Going Bald I

The first time I was in cancer treatment, back in 1998-1999, I wrote a weekly series called “Jeanne’s Diary” that was originally published on the OnHealth Web site. (It is now on this blog, see Jeanne’s Diary.)

So I have a detailed account of what I thought and felt while going through treatment. A bit too detailed, I sometimes think now. I documented every twitch and sneeze.

It is interesting for me to reread chapters of my diary, because some of the things that were huge issues for me then are non-events now. Losing a breast was one of those issues. Going bald was another.

When I was first diagnosed, I was even more upset about being bald than I was about my mastectomy—at least, that’s what I wrote at the time. I saw a bald head as “a billboard that shouts ‘I have cancer,’” which, of course, is true.

The first time I had chemo, I had Adriamycin (generic: doxorubicin) by IV once a week for 12 weeks. I knew before I started that I would lose my hair, so I went to SuperCuts the week before my first treatment to chop off the chin-length bob I’d worn for years.

At the time of my first treatment, my nurse discussed the side effects with me in detail. These included hair loss: eyebrows, eyelashes, body hair, all of it. (Also pink tears and orange urine.)

I don’t remember losing my eyebrows and eyelashes, but I suppose I did.

Doctors and nurses know a lot about chemo and hair loss. They know enough to predict exactly when your hair is going to fall out. With doxorubicin, I was told, my hair would fall out between treatments three and four.

So after Treatment 3, I went home and buzz-cut my already short hair. I took it from 3 inches down to about a half-inch. I wrote: “It looks pretty good—sort of a Joan of Arc look—except for the back, which is hard to cut evenly over my shoulder.” When I read that now, I catch the whistling-in-the-dark tone: I wish I had the strength of Joan of Arc.

Then, two days before my fourth chemo, I had a meltdown in the shower:

I'm in the shower on Wednesday morning, two days before my fourth chemo treatment. I tug gently on my pubic hair, and clumps come away in my fingers. Now I'm afraid to shampoo my head--I have a couple of appointments that afternoon, and I'd like to have hair for them.

I stand there, wondering whether I dare get my head wet.

Then I realize that my period has started. It's probably the last period I will ever have--chemo makes you sterile and pushes you into early menopause. [This turned out not to be true. My period started and stopped over and over again for years as I went in and out of treatment.] It's one of the things that really upset me when I learned about it. I had always hoped to have one more child.

I'm a mess. But I have to get out of the shower, I guess, so I wash my hair and comb it gingerly. I decide to skip the hair dryer. So far, so good: I still have a full head of hair. I decide a little hair gel won't hurt anything, and dab some on.

Somewhere in one of the books and pamphlets I have on breast cancer is the suggestion that women keep a plastic container in the shower to collect their hair as it starts to fall out. ‘Hair loss is upsetting,’ the book says--that's an understatement. How much money and time do women (and men, for that matter) spend on their hair? Shampoos, special treatments, hairdressers, perms, color, transplants for pattern baldness. We like hair.

Eight days after my body hair began to fall out (yes, I counted), the hair on my head started to go. A gentle tug was all it took, or no tug at all. It didn't fall out in clumps, as I thought it would, but rather a strand at a time, like a dog shedding in spring.

My doctor said it would take a week or two for it all to fall out. This surprised me: I thought it would all go at once. He said it would start growing back as soon as the chemo stops, or possibly sooner. I still don't know how this can be. The hair falls out because chemo kills fast-growing cells, including cancer cells and hair cells. But, in fact, my hair did start growing again while I was still on chemo.

The falling hair was really upsetting. I needed to cry, but I couldn’t. I could feel the tears, right there, but they wouldn't come. Did I feel sorry for myself? You bet.

In the days that followed, hair clogged the drain in the shower, gummed up the soap, and scattered across my pillow. I would run my hand across my head, and a light shower of hair would follow.

Once it was finally all gone, it was a relief, in a way.

I had decided against the expense and hassle of a wig, and I wore hats. See Preparing for a Bald Head for more on that.

@ Jeanne Sather 2007.

Comments

[jessica]

these photos you've added are beautiful, jeanne. they add an entirely different dimension to your words and your blog in general. what a doll, that little guy...more, more!

[debutaunt]

Losing my hair wasn't as bad as losing my eyebrows and lashes. That's when I thought I looked most like a cancer patient.

Now I'm back with the ballcaps as it is starting to look like Lyle Lovett every morning.