Here's to More Birthdays

Birthdays post-cancer are a funny thing. I mean, of course they're great and we want more of them, but being diagnosed with cancer doesn't mean you don't notice the lack of collagen as the years pass. Or get irritated by grey hairs you-know-where when another part of you remembers you should just be happy to have hair.

Cancer doesn't give you a free pass when it comes to being weirded out about all the things that happen as you get older. For example, I have what I thought was the makings of a pimple on my chin, but now I'm pretty sure is just an ingrown hair. On my chin. Why? WHY ARE HAIRS GROWING THERE BUT NOT ON MY EYEBROWS!!!

So, I'm ecstatic to have more birthdays but also not going to pretend I don't notice the fine lines around my eyes or the fact that I can't eat peanut butter straight out of the jar (sometimes with a spoon) without then having to get raised eyebrows from the nurse at my oncologist's office as he weighs me in and sees I've gained four pounds. Sigh. But also? I don't really care. Because you only live once, and sometimes peanut butter is worth it.

I'm talking about getting older because my 37th birthday was last weekend. Somehow, that makes FIVE birthdays since I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer. SO, YES, I HAD A CUPCAKE. And a bourbon drink. What can I say? I celebrated.

I celebrated with friends and my husband who arranged a small gathering at a local...speakeasy? Hipster dive bar? There was skee ball and air hockey (at least I think. Us parents sat and visited the whole time. We were just happy to have a night of uninterrupted conversations. Even though, sure, ninety percent of those conversations were about our kids.)

We were clearly the early crowd, arriving at seven and ordering menu items like charcuterie and arugula flatbreads. Then around 9:30 things shifted, and we were easily the oldest, quietest, least collagen-ed people in the place. I vaguely remember a time when Chris and I used to leave to go out for the night around 10 p.m. (Here's photographic evidence.)

{circa 2006, celebrating Chris's 30th birthday}

But last weekend, we were home by 11, in bed shortly after, and I was still tired for two days because of it. And here's where I don't know whether to blame cancer treatments or aging or possibly even just being a parent to a little boy who wakes up ready to run and wrestle and do all of the things at seven a.m. But life is short, so why not do all of the things?

Here's to more birthdays and more doing and more celebrating (but maybe less peanut butter).

The State of My Eyebrows (with Video!)

I never imagined "eyebrows" would be on my birthday list, but there they are, staring me down as sure as age thirty-seven is just around the corner. Nope, I am not complaining. I am happy for every year of it, but it is downright weird to be approaching my late-thirties. I still feel like I should be in law school babysitting for people in their late-thirties in order to have some grocery money.

Yet here I am, thirty-seven on the horizon, and my eyebrow situation has not improved much over the last couple of years. Chris asked me -- over bath time for Quinn, which is when we have time to talk lately -- how much they cost.

"Between $200 and $500, depending on who you go with," I told him.

"I feel like tattoos on your face aren't exactly the time to go with the discount person," he reasoned. "Unless you're Mike Tyson."

True, but even at the costlier, fancier place, the thought of tattoos -- specifically tattoos on my face -- scares me. I'm scared of both the pain and the permanence. I mean, what if I don't like them? What if the artist has a muscle spasm mid-brow? What if I look surprised or angry or any number of emotions expressed by one's eyebrows for the rest of my life?

And then Quinn broke my train of thought and asked why I would need someone to put eyebrows on my face. I could feel the mood shift as Chris waited to see how I would answer.

"Because I had to have some really strong medicine that made all my hair fall out, and all of it grew back except my eyebrows," I explained.

Quinn's eyes grew even more huge as he blinked back shock and processed the idea of something so strong it could make your hair fall out, and I realized he has no recollection of that time in our lives. Most likely because I am light years behind on putting together any kinds of photo albums from his first four years. We don't spend our evenings flipping through and reinforcing memories the way I did with my mom when I was Quinn's age. This is one huge downfall of the digital age, I think, but that's a whole other blog post. 

Have I avoided it because I don't know how to talk to Quinn about cancer? I have a therapy appointment for that exact topic tomorrow. I will let you know how that goes (and whether I have any major breakthroughs because this is still my biggest hurdle, how to explain what I'm living with to my son.)

In any event, here is a little something about my eyebrow process each and every day. In a nutshell, this is why I'm considering tattoos. Have you done them? Considered them? Would you? Let me stop before this gets to Green Eggs and Ham territory. 

Products used in this video and/or products I've found useful:

Makeup Forever's Aquabrow

MAC's brow pencil in Lingering

Anastasia Beverly Hills' Brow Powder Duo

Angled Eyebrow Brush

A Collaboration: Project Heart Yourself / Infinite Hope

In October, my friend Jenny (hairstylist extraordinaire, the beautiful and talented Jenny Strebe of Confessions of a Hairstylist and founder of Project Heart Yourself) sent me a text message asking if I'd like to work with her on a jewelry piece -- something for breast cancer awareness (but enough with the pink ribbon already). Something a little more honest and special that would really pay tribute to women at all stages of treatment and at any stage of this disease. I love Jenny's style and her commitment to empowering women, and I jumped at the chance to work with her.

As we started brainstorming, we quickly found we were on the same page, and pretty soon had a design in place, a simple infinity symbol, standing for the infinite hope that carries us through some of our darkest days. The Infinity necklaces are now available for purchase here/here, and the proceeds will go to a local organization helping moms who are going through cancer treatments.

So honored to be a part of this collaboration. #heartyourself #hope #breastcancer #mbc #metavivor

A photo posted by Jen Campisano (@jencampisano) on Feb 12, 2015 at 8:20pm PST

Project Heart Yourself is all about empowering women to love themselves, something I've realized is infinitely important to getting through cancer. As Jenny would say, "Loving yourself is one of the hardest but most paramount aspects to life. You do not always have control over what happens to you, or in you but with grace you can accept it and learn to continue living a beautiful life."

If you're interested, you can read the very kind words Jenny's blogger had to say about me here. It had me blushing just a bit, and then nearly in tears. I'm so honored to be a part of this project.

Like Watching the Grass Grow

As I mentioned back in June, I've been working on growing out my hair. And I haven't been updating you as promised because it would literally be like watching grass grow. Except, you know -- hair.

At this rate I'm going to be forty-two by the time I have enough to donate. But it's been six months so I thought it would be a good time to finally show you the progress I am making. (Here's where I started, if you're interested.) Also, I went a little darker for the fall, if you're keeping tabs on that sort of thing.

Another thing about this process: I schedule my hair appointments to coincide with my scan results. Am I the only one? Just in case I have to go back on broad spectrum chemo-chemo and lose my hair again, I don't want to do anything to it and be told I'll lose it a few weeks later. So I had my scan on November 10th and my hair color appointment two days later. My next scan will be in late February or early March, so expect another update then -- at which point maybe it'll finally be past these darn ears of mine.

(Also, our family photos are courtesy of Jenny at Jennifer Bowen photography, and I am absolutely thrilled with them.)

Plus, a gratuitous photo of Quinn, just because that expression. He will probably get everything on his Christmas list because of that face. What can I say? Santa is a softie.

Not Bald Enough

Last week, I stumbled across this article about Joan Lunden daring to appear bald on the cover of People magazine. How incredible of her, I thought. I wish her the absolute best. She has a rare and aggressive form of breast cancer and certainly has a grueling few months ahead. I applaud her for doing what is right for her and not shying away from the iniquities of this disease.

At the end of the article, it noted that Ms. Lunden would be kicking off Breast Cancer Awareness month (that's October, in case you've been living in a cave) with a special on the TODAY show. Specifically, it said: We're kicking off Breast Cancer Awareness Month on Oct. 1 on the TODAY plaza — and Joan wants you to join! If you have undergone treatment that resulted in hair loss, please join us for what we hope will be an empowering moment for women. Email todaypinkpower@gmail.com for more information.

So I did. I emailed todaypinkpower and -- after praising Ms. Lunden for her bravery -- gave a brief snippet of my history, that I was a 32-year-old new mom when I was diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer, that I've been bald twice, that I'd love to participate in an empowering moment for women (never mind that men get breast cancer, too).

To my surprise, I heard back pretty quickly. My email from todaypinkpower said, in part: We are looking for survivors or women living with cancer to share in our bold and bald empowering moment. Would you be interested in joining Joan on the TODAY Plaza next Wednesday, October 1? Where are you located? Could you make it to our Rockefeller Center Plaza in New York City? She then asked for more information: my age, location, and phone number. Oh, and could I also send a current photo.

In my crazy head, I started wondering how we could get coverage for Quinn if I was going to the TODAY show NEXT WEEK. What would I wear? Could we afford a plane ticket? Would NBC pay for that? I was getting ahead of myself, I knew, but I was caught up with the idea that a platform as huge as TODAY might start to pay attention to stories like mine. At the very least, I thought the photo might be used in a montage of some sort about women who've "undergone treatment that resulted in hair loss." An "empowering moment," if you will.

So I sent in this photo, from earlier this year. I admitted it wasn't the most recent and made a joke about what a camera hog my 3-year-old is. (He's not.)

And then I got another reply email from todaypinkpower. It said: Thank you so much for your response. We are specifically looking for women who can be bold and bald on the plaza for an empowering moment to support Breast Cancer. (emphasis mine)

My heart sank. I'd been bald twice. That wasn't enough? Had I not been through enough shit to merit the "bold" stamp of approval from TODAY? I wasn't welcome because I wasn't BALD? What. The. Everloving. Fuck. I was saddened and livid and frustrated and then humiliated that I'd gotten my hopes up. I checked the message boards for the online support groups I belong to, and I wasn't the only one.

You see, many, many people with metastatic breast cancer do not lose their hair. For many patients, especially if their tumors are fueled by hormones (which is the majority of breast cancer patients), broad spectrum chemo is a last resort used only after bone-strengthening treatments, anti-hormonal agents, and other targeted treatments stop working. None of those other treatments cause hair loss. Neither do newer, targeted chemotherapies like the one I'm on. A lot of us with Stage 4 have our hair.

That doesn't mean we won't die from this disease unless researchers come up with something better soon. We face our mortality every day, live with side effects that range from mildly annoying to debilitating, and an estimated 40,000 people will die of MBC in the U.S. this year, and yet, metastatic breast cancer gets less than FIVE PERCENT of breast cancer research dollars.

I tried to look at it from a producer's point of view. A sea of bald heads would surely make a far greater impact on television than a group of people wearing pink. And of course, this seemed to be more about ratings than actual support or empowerment or -- God forbid -- education. That didn't make me less upset about it.

Maybe this was about solidarity with Joan Lunden. I tried to put myself in her shoes. How would I have felt if a bunch of women with hair came out to support me while I was bald? Oh, wait. I experienced that. It felt fucking amazing.

Fueled by our frustration and heartache and, yes, fury over the responses we were getting because we weren't BALD, a lot of us wrote todaypinkpower back to explain how gutted we felt by her response, by TODAY's approach to October, by the fact that a lot of women are getting left out of the conversation, by the media perpetuation that you must LOOK sick in order to BE sick. Here we go again and the month hasn't even begun yet.

In what I think counts as a teensy tiny victory, on Friday many of us non-bald "metsters" received follow up emails from todaypinkpower letting us know they would still love to have us join after all, and if we were interested, here were the updated details. We just had to wear our pink.

I get it that this is television. I do. And not everyone wants a segment on metastatic disease with their morning coffee. It's not entertaining. I know that. I live it.

As much as I love New York, I won't be able to make it to the Plaza next Wednesday. But I would fly on the next plane out to NYC if they'd talk about stories like mine for even a minute.

Starting Point

Since I mentioned my new plan for my hair yesterday, I figured I should give you guys a starting point. This was me after my last haircut, in mid-May. I'm stepping up my intake of Biotin and hoping my hair will be long enough to donate sometime before Quinn starts kindergarten.

Aaaaand my heart is having major palpitations at that last sentence. Holy shit, kindergarten is not that far off.

Hair Update, and a Plan

The last time I mentioned my hair here, it was February and I was bidding farewell to my winter mullet. Not much has changed with my hair since then. I've purposely kept it short, enjoying the relative easiness of this style and not having any hair on my neck when the forecast looks like this:

It goes on like that ad infinitum, except the lows start creeping up into the 90s and then we all spontaneously combust. I literally found a fried egg on our back deck the other day. I assume it was a bird that committed suicide rather than be born in Phoenix right now? On that note, I should probably let the cat in for the night.

I got a text from my friend Alana the other day, letting me know that her daughter, my goddaughter Grace, was in the process of cutting off several inches of hair for Locks of Love in my honor. Grace is nine. Hair is abundantly important to most pre-teen girls. This was no small thing, I realized. And my eyes immediately welled up with tears, I was so moved by this beautiful child's gesture.

Inspired by Grace, I made a decision that I'd try to grow my hair out to do the same again. It's what I did with my hair when I initially cut it off for chemo nearly three years ago, and it might take me another three years to grow it long enough to donate enough to help make someone's wig. But it is a small thing I can do (assuming the stars align and remission stays with me).

Between now and then, get ready for the awkward phase between pixie and bob. I have a feeling I'm going to be investing in buckets of bobby pins in the coming months. I'll keep you all posted through it all, of course.

I May Have Found the Antidote to Chemo's Side Effects

When I showed up for chemo this morning, I still had a slight headache from this weekend. I drank too much wine on Saturday, yes (enough that our group landed at a Waffle House at one in the morning to nosh on cheese-smothered hash browns; alas, they did not prevent our hangovers as much as we had hoped), but I also cried a lot and was sleep-deprived from the outset of the weekend. I had taken the redeye to North Carolina to watch one of my best friends, Leslie, get married. As it turns out, I cannot recover from overnight flights or red wine like I used to.

There is nothing like a weekend of indulgence in fried chicken and pulled pork nachos and staying up too late (and maybe one shot of bourbon) to set you up for a successful round of chemo. Ahem.

I should note: this is a fairly rare thing for me, to drink excessively anymore. I know it's not recommended. I know moderation is what's best for staving off breast cancer (although I'm honestly not sure if they've studied it for cases of advanced disease like mine). I know my liver is doing lots of work as it is. I know, I know, I know. These reasons are why I am typically a one-glass-with-dinner-once-in-awhile type of girl. But it was a wedding.

I had a dear friend's marriage and a clean scan to celebrate. And then I had chemo this morning. Next week I might be on a juice cleanse, no joke.

I've mentioned before how wonderful my friends are. The wedding this weekend was between one of my friends who'd cut off her hair for me and a man she met while working in Jordan. Leslie and Bill are the type of people who make you want to be a better person, and I don't say that lightly. They have devoted their lives to helping others and to service in a way I can't say of too many people. Their collective resume (which I'm sure they don't have, but if they did) includes the AmeriCorps, U.S. Agency for International Development, the Army, nursing school, jumping out of airplanes, traveling the world, and just generally making it a better, safer, healthier place to live.

Leslie and her new husband are downright incredible people, so I shouldn't have been surprised at the gesture they made at their wedding, the gift they gave me and so many others. I had already been crying at the mother/son and father/daughter dances because let's face it. I am a sap.

And then Leslie announced that in lieu of gifts, they'd asked for guests to donate to a couple of charities close to their hearts, and that they would also be making contributions to The Special Operations Warrior Foundation and Play for Pink, which donates 100% of its funds to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation. I knew they'd been planning this, and it still caught me off-guard, still had me bawling into my napkin and hoping the wedding photographer wasn't getting that particular moment on camera. I'm not exaggerating when I say my friends (and family, too) are helping to save my life.

My heart is so filled with love after this weekend that it will be the thing that gets me through the chemo side effects this week. It will be my antidote. And then I'll do that juice cleanse. 

On Trend

I went to get my mullet styled this week. I joined the rest of the world, apparently, with this haircut.

The difference is, I had to wait until my bangs were long enough to pull it off. I know, this doesn't look like long hair to you. But trust me, it is.

Amazing how your perspective changes once you've been bald.

A Selfie

I have about a half-dozen half-written posts about a number of things: the invisible scars of breast cancer, trying not to blame myself for Stage 4 cancer, having the hard conversation with my mom about my fears, my scan next week, and managing being a parent while in the throes of treatment. But while my scatterbrain works out the details of how best to finish those and share my thoughts with you all, I thought I'd update you on my hair. 

It has been awhile, after all.

I got it cut this week, while I try to let the sides and top catch up to the party in the back. And I'll probably keep it short, but I want any pixie cut to be my decision, not just the only option because that's how chemo left things. Who knew I was such a control freak? 

Also, for those of you keeping track, my hair's texture is changing, and I don't know if that's the length (relatively speaking) or being nine months post-chemo-chemo. It's still got wave and body, but less actual curl now. One of these days, maybe my bedhead will even calm down.

In the meantime, I'm hoping I get to keep playing with it just a little while longer. My scan next week will determine whether I get to continue on my current chemo or have to switch things up, which would probably mean putting my wigs back in rotation. For the record, I much prefer my own hair, crazy bedhead and all.

The Kissing Hand

Quinn's new school has fall break this week, but one of his teachers offers care in her home instead. She calls it "Fall Break Boot Camp," and they do arts and crafts, sing songs, and most importantly from my perspective, take afternoon naps. Many working parents can't afford to take the week off, so it's nice to have the option of consistent care, with a teacher we trust and the friends our kids are used to.

Since I'm not working, I debated keeping Q home with me all week. What excuse did I really have, other than I want to do some writing and make it to yoga a couple of times and maybe grocery shop without having to fight about the car seat at every stop? I mean, what excuse other than cancer?

I forget sometimes that it's there, that I'm supposed to be resting, that my body is doing a lot of work right now. A friend of mine said her oncologist told her to expect to have about half the energy a normal person has, which makes me feel better when I have trouble keeping up with Quinn and let him watch more "Bob the Builder" than I probably should.

In clothes, I look almost normal, other than the port in my chest (which I realize I have talked about a lot, but not sure I've ever shown you guys, so here it is in all its glory).

And my hair looks like Princess Diana circa 1992, but it's MY HAIR. (See below -- I'm not kidding about the hair, right? I've got an appointment to fix that in the next couple of weeks, in case you were worried.) My eyebrows still haven't quite grown back, either, but otherwise, I look mostly okay. More importantly, I feel mostly okay. I can still go hiking and make it to yoga and take Quinn to swimming lessons, and I am so lucky for that. My quality of life on this chemo is amazingly normal, relatively speaking.

But then I fell asleep with Quinn on his twin bed at 8 o'clock last night, and when I woke up confused and groggy just before midnight, it came pounding into my head like a hangover -- oh, yeah, cancer. And I've got chemo on Monday. And scans next month. And then I might have eased myself back to sleep with some Xanax.

So in the interest of continuity and my health, I took Q in to school Wednesday and today. Wednesday was fine, but drop-off this morning was rough. He didn't want to be there in the first place, and right in front of me another little boy bit Quinn's arm, which made him even more clingy. I stayed to console him for a good fifteen minutes, maybe longer, as he cried in my lap.

Then one of the teachers suggested a book, "The Kissing Hand," which is about a mom's love always being with her kiddos, and theirs with their moms, even when they're away from each other. The story is about a raccoon on his first day of school, but it struck me that it's relevant to any separation from a parent.

As I was reading this to Quinn in the middle of the playroom floor, I felt a hard knot tighten in my throat, and I tried to pass my sniffles off as allergies: "Chester felt his mother's kiss rush from his hand, up his arm, and into his heart." Whenever Chester feels lonely at school, all he has to do is press his hand to his cheek to feel the warmth of his mother's kiss. "Do you feel that, too?" I asked Quinn, with my hand over his heart. My little boy nodded, and I struggled to keep my composure.

I was choked up for the same reason I pause just a bit at the refrain the teachers tell the kids when one is having a rough day: "All mommies come back." How I wish. I hate knowing otherwise, and I try to keep that anxiety of mine from Quinn, although he's been biting his nails lately, so I'm not sure how successful I am.

Anyway, drop-off this morning was rough for me, too. I started sobbing before I even got back to my car. I know Quinn needs to learn he's okay without me at school, and he will be okay when I die someday--all of us eventually are, but--god, do I want more time with him, and to continue to feel well enough to enjoy it.

I'm continually trying to find that balance between spending enough time with him (as if there were such a thing--ha!) and not wearing myself out. Other moms (with cancer or not, working or not), I'd love to hear how you find that balance in your lives.

On that note, I'm off to pick up my monkey to spend the afternoon with him.

What Brings You Here

Every once in awhile, I look at the analytics on this blog to see what's bringing people here.

After my latest glance at the search terms, I just feel sorry for some of those people, who were innocently looking for a porn pick-me-up and stumbled across a blog about cancer instead. Oops.

Whoever was looking for "best boobies" and ended up on my site: I'm truly sorry to disappoint; we got rid of those around mid-January, 2012. The new ones are okay, but I wouldn't call them the best. For one, they don't have much feeling left after all the nerves were cut for my double mastectomy. For two, here's a weird fact about implants: they're cool to the touch. Always. You'll have to find your own to test that--these ones are taken and it would just be weird to invite a whole bunch of my readers to feel my boobies. Also? The nipples on mine are missing (although maybe that's somebody's fetish?)

On the other hand, these new ones hold their own without a bra and they don't have cancer, so that's a huge plus. On second thought, maybe boobs that aren't trying to kill me are the best. So maybe you ended up exactly where you wanted. In that case, you're welcome.

To the person looking for a "booby of the day," you, too, were probably in for a surprise. While I might someday, I haven't yet posted any photos of my boobs online--before or after my surgeries. Cancer plus having a baby has pretty much removed any hang-ups I ever had about disrobing in front of strangers, but I still have my boundaries. So far, the Internet is one. Anyway, if you're looking for those photos, you might want to try here.

Another great post for what cancer looks like? This one. Although cancer also looks like this, so you just never know.

Oh, and now that you're here, I hope you'll stick around awhile.

Beyond His Years

I took Quinn to get his hair cut last week.

{my baby}

We used to go to one of those kids' places--with a train table set-up and a seat shaped like a car and capes made to look like superhero outfits--and Quinn hated it. He would scream through the entire session, just throw a flat-out fit, and he always ended up with uneven haircuts I regretted paying for.

A few months ago, we tried taking him to Chris' stylist, Lena, and Quinn fell in love--with her or the experience, I'm not sure. She's calm and pretty, and a young mom herself. Quinn gets to ride up and down in the chair. She indulges his commands, and I think he feels like he's in control--minus the sensory overload that the other place offered. Also, he gets a lollipop at the end, so what's not to love?

Anyway, last week was the first time we'd gone without Chris. It just happened to work out that way with our schedules.

Quinn still sits on my lap during his haircuts, and so I got to chatting with Lena the way I would with any hairdresser. As we were making small talk, she asked about my work schedule, whether I was working from home part-time now--since it was midday on Friday--and it caught me off guard.

Most people know I'm not working, and I figured Chris had probably told her everything about my condition. Because I tell my hairdresser everything, don't you? I figured wrong. Chris hadn't said a word.

I started to tell her I was at home full-time with Quinn these days, and why.

"Oh, I had no idea," she said. And she asked the normal follow-up questions: When were you diagnosed? Did you catch it early? How are you doing now? 

I went through my spiel. I'm happy to share my story, and I don't usually think twice about it. I answered matter-of-factly: He was five months old. It was Stage 4 from the beginning. I'm responding really well to treatment. I'm tired a lot of the time, but aren't all moms?

As I started to talk, though, Quinn tensed up--noticeably. He clung to me, wrapped his legs around me, and buried his head in my neck. He was clearly uncomfortable. Lena noticed it, and we exchanged looks in the mirror. My voice trailed off, and then I spoke to Quinn.

"Mommy's okay, honey. I'm right here. I'm fine."

I have to start choosing my words more carefully around my little man, it seems. He's growing up much faster than I expected.

{my little man}

Mulletville

I can't believe I'm complaining about my hair, of all things. But it has ventured past cute pixie territory straight into curly mullet land, and I need to get it fixed, and quickly. I'm hoping my stylist can guide me toward something more like this

photo credit

and less like this

photo credit

No offense to Scarlett Johansson, but that is not the look I'm aiming for. 

On so many levels, I feel like any hair is good hair (except armpit hair; that is still just annoying). But six months out from my last broad spectrum chemo infusion, and I finally--finally--could use a hair cut. 

It's the little things, don't you agree?

So I've been searching all over the Internet for advice on how to grow out a pixie because I hope I'm that lucky. I hope this chemo is working. I hope I get to stay on it long-term. I hope I get to keep this hair, even if there are umpteen awkward grow-out phases in my near future.

It's funny, but in all the time I've spent bald--or nearly bald--in the last couple of years, I've sort of forgotten what it means to keep up with a hairstyle. There is apparently a lot of finessing that goes into gracefully growing out one's hair. And in true Jen fashion, I am stumbling all over the place on that front right now. 

I am even a hairstyle klutz, you guys. 

But it looks like my stylist can fit me in next week, so I'll post some updated hair photos then. 

Fake It Til You Make It

I had treatment yesterday, so all I feel like doing right now is online shopping for things I don't need and can't afford. Do you do that too? Fill up shopping carts all over the web, just to look at pretty things you're not really going to buy? I'm not sure what the point is in this particular time-waster, but please say I'm not the only one.

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.

But eyebrows make a big difference, don't you think?

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.

Day 121

This is my hair growth 121 days post-chemo. Compare to days 59 and 93 if you'd like. A little progress, no?

Speaking of hair, Quinn likes it when I run my hands through his. He'll sit down in my lap and say, "Mama, pay me hair." Mama, play with my hair. So I do. How could I not?

Sometimes, lately, he wants to return the favor. He plays with my hair, and we talk about the texture. "Is Mama's hair fuzzy?" I ask. "Si." He says. (He speaks one word of Spanish -- daycare's contribution to his bilingual education). 

The other day, I asked him -- tentatively, because I worry about creating unnecessary anxiety in him -- "Are you happy Mama has hair again?" 

"Si," he said. "All better now."

I sure hope so. I have my first post-chemo scan tomorrow. Fingers crossed.

Growth

I'm a few days late on this, but last Thursday (the same day we closed on our new house and I had my swap-out surgery--more on that later) also marked two months since my last chemo. And ever. so. slowly, my hair is starting to grow back. Witness:

Ignore my creepy sideways glance in that second picture, please. Let's just--cough--blame the photographer--cough--Chris. Also, the lighting is not the best, but the point is my HAIR is GROWING!! 

I still don't have much in the way of eyebrows (those are penciled/painted on) and I think I have a grand total of three eyelashes, but just think of the money I'm saving on mascara and salon visits! Speaking of salon visits, my wonderful stylist Kaylie, at Salon Tru in Old Town Scottsdale, styled my wig as a gift. It falls in soft layers around my face and looks completely natural. Bonus: I never have a bad hair day! Until my hair grows in just a bit more, it's the look I turn to most. 

Anyone want to place bets on how long until my hair looks like this?