My Bald Public Debut

Well, folks, there it is. There's one picture of me becoming bald, and one of me getting my first look at my wig, and one of me attempting to smile. I have a GI Jane stubble - ugh - right now, and we'll actually shave that off to make it smooth tonight, as I don't like being a velcro-ball and as the little stubble comes out it's itchy.

I have decided that I am either extremely brave (something I don't really believe - I've written on that subject before), extremely extroverted (we all know that's true) or simply insane. You might agree with my last statement when I tell you what I did today, by my own choice.

Today, my family and I went swimming. At a pool. Surrounded by lots of other people.

Should I point out to you that I have recently had a mastectomy, that I have scars from two other surgeries, and that I have a bald head? Should I also point out that my body bears the many imperfections of its thirty-five-and-eleven-twelfths years, including cellulite, a less-than-flat tummy, and the rest?

Now you will understand why I have given myself the title of "insane," and why you should not question the fact that I am insane. Yes, I did indeed choose a pool as part of my public debut as a bald woman.

But let me back up a little...

This morning, the mood as I got my head shaved was almost festive. Some of us had Starbucks coffees, some dear friends brought thoughtful presents to help the day, and I was surrounded in the presence of people I love, which is the best present of all. A group of us walked from our house to the salon, and met up with a couple others at the salon. I was nervous, but comforted by the fact that I knew I was doing the right thing.

At the salon, I decided that I did not want to watch the process in a mirror - that seems too much akin to removing a large band-aid very, very slowly. Instead, I chose to face my friends, Ryan, and Tessa as the deed was done, and so they had a full view of me but I could not see myself. Krista, my stylist, was an angel on earth, and she treated us like we were all valued clients, offering coffee to the gang; more importantly, she acted as a friend.

I was very attuned to Tessa's face throughout this process. Heather held her on her lap, and looked at the cancer books ("Sammy's Mommy Has Cancer" and "Mommy Has Cancer") that we've been using to explain things to her. Occassionally, Tessa's lip would tremble and her eyes would grow wide, and I would talk to her, saying things like "Doesn't Mommy look different with no hair? Will you help me choose hats to wear?" and other such nonsense. It seemed to help Tessa, though, and she never shed a tear.

At the end, when it was all done, people got a little quieter. I felt slightly sick to my stomach, but this time it had nothing to do with the chemo drugs. The moment of truth - how awful would I look? - had arrived, and I didn't want to face it. But I did. Krista turned my chair around, and, surrounded by caring people, I got my first glimpse of my new, bald self.

I hated it. I looked like a cancer patient, really and truly, for the first time. I didn't feel brave at all. I felt scared, and I started to cry. Who wouldn't? Anyone who wants to say, "It's only hair," or "It doesn't define you," or any other such things should simply try being bald. Yah, it's only hair, but it's my hair, and I looked normal with hair, and not having hair is a big deal. It will grow back, but in the meantime, people will stare and I do not look like "myself." That, friends, is the truth, and there is no getting around it.

However, that's not all there is to tell. The tears dried quickly enough, and I declared that I was more than ready to try on my wig. (Please, bring it to me. Now. Please. Please.) With the wig on, I could breathe a sigh of relief. It was really still me in the mirror...only with cuter hair than before! The room felt more festive again, and everyone congratulated me on my wig choice, telling me how attractive I was. I think if I'd chosen rhinocerous hair for a head-covering my loving gang would have still encouraged me, but it didn't matter, for the fearful moment passed and I felt human again.

I smiled at the woman in the chair next to me, who was probably NOT having the salon experience she'd planned for, and apologised for interrupting her morning of pampering. She told me that she was honored to bear witness to my morning, and that she thought I was brave and that she wished me well. I did not tell her that I'm not brave. I said thank you. Today, I felt pretty brave, all things considered, even if what I was doing was because I had to and not because of some inner reserve of strength.

Wig on, I hugged Krista, promising that I was her customer for life. (This, I am certain, is the truth, in a very literal way.) She refused payment, and gave me a card to share her thoughts and prayers with me. She is a special person, and I am grateful that she was willing to share in this part of the journey.

Wig on my head, hugs were given all around, and some friends departed, and others walked back to the house with us. When we got home, there was a note in the mailbox from the members of the PEPS group that I co-led with Amy. Each of them had signed a note, and they had included a gift certificate to Ummelina (mmmmmmmmmmm fabulous!). The timing was perfect, and I felt so grateful. Thank you.

My parents showed up after that, for we'd planned to spend the day together, and Lori & Michele joined us for breakfast. Breakfast was fun, non-hair-centered, and a reminder that life does, indeed, go on... real hair or otherwise. After breakfast, friends departed, and the family packed up to head to G.G.'s for a visit (and so Dad could help with her lawn). We had a lovely visit with G.G., had Tessa's first real tea-party (definitely subject matter for another post, but one of my loveliest mommy moments) went shopping together for Gavin's birthday presents, and then I became truly insane.

It was my idea, actually, to go to the pool at the club. Tessa loves the water, our family has always had fun in the water, and today was just a perfect day to splash in the sunshine. It makes perfect sense, except for the bald uniboober part, and I thought it sounded fun.

I left the wig in the car (what use is a wig at a pool?), put on my pink baseball cap, took a deep breath, and entered the changing area.

When Tessa and I came out of the changing area, heads did turn. Young girls looked at me with wide eyes, and a couple of the parents (this is a family place) looked at me with questions in their eyes. I wore my beautiful new swimsuit, fitted with a swim prosthesis, I kept my pink breast cancer awareness band on (hoping, honestly, that people would notice it and think "breast cancer" and not "skinhead") and I put sunblock on my stubbly head, and there I was. I felt naked. The scars under my arm have created odd lumpy areas; the swimsuit does not entirely hide the fact that I am missing one breast; and on the other breast there is a visible (not covered by the swimsuit) two inch scar from the portacath placement. Add this to my normal swimsuit anxiety, and you will wonder what I was thinking. I took off my cap, left it with my swimbag, and went into the pool, holding Tessa, and talking to Ryan.

Well, here's what I was thinking. My family, myself included, enjoys swimming, and the day was right for swimming. The oncologist approved me to go in public pools while my blood counts are still good. The day was sunny and hot, and the water felt refreshing. All this adds up to one important idea: I am not my cancer. I am not going to stop living while all this crap goes on in my life. Instead, I'm going to carve out room for pockets of joy (thanks for that great phrase and prayer, Shannon), and I'm going to seize that joy whereever I can find it. When Ryan threw Tessa in the air and she screamed with delight, I saw Ryan's eyes shine. When Tessa and I snuggled in a warm towel during a pool break, I saw my parents relax with relief. When I kissed my husband in the pool, our daughter between us, I knew that we were going to be okay. People can stare, but my daughter was laughing, my husband hugged me, my parents smiled, and the water felt good on my skin. It was a good day to swim.

Yes, I'm insane. But I'll take the insanity over the all too real world of cancer and its treatment. If it takes insanity to make it through this mess, then sign me up. I've decided to be insane.

Love to all,
Kristina

PS My husband is incredible. Ryan, I love you! Thank you for making me believe that really, it's not a big deal to you to have a bald wife, and that you find me lovely with or without hair. Your love and support is a precious gift, and I love you for it. Thank you.