Old Me Vs. New Me

December 15, 2010

My post-chemo days (12/10-12/12) were pleasantly uneventful. The heavy doses of anti-nausea medicine lived up to their task; it was truly only fatigue that finally got the better of me as the weekend progressed. On Friday I almost felt completely normal; by Saturday, however, the fatigue, bone achiness, and general malaise set in, and I spent most of the day dozing, sleeping sufficiently though that Pete and I were able to make it to friends' Christmas party that evening (a wonderful, albeit brief, night out); Sunday was spent much like Saturday, laid up on the couch recovering from the 2-hour outing the night before. (The Old Me would be mortified to think there'd come a day when I wouldn't be able to go the distance socially; the New Me was just thrilled to make it out of the house.) The frosty weather gave us plenty of incentive to stay indoors, keep a raging fire going in the fireplace, read, and watch endless football, in itself a sure-fire sedative guaranteeing even more sleep. We did manage to carve out time to hunt for the perfect Christmas tree. Zick's Nursery, down the road from us, had some beautiful Fraser firs for $135. ... The search continues.

But what really set me back over the weekend was not the anticipation of nausea, fatigue, or achiness but rather my newly bald head. Pete gave me the final electric razor shave on Friday; I nixed him using a real razor and shaving cream, figuring that what little remained on my scalp would be barely noticeable when it falls out; I have trust issues when anyone comes at me with a razor blade, particularly my scalp. This "party" wasn't as much fun as the first and a little more disturbing. Sitting at the kitchen table, I briefly glimpsed a fuzzy reflection of the New Me in the sliding glass door, and I didn't like what I saw. And it wasn't merely an issue of vanity. Up until then, I saw my ovarian cancer as less of a personal disease and more as just another of life's hurdles; I'm used to those and can handle them. Up until then, I saw myself as being in control, doing what I had to do to ensure the best health outcome, tackling surgery, working toward healing, essentially just making it through another of life's trouble spots. My bald head, though, spoke otherwise. It physically stripped me. In a very tangible way, it defined me as a cancer patient, something I never really acknowledged deep down inside. And it reminded me that I do have an adversary, that there is a battle going on. I wasn't prepared for the impact, and the image left me feeling a little defeated. Having long appreciated denial as a useful coping strategy under the right circumstances, I now avoid mirrors like the plague (or, more relevantly, like a toddler with a runny nose and sticky fingers) or make sure my head is always covered, even if only with a dish towel. I leave hats at strategic points thoughout house for easy access (and as long as Ziggy the Dog Who Eats Everything doesn't get to them before I do, I'm in good shape). This way I get to fight the fight without allowing the fallout of cancer to suck me into defeatism.

My doctor tells me that my hair should start to grow back in by next March or April. Always encouraging, she also revealed that for many women their hair grows in differently post-chemo. When all is said and done, if God has an ounce of compassion left over, He'll rebirth the New Me as a natural brunette. Not only do I have little tolerance for baldness but I can also do without the graying of Old Me, so clearly evident in the Buzz Cut I photo. Again, denial as a method of coping, in this case in the form of hair coloring, comes in very handy; all these years I had no idea I had so much gray. When the hell did that happen? Short of being reborn as a flawless brunette, however, maybe the New Me can hope for some natural curls.