The thing that one associates most with chemotherapy is the loss of locks. When the doc initially told me I had cancer, and that they were going to treat it with chemo, I was shocked, but of all the hundreds of questions I needed to ask, the one that got to my smacked gob the fastest was “Will I lose my hair?” My first tears from this situation came as she replied: “Oh yes”.
Since that day, I have been
braced for baldness. I scoured the internet for information and evidence
because I wanted to know for sure if I was destined to share hairstyles with
Roger or not. (Uncertainty is one of the worst things in life. Something is in
control and it ain’t you.) The general consensus was that with ABVD comes hair
loss. Mostly a thinning, but sometimes a total boiled-egg look, with eyebrows
and eyelashes to match. One or two have commented that I might be lucky and
escape this side effect, as some people do, so I decided to hold out for as
long as possible. No point in putting myself through the pain of getting it cut
if it wasn’t going anywhere in the first place, right?
Yes, pain. I’ve often
had nightmares where I’d had an inadvertent trim, only to wake up and touch my
locks, relieved that we were still attached to each other. At times, it has
seemed that the loss of my hair has been more upsetting than the actually
illness. If you have waist-length, curly hair too, that you have spent the best
part of a decade cultivating, you might understand that. So yes, I made a fuss.
The hair falls out because
the stuff they stick into you is meant to kill off rapidly-growing cells i.e.
the cancer. Unfortunately this includes some healthy cells in your bod, like
blood cells (hence the low immune system); cells in the mouth (hence my sore
gob) and cells in your hair follicles. Ahhhh! I had read that it is possible to
wear a “cold cap” during treatment that restricts the flow of blood to the
bonce, and thus the amount of Stuff that gets to it. I spent some time debating
over whether or not to have one (I don’t think it would be very comfortable
during an already vile process for starters). It was a decision I didn’t have
to make – cold caps are not offered where I receive treatment.
Almost every morning since
the first load of toxic chemicals sloshed around my veins, I’ve been going
through the same routine: Brush hair, inspect hairbrush. Wash hair in shower,
inspect shower drain. Dry hair, apply product, count hairs that come out.
Everybody loses hair regularly, at about the same rate. Those of the
close-cropped persuasion won’t notice, but when the individual strands are up
to two feet in length, just the one coming out announces itself like a reality
TV star launching their autobiography. Using the same simile, it gets EVERYWHERE
and is just as annoying: over clothes (mine and other peoples’), car seats,
cushions, and forming a mysterious web over carpets when I’m vacuuming, which
always needs to be pulled off the pile and forced down the Dyson. Just a couple
of strands and the shower floor fills with water until they’re removed from the
metal strainer thing (installed to stop my hair going down the plughole and
clogging it up in a tangled mass of fibrous protein and gunge. Blee!)
Anyhow, before all this
Hodgkin hoo-ha, I was always dismayed at how much bonce-coverage came out on a
daily basis, which is why I washed my hair every other day, and sometimes with
all-in-one shampoo and no product. The point is, I knew the background levels
to expect. That was all I got. In fact less than usual – almost as if my
follicles were using their last ounces of strength to cling on with all their
might. After two weeks, nothing had budged and I was beginning to think that
maybe, just maybe, I would be one of the chosen ones.
So we get to the Monday
after my second chemo session, and thus the third week from the start of
treatment, which (as a lot of the internet blurb declared) was when this side
effect starts to rear its shiny head. I brushed and inspected – was that more
than usual? I washed and noticed that I was able to pull the odd strand
straight off my head. Everything I pulled out I stuck to the shower tiles. By
the time I had applied my product, I had quite a cluster of hairs, and I went
loopy. B-day was imminent and now a reality.
Part one of my plan was to
wait until it started to fall and then get it cut. I had almost been willing
this to happen, because I was getting tired of hanging around, and now here it
was, in mousy and gold (with the odd fleck of grey) on my hairbrush – I was for
the chop. When I finally calmed down, I treated my barnet as usual, but with
the extra love that you do when you think you are doing something for the last
time. I scraped it up into a ponytail for it to dry and curl, then shook it loose
to dry off completely. I would see if it continued to come out, then book
appointments accordingly. A doom-and-gloom Facebook status was posted, that
no-one could like, followed by a miserable text to family and friends, and
blubbing down the phone to Roger. Of course, it was a false alarm. Storm in an
AA-cup.
T Shirt by http://theartofindigo.com/#/t-shirts/, photography by Rachel, stuped closed eyes by Lizzie |
The week was a rollercoaster
of energy and fatigue. I felt so incredibly well on Thursday, I could have done
ANYTHING. I spent lunchtime on the web, looking for mountains that hadn’t yet
been climbed, oceans that hadn’t been rowed across – I could do them all. I got
tonnes of compiling done, and lots of fiddly jobs that I’d been postponing. I
even got back into home cooking, and produced some beautifully healthy dishes,
the likes of which we hadn’t seen since before I took up with the pantomime.
Wonderful.
After that, there wasn’t
much wind left for my Friday sails. Typically this was the day I had to
go out, all the way to S’mead for my second pre-chemo assessment and blood
extraction. Shower first, so I unplaited my braid and brushed. Woah –
definitely more than the background.
More on my brush than there is on Roger's head altogether! |
The same went for the shower, and it kept
coming. When a veritable handful came out at once while I was applying my curl
cream (for handful, read 3 strands), I knew it was poo or get off the pot time.
After Monday’s drama, I was a lot calmer and more pragmatic. My ponytail done,
I toddled off to Tesco, and noticed that my bunch was looking a bit scrawny
anyway. Let’s face it, this day was going to come, cancer or not. When I got to
the hospital, I had made the decision: I was going to – and this is no cheap
innuendo – going to have it off.
Nearly 24 inches from root to tip, I'll have you know. |
The appointment was made for
6pm. I told them what they were to be doing and braced
for, then brushed off, the all-too-familiar gust of sympathy that comes with my
news. (Digression: It’s a tricky one. I want to be frank about things - that’s
the best way forward in life - but I still wince a bit at the initial
reactions. I don’t feel like I deserve sympathy, but on the few times when it
has been scarce, I miss it! There’s a
brilliant male/female divide on this too. Ladies are wordy; chaps suddenly clam
up even more tightly than usual. I’ll take whatever comes because as far as I’m
concerned, we all deal with things in our own way.) After that, I knew I only
had a few hours left of enjoying my hair, so I untied the ponytail and let it
cascade around down my back for the last time. Of course, it looked extra
pretty, didn’t it? It trickled and shone and whispered in husky tones “What’s
all this about cutting me off? You know you want to keep me. Look what I do for
you…”
"Please don't cut me!" |
I decided that I would get
that McDonald’s I had been promising myself, to pick me up. It was a massive
calorie-laden anti climax, and I think I may have enjoyed eating the packaging
slightly more than the burger. Except the onion rings, they were yummy. Don’t
get me wrong – I love a McD’s, but my heart wasn’t in it. As I stood in line in
a packed restaurant, the door was wedged open by several of the hundreds of
students whose lunchtime it was, and my locks blew into my face in a really
irritating way. When I was sitting in my car chowing down, I kept munching on
fluffy hair. And when I examined my coat on returning home, it was coated in
strands that had been on my head just a few hours earlier. Definitely the right
decision
I tried to focus on this but
it didn’t ease the pain of the impending barnet bereavement much. After a
couple of hours of duvet time and a spot more blubbing, I arrived at the executioner’s,
er, salon, clutching my camera, my wallet, and my lovely friend Rachel, who had
driven all the way down from Stroud just to hold my hand. What she ended up
holding was the camera, to document the denouement of this sorry tale.
For old
time’s sake I dragged a brush through once more, my earlier activities having
left several knots that it took ages to attack. The hairbrush was really loaded
when I finished which helped to remind me that this was For The Best. A bit of
contortion to make my final braid, and I was ready. Kerri the Stylist took her
scissors, and with a few snips my relationship with my favourite feature was
over.
Going... |
Going... |
Gone! *sob* |
I felt the weight of the
hair go, and leave a cold spot on the back of my neck. As expected, I shed a
few tears, from the shock and enormity of it all - not the cancer, but the
enforced change of style. (My sense of perspective is delightfully askew
today!) I asked to hold the plait in my hands like someone asks to hold their
newborn. It was much heavier and longer than I’d thought it would be, but it
was utterly dead, like I was holding my own corpse. It rested on the shelf in
front of me as Kerri busied herself with tidying up, Rachel snapped away, and I
tried to hold it together. Thanks to all the supportive texts and messages, the
support right there in that salon, and one very special piece of information
(keep reading), it was much easier than I’d ever thought it could be.
20 inches, weighing in at a mere 83g |
What the stylist was
creating was almost exactly what Thoroughly Modern Millie would be sporting for
about nine tenths of the show. I rolled my eyes to the God of Irony and
remembered a snippet of conversation between Wendy (DODS costumes) and me when
I was first cast, back in blissfully unaware November:
“Lizzie,
what are we going to do with your hair?”
“Well
I shan’t be cutting it, that’s for sure”
*guffaws
of laughter*
Tch.
Kerri was very kind and
dried my shorn locks into some style that I wouldn’t have picked for myself
EVER. I completely trusted her judgement, and I have to say it didn’t look half
bad. A change is as good as a rest. Welcome to the 21st century,
Lizzie’s hair! Rachel then produced a gift of dangly earrings and my new look
was complete. I left the salon with my lighter head held as high as I could
manage, without giving my newly-exposed neck too much of a battle with the
elements.
21st Century Girl |
Roger is very taken by the
new ‘do, and keeps giving me the fruity eye, so something else positive arises
from this malarkey. For him, it’s probably like he’s got a new girlfriend, or
at least an improved old one!
As for me, I had a troubled
night. The number of times I rolled over and automatically went to lift my hair
high onto the pillow so it wouldn’t be in Rog’s face…then realised there was
nothing to lift. This morning’s shower was the hardest. I managed to remember
to use less shampoo etc, but I still rinsed it for the same length of time, and
it was very hard to squeeze the water out. I used to hold my tresses with both
hands and wring them dry. I already miss that. Sure it took less than a quarter
of the time, and I wasn’t entombed in soggy hanks as I stepped out, but on the
downside it looks like I might need to attend to it with a hair dryer or
straighteners, as it’s looking a bit moppy today. I keep running my hands
through it in disbelief, especially the very back, which is only slightly
longer than my bloke’s.
No matter: Firstly, it might
not be for long as it’s still falling out, though it’s harder to tell. Phase
two of my plan involves electric clippers, a kitchen chair and The Rog getting
his revenge. And secondly – if I even dare to start to feel sorry for myself, I
just use the one over-riding thing that helped me find the strength to do this in
the first place - knowing where my beautiful hair is going to end up.
If you find this blog brought a lump to your eye and a tear to your throat, you too can make a donation to The Little Princess Trust: http://www.littleprincesses.org.uk/Donate/Default.aspx - money rather than hair, unless you can spare more than 7 inches of it...
Hi Lizzie
ReplyDeleteJust to say thinking of you and you are fab at writing a blog!
A cracking read gromit! You are Awesome and.... cute. xxxx
ReplyDeleteHi Lizzie - u hav great skills of writing and great strength of character - keep positive and remember keep kicking it's arse - right out of u!!! Sending u love light and healing energy - will donate too x
ReplyDelete