Why

The human instinct to cry in response to overwhelming sadness is one that perplexes me a great deal. In no way does shedding salty tears reverse a tragedy, console those in distress, or better a situation that seems absolutely hopeless. If anything, crying only deepens the chasm of heartbreak and sadness already plaguing its victim. Why then are we as a species programmed to worsen our own states of depression by blubbering like children? Red, patchy skin, puffy eyes, and streams flowing from my eyes. Why has this become my reality every time I lay my head on my pillow?

What I don't understand is how all the strength, determination, and happiness I feel during the day disappears the instant I am left alone to my thoughts. Why do I spend hours thinking of all the experiences I'm missing out on? Why do I feel so left behind and forgotten? Why do I torture myself by replaying every final interaction I had with friends at school  counting the days until I see them again and then wonder if ever? Then I shake that from my consciousness knowing in my heart and mind I will defeat this disease. I will win the civil war raging on inside.

I know better than all this. I know this stems from my ridiculous fears that seem to manifest themselves in nightmares while I'm still awake. I know I have no reason to feel neglected with all the love I know and have established around me. But it still seems to return to the essential question.  Why is this happening to me.

I may have made some negative progress this time but I had to acknowledge that this is actually happening to me. I had to understand that as more and more of my hair comes out, I will get looks from strangers. I had to know that no matter how many times I imagine the reunion with my friends and my life back at school, it will not come any faster. These are all things I know. And if I know all these things, then why am I persistently bothered by why? Why. Why...

"I'm as free as my hair, I am my hair"

Growing up, the closest thing I had to a sister was my cousin, Laura.  Our birthdays were only 5 weeks apart and we spent every holiday and most of our summers together. Throughout our lives, we often were mistaken as actual sisters because of our uncanny physical likeliness; same blue eyes, noses, cheeks, and smile. But one thing always separated us, especially as young children. Hair. Laura had the longest, thickest blonde hair even when we were toddlers. I, however, couldn't grow my stringy wispy hair past my ears no matter how hard I tried.  My bowl hair cut, alongside my father's insistence I wear pants at all times due to my propensity to hang upside down on monkey bars, made me resemble a very cute little boy. Looking at the Barbies that Laura and I shared, I realized that something was definitely wrong with my appearance. From a very young age, I wanted nothing more than the long hair that my cousin adorned. So, I sought advice from aunt, Laura's mother. "Never let your mother cut your hair." From then on, every trip to the hair salon was a battle of insurmountable proportions. Ending in my victory over the stylist's scissors, my hair finally grew long and thick. I was obsessed with styling and playing with long hair. I taught myself intricate braiding techniques and held styling sessions before school dances.

Fast forward fifteen years, faced with my diagnosis and the looming inevitability of hair loss, I decided to cut my hair off and donate it. Initially, this decision was based mostly in practicality; pulling out long strands of hair can be difficult and messy, but over time, I have realized its completely changed my view of beauty and self-image. Having short hair as a woman has had a storied history in negative stereotypes.  Traditional perceptions of feminine beauty is almost always depicted with long flowing locks. As somewhat of a jock in high school and growing up with mostly male friends, I tried to keep my long hair as a reminder and affirmation of my own femininity, always fearful that I would otherwise be depicted as ugly or undesirable. I was always overwhelmed and frightened by the idea of short hair until I finally built up the courage to cut it. Since then, I have never felt more liberated in my life.

When you are diagnosed with a serious illness, your first priority becomes your health and wellness. I had no room to be concerned about my appearance facing the preliminary steps of testing and treatment.  However, as I have become more comfortable and established in my daily routine and treatment schedule, I have come to appreciate the ease and comfort of short hair.  I am no longer concerned with being skinny or adhering to the Barbie doll image that always bothered my subconscious. My definition of beauty has become centered around feeling strong and comfortable physically, mentally, and emotionally. Now as I face the very real possibility of losing all of my hair, I feel a sense of peace about it. The last few days, I have been pulling out hairs strand by strand and although annoying, the loss of my hair doesn't feel as I had initially anticipated. 

I have come to realize that cancer is about loss.  Going into this process I am mourning the loss of a semester of college and the ability to share time with my friends and while I thought that I would be mourning the loss of my beloved hair, cancer has actually given me the feeling of freedom from the emotional attachment I had to my hair. My perceptions of beauty are finally liberated from the external forces that once drove them. While I'll still sign up to French braid anyone's hair, no longer does my hair define me. So I'll have to disagree with Lady Gaga and her song "Hair".  I am NOT my hair.

Two Wrongs Did Make A Right

I am not wrong very often. This is just a fact. So for me to be incorrect twice in such a short time is quite impressive. The first being in reaction to my first chemo. On Wednesday of last week, I hooked up to an IV and waited patiently while a sassy veteran nurse pumped six different drugs into my veins. Despite it taking nearly six hours to complete, I felt great and couldn't believe how easy this process was going to be. This is where I made my first critical error in judgement. Sure enough, at 7:08 pm, just as Alex Trebek was reading the final Jeopardy answer before the commercial break, it hit me. Absolute nausea and headache. That lasted for a solid three days. All the descriptions for nausea read 24 to 72 hours. And guess what. Hour 72 was the very moment at which I began to feel better.

That Sunday was the disaster of a game that was Super Bowl 48. To Peyton Manning and the Broncos, that was sad and your ability to lose so badly in the Super Bowl is truly spectacular (three of the worst Super Bowl losses in history belong to the Broncos). But besides the game were of course the commercials which were actually extremely confusing and out of the box. Except for one. As it opened, I just seemed to know it was going to be about cancer. Perhaps it was the short hair on the woman's head and the sad indie music playing in the background, but it was clear as day to me. At first I was annoyed and quite frankly appalled that a corporation like Chevrolet would stoop as low as to use cancer as a sales technique, but here is my second instance of being wrong. Watching all of my close friends and relatives change their profile pictures purple was one of the most moving things I have ever felt.

My previous experiences with social media were all senseless and unimportant, but this single action changed completely the way I view human communication and interaction. Sure, things like Facebook and Twitter are more often than not used for silly documentation of our privileged lives, but sometimes they are an incredible medium for expressions of love, support, and hope. Because as I've learned, it doesn't matter the way through which we interact and communicate, what matters is that we do. Cancer or any illness for that matter is extremely alienating until you open yourself to the multitude of ways people who love you show their support. Whether it's a parent or brother driving to appointments and treatments, friends 3000 miles away messaging through Facebook, hugs from close family friends, or even a like on Instagram, every interaction is a reminder of the love around me.

So sure, I may have been skeptical of Chevy's intent with integrating a cancer survivor into one of their ads, but I've learned to see beyond the my cold, cynical attitude about consumerism and embrace the message behind it and I'm glad to say that this time, I've never been happier to be wrong.