Zoey again soon." Their mom reminded them they'd made me get well cards, and I invited the duo to rub my head to see how it felt. "It's shorter than Daddy's hair," Jude said. I put the hat back on, and I looked at the twins. "You love me no matter what, right?" Zoey repeated with certainty, "You love us no matter what."

Inside, my heart cracked a little. Waves of vulnerability have been washing over me since last night. I look in the mirror and see parts of myself that I cannot yet recognize. I know you all love me no matter what, but I'm finding it hard to love myself right now.

The Maya Angelou quote at the opening of this post is one I've sat with repeatedly throughout my adult life. I cannot be reduced by what happens to me - not by cancer, not by hair loss. I will be changed in positive ways by this experience, although it has thrown me off-balance. As Nevitt Sanford (1968), a pioneering student affairs theorist, said, "Disequilibrium produces growth." This dissonance I'm feeling and challenge I'm facing, accompanied by all the support I'm receiving from my various communities, will help me to become a better version of myself.

Even so, growing - whether it be hair, heart, soul, mind, or self-acceptance - comes with some pain. And today, my friends, I hurt.