By a Hair

One of the best hair days I’ve ever had was right before I started chemotherapy. I took a selfie. The color and cut were perfect (thank you, Colleen). The reddish tones popped against my teal dress and floral scarf. And I felt so beautiful- and so incredibly terrified- in that moment. If I can find the photo, I’ll share it in the comments. I was smiling in a way that defies all reason. I was about to enter one of the hardest seasons of my life, and I felt like a warrior and a victim all at the same time.

I had Googled way beyond what any sick person should, so I knew my hair would start falling out 10-14 days after my first chemo infusion. Just so you know, all chemo cocktails are not the same. Just as all chemo patients are not the same. Hair loss doesn’t happen to everyone. For me it was inevitable. To prepare, I bought a wig and scheduled a “Big Shave Brunch” with my daughter and beloved friends. Sure enough, about a week and a half after the initial round of chemo- as I was still trying to navigate how to work full time and raise a daughter with a body full of poison- the first clumps of hair started to fall out in the shower. The weekend after that, my stylist friend shaved what hair remained as I was lovingly surrounded by my tribe. We cried and prayed and did a photo shoot with the wig and several scarves. It was beautiful. And brutal. We made the best of the worst.

I wanted to adapt quickly to my new melon and get on with the battle at hand. I recall that there were a few patches of stubble that clung stubbornly to my head for a couple of weeks post shave. I got rid of them with a lint roller. Can you imagine? After that, I was bald for about 7 or 8 months. I learned how to maintain my wig, how to avoid wearing it in high winds (a lesson learned the hard way), how to care for my precious scalp, and how to fashion any piece of fabric into a turban. We do what we need to do.

Probably the thing that sucks the most about hair loss during chemo is you really do look the part of a cancer patient. A wig can disguise what you’re going through. But, I wasn’t a fan of wearing my wig all the time. It was hot. It was foreign. It was a lot. So, when I wore scarves or went completely Dr. Evil in public, people generally knew something was wrong with me. During my sickest days, there was no mistaking me for anything other than a cancer girl. I didn’t love that at work or during times when I wanted to appear strong. The truth is, I’ve never been so damn strong in my entire life.

The thing that does NOT suck about hair loss during chemo is that you lose ALL THE HAIR. Yes, friends… all of it. And I thoroughly enjoyed being as hairless as can be from the chin down. No razors. No wax. No tweezers. None of it. In any other context, being silky smooth would have been fantastic; something many grown women spend a fortune to achieve. But, there was truly nothing attractive about my whole situation back then. At one point, I had to wear adult diapers to work because I couldn’t make it to the office restroom in time. The unsuspecting waste bin under my desk was not built for the things I did to it. I still feel insanely grateful remembering the sweet co-worker who took me to CVS to buy new undergarments. It was early on in the fight and I didn’t know how bad it would get. She cheerfully drove me to the closest place- with the car windows ALL THE WAY DOWN in January- to purchase the most hideous and utilitarian panties you’ve ever seen. Not my sexiest era.

I once compared myself to winter trees. Like them, I had to let everything fall away and suffer a cold, harsh season to get to my new beginning. Like many of them, I survived to see the spring. Not everyone makes it out of winter quite the same, though. I’m so intensely aware of that, down to my soul. Having held my mom’s hand as she left to find her new beginning in Heaven, I knew what it looked and felt like to complete your battle before the spring comes. As her body grew cold, I trusted that she was greeted by the warmth of Jesus’ love in a place where she would never have to suffer again. Just as all cancer battles are not the same, all victories/new beginnings are not the same either.

My mom’s chemo was different than mine and she didn’t lose her hair. It became thin and tenuous, but it stayed. So did the body hair, which seemed grossly unfair. No woman with terminal cancer should have to worry about chin hair. That’s on my list of questions when I get to meet God. That, and “Why mosquitos?” and “Is Hell harsh enough for child/animal abusers?” and “Why can’t everyone just like cilantro?”

The freedom from hair was not something my mom got to experience. When she was two years into her winter and too weak to care for herself, she still worried about her appearance. I showed up daily with my tweezers, upon her request, to help her maintain the tiny bit of dignity she clung to. Later I would learn how dehumanizing and humiliating it is when your body betrays you in public or cannot perform even the most basic functions. How it feels when you’re constantly treated like a patient and not a person. How you lose that sense of agency about your life and your future when you don’t know if your new beginning will happen here or in Heaven.

It was during those very personal grooming moments that I felt like I was able to love my mom well. As strange as that might sound. Our relationship had not been an easy one prior to her diagnosis. God used her sickness to usher in so much healing for us. It wasn’t always effortless, though. Our set point had been stubbornness. Her vulnerability and fleeting time here eventually tore down the walls. I didn’t always know the right things to say. Or do. But somehow we were able to come together during those winter months and build a beautiful understanding of one another. We found our weaknesses and strengths in the same places. As my heart broke watching her suffer, it opened up to her in ways I didn’t think possible.

One time, when mom was in the hospital (toward the end of her life it happened with greater frequency), she really wanted someone to wash her hair. The nurse brought in one of those incredible shampoo caps. He started to place it on mom’s head when she stopped him and said, “No, thank you. I want my daughter to do that.” So, I did. I washed and brushed her hair as we talked and she looked out the window toward the mountains she loved. That is one of my favorite memories and one that will always live in my heart. We made the best of the worst.

Once I finished chemo, I couldn’t wait for my hair to regrow. I was a bit nervous because I knew that hair doesn’t always come back. Not for everyone. And not completely.

Every morning I would search my head for signs that the new beginning was happening. Then, I would draw on my eyebrows (they still haven’t come all the way back) and put on my makeup. Coincidentally (or not), my chemo ended in the spring. I remember loving going out into the world (even bald) without diapers and a new outlook on my precious life. I was impatient about my hair, though. I wanted to stop looking like a cancer girl.

One day, without warning, I noticed the very first new hair to emerge. Like the inaugural bud to burst forth from a stark tree. I had waited for this moment. For months. And I truly wanted to celebrate. BUUUUUUTTTTTTTT… THE HAIR WAS ON MY CHIN!

“Are you kidding me, Lord?!” I didn’t even know where my tweezers were.

It took months to have a head of hair again. Years for it to grow back to the length it was before cancer. It still isn’t quite the same- and I’ll probably have to use monoxidil till I perish- but I’m grateful for what I have. The chin hairs persist. They’re mostly gray now, but no less formidable. Sometimes I lament their presence. Until I remember what they help me to.

When I was sick and hanging by a thread- a hair, really- I thought often about my mom. I called on her strength. She was honestly the toughest warrior I’ve ever seen. When I fought to stay here for my daughter, I remembered how hard she battled to stay for hers. And I did everything I could to get to the other side of winter. Just like she did. We do what we need to do.

Mom and I were both victorious. I believe that. We both made it to our new beginning. I wish hers had commenced here with all of us who love and miss her. But I think she had to go where she could be an even more powerful wife and daughter and mother and grandmother. She had to relocate to the place where she would have a direct line to God and could love and contend for us in a supernatural and eternal way. I feel that. I feel her.

I also feel like mom has a ridiculously full head of hair now. A glorious mane. No thin patches. No gray. Just lush, gorgeous hair.

Her chin? If God is real- and I know He is- it is eternally hair free.

When I wrote that, I could feel my mom laughing. I hope she reads this on Mother’s Day, along with all of you, and feels the depth of my love for her and everything she gave me. If you’re a daughter missing her mama or a mama missing her child, today probably feels a little wintery for you. I know it does for me. But, as painful as being apart can be, I know we can all look forward to the new beginnings that await us; the ones that kick off with the most wonderful reunion we can imagine. The ones where all of our earthly battles and suffering are forgotten. The ones where all we can feel is overflowing joy and gratitude. The ones where we say, “Thank you, Lord.” Thank you.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Xoxo, B

P.S. Next Sunday marks 9 years since I had surgery and was declared NED. Thank you, Jesus!