My New Cancer Chic: Adjusting to the "Sick" Look

First, I'd like to thank all of the new visitors who've popped by this blog recently. Thank you for your kind words and your encouragement! While my introverted self is ordinarily averse to unexpected house guests ("Behind the sofa. Quick!"), this blog is an exception.

"Introverts Unite!" (CC BY-ND 2.0) by JoeInSouthernCA

As Susan Cain (author of Quiet and co-founder of the Quiet Revolution) points out: introverts love to communicate via social media. And as my husband points out: my fanaticism for Cain borders on kooky-dooks. I have no defense. She speaks to my soul. Any fellow introverts in the house? Get yourself a copy of Quiet, please do. Every page will have you fist-pumping in elated self-validation.

Since I grumbled about them ad nauseum in my last post, it gives me great pleasure to announce: I am now footloose and drain-free! I've also given the heave-ho to my restrictive, dowdy surgical bra so I can finally resume wearing normal-people clothes. Big strides, folks. Aside from the sliver of gauze peeping out of my tank top straps, the average Joe could never detect I'd just had a mastectomy. 

It's possible I'm making too much of something that's based solely on comfort and vanity. We are, after all, talking about a disease that claims more than 40,000 lives in the U.S. each year. That is a staggering figure. And yet, the topic of physical appearance occupies a significant chunk of real estate in the breast cancer blogosphere. (Is that an actual term people use? It sounds smart-ish.)

In the spirit of full disclosure, I feel like a total hack for making my looks the star of this post. I understand that maintaining a positive self-image is a real and serious issue for cancer patients, but it's a conversation that's been had to death elsewhere on the internet. Nevertheless, here I am. 

I am not exaggerating when I say that most of the breast cancer literature I received throughout this whole ordeal featured some version of a "Top 10 Ways to Look your Best During Chemo." Everywhere I turned there were makeup tutorials, skincare regimens, hair-loss grief groups (well, I'm sure they exist somewhere.)

"This headband makes me look less bald, right?"

When I found out that chemo was on the horizon, hair loss was always the first side effect brought up by my doctors. Oh sure, they told me about the crushing fatigue that was coming and the fact that my ovaries would most likely go on permanent strike. But first, it was always: "You WILL lose your hair." I got the vibe that I was expected to tearfully grieve my doomed noggin while browsing the wig and hat pamphlets they had so helpfully placed in my care-plan folder.

Let me be clear: I am NOT above caring about my appearance. I care. I care a lot, in fact. I am only observing how inflated the subject seems to be within the breast cancer community. There was no wig and hat pamphlet in Paul's care-plan folder. And, truly, Paul's potential baldness would have been a far greater loss to the world than my own. I mean, have you seen my husband's pre-cancer curls?! Let's just say Ingrid has her father to thank for her voluminous corkscrews.

Come to think of it, I'm almost positive Paul's doctors never even mentioned hair loss when discussing chemotherapy. They were concerned with other things. Like shrinking tumors.

Matching His-and-Her Hairstyles

Of course, I am mostly just kidding around here. It's only natural that a predominantly (but NOT completely) female disease would be handled this way. Generally speaking, more women than men are going to be distressed by hair loss, scaly skin, and yellowed fingernails. I don't think that a patient's body image during cancer treatment is something to dismiss as irrelevant or unimportant. Even so, focusing on the exterior only further trivializes a disease that is already regarded by way too many people as "the easy type of cancer."

As for myself, I can tell you: there were tears shed when Paul shaved my thinning hair several months ago. I didn't hate the way I looked without hair. What I hated was LOOKING LIKE I HAD CANCER. 

For the first few rounds of chemo, I managed to still look like me. More importantly, I still felt like me. But as the drugs started to take their toll, things changed. It's weird, but I distinctly remember the first time I looked in the mirror and saw someone I did not recognize. Call me dramatic, vain, whatever. I could not stop staring at my reflection. I was spooked. When did this happen?! Physically, I didn't feel like a cancer patient. I felt like Liz Coleman, living my Liz Coleman life.

But my face betrayed me. Regardless of how I felt, there was no mistaking - I looked like a cancer patient. Makeup-free, with a few stray strands of hair shooting out of my scalp, I looked sick. Exhausted. Not normal, everyday mom-exhausted. Cancer-exhausted. It took some getting used to. 

What also took getting used to was looking like a cancer patient in public. As I've already made known, I am as introverted as they come. I do NOT enjoy drawing attention to myself. I go to great lengths to remain invisible when we go out, a virtually impossible task with a rambunctious toddler in tow whose top priority is to be seen (and heard) by everyone. Braving Wegmans for the first time sans-eyebrows was stupidly unnerving. I've also learned the hard way that wearing a headscarf in public is tantamount to wearing a sign around your neck that reads in bold letters: YES I AM SICK. PLEASE COME TALK TO ME. My own personal version of hell.

Poor Shark Girl's perplexing look resonates with me and my goofy bunch

Though it hardly phases me anymore, I used to be cringingly aware of how much we stuck out. A loud toddler, a bald chick, and a young guy wearing thigh-high support stockings with sandals are bound to turn some heads. Though, really, I should be used to this since Paul's signature look pairs tie-dye tees with vibrant plaid shorts. When first dating, one of his sisters asked point-blank: "Aren't you embarrassed to be seen in public with him??" Embarrassed I was not. Inexplicably proud was more like it. Young love. 

10 years, a baby, 16 rounds of chemo, and one bi-lateral mastectomy later, I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my bra and underpants, looking not unlike a cast member of The Walking Dead - skinny, buzz cut, zero makeup, deep undereye circles, the pink scar from my mediport hinting at where I've been. I am positively gritty. 

But I feel like me. And It didn't take some glossy leaflet on self-care to get me here.

Just my equally oddball spouse. That and the natural passage of time.