Yesterday also marked four months since the end of my last chemo, or, for those of you keeping track, four months of hair growth. And it appears I'm going to get to keep my hair on this new drug. Hallelujah.
I get far more compliments on my pixie cut than I ever did being bald (or having long hair, for that matter).
During my infusion yesterday, the woman sitting next to me was in her seventh year of treatment for metastatic ovarian cancer. She said she hoped she wasn't depressing me. I told her not at all; her story gave me hope. We got to talking about side effects and how we feel like old pros at chemo now. She said she didn't mind losing her hair, that it seemed like such a petty thing in the grand scheme of things. I sort of nodded and feigned agreement, but admitted that part was hard for me.
It might be petty, but I simply prefer to have hair. It's easier to pretend I'm not sick if I don't look sick.
And it's growing in as thick as ever. Unfortunately, my eyebrows are not. I still have to draw those on. Here's me getting ready for pre-chemo yoga yesterday morning (which turned out to be pointless, since I sweated so much all my makeup came off). Listen to me and my first world problems.
And yes, I went straight from yoga to chemo. I was a sweaty mess in the infusion room, but at least I got my workout in. My surgeon finally gave me clearance to exercise about a week ago after four months of not being able to, so I'm trying to get strong again. Because being strong also makes me feel not sick.
Between exercise and my hair, I can almost pretend there's no cancer in my life. Almost.