Hello friends,
In the past couple days it's become clear to me that I've hit a certain (unwelcome) cancer milestone: I'm losing my hair. Right now it's just shedding like crazy. (If I had a contest with my cat--who's losing his hair for summer right now--I would still totally win!) I don't know why, given that it's a primary side effect of this drug (90% of people lose their hair), but I'm somehow still surprised. I think I felt that, having been in in an improbable, tiny percentage on most other things related to this disease I might at least have the chance to be in the special 10% on something positive. Not so!
Perhaps I'm also surprised, though, because my other symptoms haven't been very bad...so much so that (as I wrote about before) I'm in a constant anxiety spiral about whether something physical is a sign or symptom and, if so, whether it means the treatment is working or not. Hair falling out is unquestionably a sign that the chemo is doing something--that it's doing precisely what it's supposed to, in fact, and targeting fast-growing cells of all types. So, yes, in that sense I want to lose my hair. Right when I was first diagnosed I wanted them to hit me with everything all at once: chemo, surgery, radiation - I wanted to be assaulted by every weapon the medical profession had to wield against cancer and I didn't care what I looked like or how I suffered. I wanted to enter treatment as a warrior and I wanted to look like one, shaved head and all.
Somehow, though, I lost that attitude. It's not that I don't want to fight, but that the stance of being a warrior all the time is exhausting. There's a lot that's less than ideal about using the language of conflict and battle (and implicitly of winning and losing) to talk about something that you don't have any control over. If this chemo agent doesn't kill enough cells (as my pessimistic side believes it won't) it won't be because I did or didn't do anything. If it does work, it's only my victory in the sense that it's good luck for me. My body isn't the warrior so much as a field on which battles are waged on a cellular level. And my mind has nothing to do with the success--or not--of these conflicts. Fundamentally, I have no control. And that's the hardest thing for me about losing my hair.
The loss of bodily autonomy involved in having cancer is huge. Not only does it feel like it's something personal, since it's your own cells (sometimes directed by your own DNA) that have betrayed you, but it's also something you can't fix; you can't do anything to change the outcome of your treatment. You can change the treatment itself (different chemo agents, additional drugs, supplementary radiation), but you can't train for it the way you train for a marathon, where your own commitment to training can pretty much guarantee you steady progress and a positive result. You can supplement your own treatment with things (vitamins, injections, crystals, chocolate) that you believe may help. You can train yourself in healthy ways to respond emotionally. (I was already in therapy but everyone involved with cancer treatment should be.) You can go to the gym and keep your body "otherwise healthy"--a phrase that my doctors said to and about me repeatedly during the diagnosis phase and that I never stopped finding funny...being perfectly healthy EXCEPT for Stage 4 cancer is something of a cosmic joke. (I know that they meant that, unlike many of their patients, I could endure the treatments very well and with minimal complications. That IS a good thing. But still...)
You cannot train for cancer treatment. It's a battle, but one you must enter alone, untrained, and unarmed. Fundamentally, you have only yourself. And that must be enough. (I don't mean to dismiss the wonderful community of friends and family here; you all give me the strength to fight this fight. You just can't go with me.) There's an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a show which I love and which has meant a lot to me at different times in my life, where Buffy must fight her vampire ex-boyfriend Angel (who SPOILERS used to be a good guy because he was cursed with a soul but he lost it because he experienced true happiness with her) who has been systematically finding the best ways to hurt her, psychologically, before killing her. In this final battle, he backs her against a wall, sword pointed at her and says, "So that's everything. No weapons. No friends. No hope. Take all that away and what's left?" to which she replies, while grabbing his sword midair with her bare hands, "Me.":
In the past couple days it's become clear to me that I've hit a certain (unwelcome) cancer milestone: I'm losing my hair. Right now it's just shedding like crazy. (If I had a contest with my cat--who's losing his hair for summer right now--I would still totally win!) I don't know why, given that it's a primary side effect of this drug (90% of people lose their hair), but I'm somehow still surprised. I think I felt that, having been in in an improbable, tiny percentage on most other things related to this disease I might at least have the chance to be in the special 10% on something positive. Not so!
Perhaps I'm also surprised, though, because my other symptoms haven't been very bad...so much so that (as I wrote about before) I'm in a constant anxiety spiral about whether something physical is a sign or symptom and, if so, whether it means the treatment is working or not. Hair falling out is unquestionably a sign that the chemo is doing something--that it's doing precisely what it's supposed to, in fact, and targeting fast-growing cells of all types. So, yes, in that sense I want to lose my hair. Right when I was first diagnosed I wanted them to hit me with everything all at once: chemo, surgery, radiation - I wanted to be assaulted by every weapon the medical profession had to wield against cancer and I didn't care what I looked like or how I suffered. I wanted to enter treatment as a warrior and I wanted to look like one, shaved head and all.
Somehow, though, I lost that attitude. It's not that I don't want to fight, but that the stance of being a warrior all the time is exhausting. There's a lot that's less than ideal about using the language of conflict and battle (and implicitly of winning and losing) to talk about something that you don't have any control over. If this chemo agent doesn't kill enough cells (as my pessimistic side believes it won't) it won't be because I did or didn't do anything. If it does work, it's only my victory in the sense that it's good luck for me. My body isn't the warrior so much as a field on which battles are waged on a cellular level. And my mind has nothing to do with the success--or not--of these conflicts. Fundamentally, I have no control. And that's the hardest thing for me about losing my hair.
The loss of bodily autonomy involved in having cancer is huge. Not only does it feel like it's something personal, since it's your own cells (sometimes directed by your own DNA) that have betrayed you, but it's also something you can't fix; you can't do anything to change the outcome of your treatment. You can change the treatment itself (different chemo agents, additional drugs, supplementary radiation), but you can't train for it the way you train for a marathon, where your own commitment to training can pretty much guarantee you steady progress and a positive result. You can supplement your own treatment with things (vitamins, injections, crystals, chocolate) that you believe may help. You can train yourself in healthy ways to respond emotionally. (I was already in therapy but everyone involved with cancer treatment should be.) You can go to the gym and keep your body "otherwise healthy"--a phrase that my doctors said to and about me repeatedly during the diagnosis phase and that I never stopped finding funny...being perfectly healthy EXCEPT for Stage 4 cancer is something of a cosmic joke. (I know that they meant that, unlike many of their patients, I could endure the treatments very well and with minimal complications. That IS a good thing. But still...)
You cannot train for cancer treatment. It's a battle, but one you must enter alone, untrained, and unarmed. Fundamentally, you have only yourself. And that must be enough. (I don't mean to dismiss the wonderful community of friends and family here; you all give me the strength to fight this fight. You just can't go with me.) There's an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a show which I love and which has meant a lot to me at different times in my life, where Buffy must fight her vampire ex-boyfriend Angel (who SPOILERS used to be a good guy because he was cursed with a soul but he lost it because he experienced true happiness with her) who has been systematically finding the best ways to hurt her, psychologically, before killing her. In this final battle, he backs her against a wall, sword pointed at her and says, "So that's everything. No weapons. No friends. No hope. Take all that away and what's left?" to which she replies, while grabbing his sword midair with her bare hands, "Me.":
(Gif source: x)
If you want it, here's a clip on YouTube (this exchange is about a minute in). That moment has been my inspiration from the first moment of diagnosis. I had already used it to get through my divorce when I felt I had lost everything. I hadn't, though, because I was still me, with a core resilience and self-confidence and the righteous strength that enabled me to keep going, to thrive. It is grossly unfair that, less than a year later, I need to draw on that same energy again, but that is how battles work. We survive to fight another day. No weapons. No friends. No hope. Take all that away and what's left? Me.
I know I've just employed the rhetoric of battle immediately after saying it's not ideal. It's not. I'm a peacetime creature, really, as are most of us. But I won't back down from a fight or sidestep necessary conflict either. And being a warrior is not the same as being embroiled in constant battle. Even Achilles put down his shield and wept in Priam's tent. In fact, this blog title is "Pitiless Achilles Wept" for this reason. You can read here about why I called it that, but here's the most important part that I wrote about the scene where Achilles and Priam cry together:
"They speak the universal language of human beings here: grief. They weep as fathers and sons and lovers because that’s honestly the only constant in our small human lives. So here I am, recording my grief, with the hope that at least, by being together, we can get through the evil I have to endure. I actually thought that the blog title was a quotation–and a beautiful line of poetry–but nowhere can I find a translation that reads, 'Pitiless Achilles wept.' But I still cannot think of a line that feels more appropriate to record the thoughts of someone who has to be both a warrior (brave, fierce, pitiless) and a frightened, vulnerable person."
Tonight I am that frightened and vulnerable person, furious that (without my permission) my body is shedding the hair that I have always loved and scared at how it will change my experience of being in the world. When I got my hair cut two weeks ago it showed no signs of giving up the ghost. My stylist tugged on it and pronounced that "you have really strong hair!" and I allowed myself to think that, somehow, that would protect me. Ah yes, I thought, my hair is strong like all the rest of me; it will endure.
Losing it therefore feels symbolic on a number of levels. I know that it doesn't make me weak, but it does make me vulnerable. How can I be so exposed, without any hair to duck under when I feel anxious? How will I get through the day without being able to run my hands through my hair (a nervous tic that is a self-soothing gesture...and currently hastening my hair loss)? How will I cope with being no longer regarded as immediately aesthetically pleasing (from my privileged position as someone who ticks many of the stereotypical boxes for attractiveness) by people who don't know me? (I did not realize how much I relied on this to navigate the world but it has certainly been made visible to me now. Perhaps this warrants another post later.)
Losing my hair is a good sign. We all want chemo to be as effective as possible so the more fast-growing cells we see being targeted the better. But as it marks me, visibly, as "sick" it robs me of the opportunity to choose whether to tell people or not--yet another loss of autonomy. I do have a wig that looks as much as possible like my regular hair. (I don't love everything about it but unless you have one custom-made you're not likely to find anything that looks precisely like you do.) This should enable me to pass as healthy, barring other obvious symptoms. But I imagine I might be the kind of person who would rather go bald (or at least with a 1930s Norma Desmond head wrap) as a way of owning my illness, taking back some of what it has stolen. I might rather this say, "Yes, this illness is a part of me now--even if it's not pretty. That's what a warrior looks like." No weapons. No friends. No...hair. Take all that away and what's left?
Losing it therefore feels symbolic on a number of levels. I know that it doesn't make me weak, but it does make me vulnerable. How can I be so exposed, without any hair to duck under when I feel anxious? How will I get through the day without being able to run my hands through my hair (a nervous tic that is a self-soothing gesture...and currently hastening my hair loss)? How will I cope with being no longer regarded as immediately aesthetically pleasing (from my privileged position as someone who ticks many of the stereotypical boxes for attractiveness) by people who don't know me? (I did not realize how much I relied on this to navigate the world but it has certainly been made visible to me now. Perhaps this warrants another post later.)
Losing my hair is a good sign. We all want chemo to be as effective as possible so the more fast-growing cells we see being targeted the better. But as it marks me, visibly, as "sick" it robs me of the opportunity to choose whether to tell people or not--yet another loss of autonomy. I do have a wig that looks as much as possible like my regular hair. (I don't love everything about it but unless you have one custom-made you're not likely to find anything that looks precisely like you do.) This should enable me to pass as healthy, barring other obvious symptoms. But I imagine I might be the kind of person who would rather go bald (or at least with a 1930s Norma Desmond head wrap) as a way of owning my illness, taking back some of what it has stolen. I might rather this say, "Yes, this illness is a part of me now--even if it's not pretty. That's what a warrior looks like." No weapons. No friends. No...hair. Take all that away and what's left?
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