It happened in the Auckland hospital parking garage. I had
an early appointment and we went to the hospital on Alex’s motorcycle to beat
the traffic. It was my first time on the bike since our New Plymouth trip. In
the car park I took off my helmet and the wig came off with it. It was like
being in the ladies changing room and forgetting to lock the door. I stood
there dumbfounded. A man sitting in his parked car was facing us. Then I
completely freaked out. Hyperventilating, I hid under the concrete ramp that
went to the next car park level. I tried to put the wig back on but couldn’t
figure out which way it went. I turned it around and around hopping from foot
to foot, humiliated that the world was witnessing my unveiling. Alex took my
arm in his hand, probably to stop me hitting my head on the concrete, but that
was it. I pulled my arm away and punched him in the chest. I was hysterical. I
finally got the wig on my head and calmed down a little. I walked back over to
the motorbike and looked in the wing mirror to make some adjustments. It was
totally irrational but when that wig came off it was as if it uncapped a well.
My dignity, my self-respect and my anonymity as a normal person went rushing
out. I was a spectacle. A sick, pathetic spectacle and it tore a piece of my
heart out.
After that
doctor’s visit, I went back to the woolly hat. It was like coming home. It was
comfortable. It didn’t fall off, shift backwards or need styling. I decided I
just wouldn’t go anywhere that required me to wear the wig. I could live like
that.
At the same time I started thinking how ironic this loss of hair was. I had always gone
out of my way in life to avoid embarrassment. I hated being the butt of any
joke. Now fate had kicked me in the ass. I taunted the big giant foot by
spending a lifetime pretending humiliating things only happened to other
people. No wonder I was getting it thrown back at me times ten.
During the next
two months I bucked up my courage and made peace with the wig. I got better at
fitting it to my head and walking in it confidently. I used the knitted hat at
home and the wig when I went out. My head still had a light layer
of hair attached, but the strands were virtually see-through. Some of the hair
kept growing so I had a weird combination of shiny skin,
short strands and very long thin threads. At this stage I still had eyebrows,
eyelashes and pubic hair. But it was time for another heavy dose of
chemotherapy.
This time instead
of cyclophosphamide it would be a drug called melphalan. On July 12th
I was back in Auckland Hospital, a day before my stem cell transplant. I was
put in a ward with three other women for some pre-chemo fluids. The woman
opposite me had a full afro-thick head of dark brown hair. She had nausea and
diarrhoea and her hair had begun to fall out in large clumps. She complained
that it had landed in her soup (it couldn’t have hurt the flavour of hospital
soup). So she asked the nurse to shave her head. The patient sat in a chair
next to her bed with a towel on the floor. The nurse began with a pair of
scissors. Since she was directly opposite me and I was stuck on an IV, I
watched the whole fascinating process. The nurse cut off the woman’s hair until it was near
her head in an uneven way, like parents do in a panic when they discover their
children have lice. Then she used a barber’s razor to shave it nearer to the
skin. The nurse complained that the razor was dull which made me cringe, but
she got the job done and in the end the patient looked like Demi Moore in GI
Jane. I was impressed by her fortitude and her seemingly cavalier or perhaps
incredibly realistic attitude to losing her hair. I had been struggling for months
to come to terms with my new look. She sat in that chair and changed into a
cancer patient in minutes, without a whimper.
Two weeks
after the second round of high dose chemo I certainly didn’t need a razor to
come near my head. I didn’t think it was possible but when I compared photos I
could see I was even balder. The little bit of hair that had remained sprinkled
over my head since May looked like a forest compared to what I had now. My eyebrows had
thinned to almost non-existence giving me a Whoopi Goldberg wide-eyed look. I
bought an eyebrow pencil so I could draw in the parts that were missing. A few
determined hairs hung on to my pubic region as if I had been given a Brazilian
by a low-budget apprentice. My leg and underarm hair had disappeared. Taking a
shower was a strange sensation. Instead of being diverted by hair, the water
falling over my bald head cascaded straight into my ears. It was like diving
into a swimming pool. On the plus side I saved money on shampoo and
conditioner. But I had to put my hat on as soon as I got out of the shower. I
never realised how cold your head could get with no hair.
As soon as
I lost my hair I wanted to know when it was going to grow back. My research
said a couple of months. But when did that couple of months begin? Would it
come back evenly or in clumps? How long would it take? What would it look like?
Would it definitely come back?
Exactly one
month after going completely bald I noticed a stiff, white chin hair. Finally I
felt like opening a bottle of champagne. I was never so happy to see something
so inordinately ugly in my life. The hair on my legs, underarms, eyebrows and
head seemed to stubbornly refuse to grow but here was a sign of life. It was
disgusting and I had to immediately pull it out with a pair of tweezers but
before I did I saluted that little hair and the strength it mustered to push
through.
On
September 7th I was sitting at the computer absent-mindedly
scratching my head when something felt different. Instead of scratching along a
squeaky, slightly waxy surface, my fingers felt something soft. It was like
touching the down of a baby chick. I ran to a big mirror and held a smaller
mirror to the back of my head. In the sunlight bouncing off the two reflections
I could see a crop of hair covering my entire head, about a millimeter in
length. It was very light in color and Alex joked that I might “return” as a
blonde bombshell. I didn’t care how I returned, as long as I returned. The new
crop of hair was like the first seedlings in a new Spring. I was a chia pet. It
was a sign of life.
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