The haircut.

So. I got my hair cut today.

My doctor had recommended that I do this for two reasons: 1) The hair will fall out less easily and frequently if it's not as heavy; and 2) The experience of hair falling out will be less traumatic if there is less hair to begin with.

So, I got my hair cut today. And it was a disaster.

I should preface by saying that I had my usual stylist do the cutting. I went in with a specific idea: short in the back, long in the front with sweeping side bangs. I have never really had a cut like this before, so I was really nervous. I told my stylist what I wanted, showed her a few pictures, and she confirmed what she would be doing for me. She was adamant that she would do whatever it took to make sure I didn't look like a boy (her words). I also mentioned the cancer, not to get sympathy, but to caution that my emotions might run rampant.

I wear glasses and can't see without them, so I had to trust my husband's judgement as the stylist was cutting away. Note to self: Do not trust the opinion of one's husband, who thinks you look beautiful no matter what. He has a biased opinion.

The stylist says she's done, so I apprehensively put on my glasses and brace myself for the worst. And, oh boy. My mind was all, "What the hell is this?" while my mouth went, "No, no, no. No, no, no. I don't like it. This is all wrong. This is not what I asked for." And then I promptly burst into tears.

You see, it was long in the back and short in the front. I looked like a boy, which I wouldn't mind normally, but it was like an ugly boy, which is so much worse than anything I could have expected. And I was also upset because I am not an emotional person and I hadn't cried much over my cancer, but somehow all of these mixed feelings came to the forefront right there in the salon.

Anyway, my stylist became all defensive, like, I'm not cutting anymore of your hair because you're obviously too emotional right now. Then, she had the nerve to get her manager and tell him that I shouldn't be charged for the haircut because I wasn't happy with it. In theory, I probably would have asked for a comped haircut, since it was such a disaster (I wore a hooded coat the rest of the day), but the way she phrased this statement, plus her tone of voice, indicated to me that she thought I had intended to get a free haircut out of her right from the start, which was not the case.

I felt so affronted by the whole thing. First, she insulted my emotional state, and then she insulted my integrity. I said, "Look, I am paying for this haircut. I may not like it, but you spent two hours on my hair and I want to pay you for your time and service." I tipped, too, because she did work hard, even if it was a horrible job. Some people aren't really equipped to cut short hair, I suppose.

Anyway, I finally had the courage to show my mother-in-law, who was gracious enough to fix part of the cut, and then my sister-in-law fixed the rest. It looked much better and I felt much more confident in myself once I got over the initial shock and became used to the idea of short hair. If I've learned anything from this experience, it's that I am very vain.

UPDATE:

So, apparently I'm uninsured now. Which is absolutely ridiculous, because I'm a full-time employee of a major Ivy League institution (#1 in the country! Go Tigers!) and I'm still working there until I start chemo. Yet, somehow, my insurance has canceled my coverage so I have all of these doctor's offices calling me to cancel my upcoming appointments and scans, stuff that I had booked weeks ago. I've been on the phone with HR and with insurance, and they can't figure out what the problem is because according to them I am insured. Ugh. Insurance companies. What. A. Nightmare.

2015 New Year's Resolution.

Beat Cancer.

Christmas 2014

It's almost Christmas, but it's hard to feel festive with this dark cloud hanging over my head. Everyone here is in such a somber mood. I'm trying to "stay positive," I really am. The best I can do for now is just be realistic, with a hopeful slant. I'm reminded of an Emily Dickinson poem, "Hope" is the thing with feathers - / That perches in the soul - / And sings the tune without the words - / And never stops - at all -"  I'll think about birds taking a piece of my despair and flying away, one by one, until there is no despair left. Only hope.

My husband is taking a different approach; that is, he is using humor as a coping mechanism. I don't fault him for it, though, because everyone copes in different ways. My mother makes me drink either one home-made kale/blueberry or spinach/banana juice per day. My older sister reads informative books on breast cancer survival. My husband uses humor.

For instance, he has been going around saying, "Merry Breastmas!" and "Her2neu Year!" He calls this cancer a "nega-pregnancy" and jokes that we're expecting the arrival of a "3-inch tumor" in 18 weeks, when I have my surgery done. He wants to have a "chemo shower" (kind of like a baby shower, I suppose) before I start my treatments. A part of me feels like this is a little inappropriate, given the subject matter, but it makes me laugh and it makes him feel good to see me laugh. I can't fault him for that.

A lesson in chemo.

I kept trying to find an opportunity to explain chemo to my daughter, Freya. It never felt like the right time, you know? Anyway, we were walking in town and there was a poster for St. Jude's Hospital in one of the store fronts with a St. Jude's patient on the front.

FREYA: Hey, Mommy, look at that bald boy!
ME: Actually, that's a girl. And she's bald because she had cancer and she took a special medicine called chemo that helped her cancer either go away or it just put it to sleep. But, it's a poison so it made her hair fall out.
FREYA: [Pause] So... will you have to have this chemo medicine?
ME: Yes, honey.
FREYA: And will your hair fall out?
ME: Probably, yes.
FREYA: [Pause] That's okay, We can just get you a wig. Make sure it's blonde, that way people will know that you're my mom.

Telling my son, Gareth (age 2).

GARETH: Good morning, Mommy!

ME: Good morning, baby. 

DADDY: Gareth, be careful around Mommy, okay?

GARETH: What happened?

DADDY: Well, Gareth, Mommy has a boo-boo in her, uh, boobs.

GARETH: What? Oh no! Mommy, can I kiss your boo-boo?

Telling my daughter, Freya (age 5).

ME: Mommy has cancer. Do you know what what means?
FREYA: [Pause] You know, George died of cancer.
ME: ... Er, George? Who's George?
FREYA: You know, George! George Harrison, from the Beatles!
ME: Oooh. Huh. Okay. First of all, yes, that's true - George Harrison did die of cancer. Second of all, he had a completely difference cancer from what Mommy has, and Mommy is NOT going to die. And third, well, this is so not what I was expecting you to say, but, hey, it's a good start.
FREYA: What's for dessert?

Some news.

I have some news.

I’m not quite sure how to tell you.

So, I’m just going to come right out with it.

No point in beating around the bush.

Okay, here we go.

I’m just going to say it.

Any moment now.

I…

Okay, so, remember a few days before my birthday, when I took the morning off for an emergency? So I was at the doctor’s office because, well, okay, you know how when you shower you’re supposed to do those self exams where you feel around to make sure there aren’t any lumps? Okay, so, I felt a lump, and I didn’t really think anything of it, because, I mean, I wasn’t even thirty yet. So I asked Godfrey to check, and you know how oblivious physicists are, so I figured maybe he wouldn’t notice anything. But then he said, “Hey, why is it so swollen here?” So we went to the doctor, and she just thought it was mastitis, because, you know, my son is only two, so that’s totally feasible. But I asked for a mammogram anyway, so then we did the mammogram and an ultrasound too, and there was definitely…something. But everyone was all, oh, it’s probably just benign. Because, by that point, it was like a week after my thirtieth birthday and, I mean, it can’t possibly be anything else for a thirty-year old woman, right? But then we met with a surgeon the next day who was like, uh, yeah, we need to get a biopsy. So we did that, and we...well, we just got the results today.

Deep breath.

So, it turns out I…

Sigh.

It’s cancer. 

I have been diagnosed with breast cancer.

I don’t really know what to think.

I’m kind of in shock right now.

I mean, I’ve only been thirty-years old for two weeks.

Isn’t breast cancer, like, for postmenopausal women?

Anyway, they were hoping it was stage 1 but…

Right now it’s confirmed at stage 2b.

Because the tumor is big and it spread to my lymph nodes already.

So there’s a chance it could be stages 3 or 4.

We don’t know yet.

I’ll have to have more tests done.

And probably surgery.

And I’ll definitely have to do chemo.

But, I mean, whatever.

It’s not like hair and nails don’t grow back.

I just… I don’t get it.

How did this happen?

What did I do?