Hair, The Musical, in Theaters and Constantly Playing in my Mind Everywhere!

Long as God can grow it

My hair!

Gimme head with hair

Long, beautiful hair

Shining, gleaming

Streaming,  flaxen, waxen…….

Hair.  No, I haven’t completely lost my mind.  And yes, it is from Hair:  The Musical. Although there was a time during my cancer treatment when I got the tiniest bit obsessed with hair.  Maybe more than a tiny bit, maybe super crazy obsessed with hair.  Seriously, I was losing it over my hair, or lack of hair, rather.   I got this song stuck in my head, and suddenly the world became one, big Musical.  People in the streets, singing and dancing, waving their luxurious, shiny, bouncy hair all around me, circling me with pirouettes of pony tails.   Throwing their shiny bobs, psychedelic shags, spiky, curly, wavy,  frizzy hair of all colors and styles  in my face.  Singing that song:

Give me down to there hair

Shoulder length or longer

Here baby, there mama

Everywhere daddy, daddy

Hair. It suddenly hit me, over eight months into treatment, that everyone in the world had beautiful, long, shiny hair except me!  My one-quarter inch, newly sprouted, mousy brown hair just didn’t cut it. And I did not like it, not by the non-existent hair on my chinny, chin, chin.  I was done with chemo and wanted my hair back, now! I had enough of being bald.  I especially had enough of those damn hair commercials on the television, in magazines, billboards, and books.  I felt bombarded by the excessive images of women with those unattainable, glossy locks.  My steely resolve of, “bald is beautiful,” was put to the test with those hair commercials, you know the ones;  the young girls, romping in a field of fresh cut grass and wild flowers, their boyfriend tying their thick, beautiful locks into knots.  I just couldn’t take it any longer.  I wanted to strangle them with those silky tresses!

Let it fly in the breeze

And get caught in the trees

Give a home to the fleas in my hair

At home for fleas

A hive for bees

A nest for birds

For the beauty, the splendor, the wonder of my……..

Hair.  I tried to be brave, strong, and logical.  I was determined.  Determined to hold on to every strand of hair as long as I could.  I had my boys cut it short when it first started to thin out, then I went spiky, after that a bad comb-over.  I tried taping some bangs to a hat, then, when I thought it couldn’t look any worse, post apocalyptic mange set in.  Only then did I shave it.  I know, I know,  I was supposed to be brave and strong, and shave it off before it fell out.  I should have been all, “I’ll show you cancer,  I just shaved off all my hair so you couldn’t get to it first.  In your face cancer!”  But screw it, I liked my hair and wanted to hold on to it as long as I could!  How brave is it shave your head when you look perfectly healthy?  Demi Moore looked just fine; sexy, fierce.  Try watching it fall out over the span of a couple of harsh chemo treatments, a little at first, then in clumps, until I looked like Ed Asner.  Now that is brave! (No offense to Mr. Asner, he’’s adorable, but not the look I was going for.)

I want it long, straight, curly, fuzzy

Snaggy, shaggy, ratty, matty

Oily, greasy, fleecy

Shining, gleaming, streaming

Flaxen, waxen

Knotted, polka dotted

Twisted, beaded, braided

Powdered, flowered, and confettied

Bangled, tangled, spangled, and spaghettied

Hair.  Everywhere.  I had lost my hair, but not my attitude,  and managed my hair loss with a little wink of humor.  I wore wigs in every color, every length, curly and straight, thick and thin.  I got to try every hair style and color I always dreamed of, but couldn’t or wouldn’t dare try before.  I was a sophisticated  red head by day,  platinum blond bombshell by night.  I had short bobs in every color; black, green, blue, and pink.  My sons liked the blue best, I liked the pink.  The green might have been a mistake, I looked like an over sized Oompah Loompah, but it was nice on St. Patrick’s Day.   People didn’t realize they were wigs, that I was sick.  I was called “edgy” and “punk.”  Cool, huh.  I was the most popular mom in my sons’ preschool class, the kids loved too see what color hair I would have from day to day.  Not everyone could have pulled off those looks.  So, take that cancer!  I was brave and strong after all.  Now my hair has grown back, slowly, but it’s all mine, and it’s great!  I still hate those hair commercials, which I firmly believe is a sound, natural,  normal feeling.  No one really has hair that perfect, ugh.

Now, if I could only get those people to stop singing and dancing in my head………..

Oh say can you see

My eyes if you can

Then my hairs too short

Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair

Flow it, Show it

Long as God can grow it

My Hair.

Believe in Your Dreams Silver Necklace

The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.

A beautiful quote by Eleanor Roosevelt.  A lovely thought for a cancer survivor.

This quote is etched on one of Shop Cancerversary’s new necklaces,  but is it really relevant for a cancer survivor?  When we are going through cancer treatment, we are encouraged to “live in the moment.”   What exactly is “living in the moment?”  Should we only think about today and not the future?  The future is unknown, uncertain, and a little bit scary for most of us.  Worrying about our uncertain future certainly won’t do us any good.  Stress can actually harm us,  effect the outcome of treatments.  So, yes indeed, we should live in the moment!  Yeah for the moment!  We’re cured! Hmmm.

Okay, reality check.  Let me think about some of my “moments.”  The moment my hair started falling out.  Don’t want to live in that moment.  The moment I was too sick to get out of bed to see my kids before school.  Not too fond of that moment.  The moment I started burning up from the inside out from hot flashes.  Do not want to touch that moment with a ten foot pole.  Wait, I know the moment I wanted to live in!  Nope, just forgot it.  Curse you chemo brain!

Cancer treatment gives us lots of moments we don’t want to “live in,” but we have to persevere.  And we do persevere, for the beauty of the future.  Did I believe in the future?  You bet.   How else would anyone make it through those awful treatments?  Did I believe in the dream of seeing my boys grow up?  Absolutely.  Cancer cannot take away our dreams.  So, should we live in the moment?  Sure.  Enjoy the small, quiet moments, the beauty in the everyday.  I was grateful for the time I did get to spend with my boys, reading to them in bed because it was all I could do, seeing the beauty in them.  I’m happy for every day I have now, even the crazy, messed up times.   Living in the moment makes you slow down and realize it’s All Going To Be Okay.

But believe in the beauty of your dreams.  The future does belong to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams!  To be a survivor, you must believe.  In the future, in a higher power, in you.  I’m not sure Eleanor Roosevelt intended the quote as a cancer survivor mantra, but it works for me!

Friends and Angels

I wanted to thank everyone who dropped by our both at Arizona’s Ultimate Women’s Expo in Phoenix last weekend, www.azwomensexpo.com. There was a great turnout, with keynote speakers Valerie Bertinelli and Olivia Newton-John.  I watched ladies lining up for Pomegranate Martinis, massages, manicures, shots of Starbucks and a Louis Vuitton fashion show.  I could see a belly dancing exhibition from a “Morracan Tea Room,” and scores of women and girls walking by with their freshly coiffed hair from Toni & Guy.

In between all the excitement, many women stopped by our Shop Cancerversary booth.  They did a little shopping and a lot of talking!  The Susan G Komen chapter of Phoenix had a booth (www.komenphoenix.org), which brought a large contingent of breast cancer survivors, many going through treatment right now.  I was privileged to speak with women in all stages of survivorship, along with their friends and family.  We shared some laughs, and a few tears.  I met a courageous woman who was scheduled for reconstructive surgery the next day, yet she was still living her life, out and about at the show.  I also met an amazing woman who had just had her seventh round of chemo the day before.  To top it off, she had also done the Susan G. Komen, Race for the Cure the weekend before.  Wow, to say the least!  She had great energy, a positive attitude, and a light in her eyes that shone with determination not to let cancer beat her.  I heard stories like these all weekend, women of all ages and walks of life telling me little bits of their own survivor story.  Some just wanted to say thanks for acknowledging and celebrating our Cancerversaries, with pride in their eyes as they told me how many years it had been since their diagnosis, and how far they’ve come in life.

Reflecting on the Expo, I could see the common thread that cancer weaves through our lives.  It touches so many of us; mothers, daughters, sisters, friends.  But the hope, gratitude and love in these women’s hearts shines brightly.  It is a reminder that we can survive and thrive!

I think most of us remember our diagnosis as a big blur of crazy emotions.  It was hard to imagine back then that I would ever celebrate anything again.  I remember sitting in the waiting room, waiting.  The nurse kept calling in patients, obviously avoiding me.  Once, she inadvertently made eye contact with me.  Her eyes then darted around the room like a feral animal, anxiously looking for an escape.  Not a good sign.  She finally brought me back to an exam room, making uncomfortable small talk with a nervous smile, where I waited again.  I could hear the doctor seeing patient after patient in other exam rooms, doors opening and closing up and down the hallway, his muffled voice sounding pleasant and innocuous.  No bad news being given there.   I knew that stupid doctor was avoiding me, putting off telling me that I had cancer.  No one likes to give bad news, but I still think he was stupid.  And as I waited, alone, in that exam room, my anger towards that stupid doctor grew, towards all the stupid doctors in the last four months that had told me there was nothing wrong with me.  Just 40 year old, lumpy, hormonal breast-itis, they told me.  (I took some liberty with their verbiage.)  I had a mammogram just eight months ago, no cancer then.  Stupid doctors.  Now this guy is making me wait and wait to tell me I have cancer.  I had a right to be angry!

My angry smugness was short lived.  When that stupid doctor finally summoned up the courage to come in to the exam room, look me in the eye, and tell me, ” You have breast cancer,”  all I did was cry.  My,” I told you something was wrong!” speech came out as sobs.  I cried all through his explanation of how he was going to cut out a hunk of my breast, (as if, stupid doctor.)  I cried while he told me about the “medicine” that might make me feel a little sick and make my hair fall out.   (Seriously? Did he think I was four?)  And I cried while he told me about the permanent “suntan”  (Yes, he did say “suntan.”) I could get from  the radiation they were going to blast me with.

I cried while the nurse walked me to the x-ray room, and while the nice, but very uncomfortable looking x-ray tech asked me oh so gently to hold still, while he took pictures of my lungs.  I cried while the lab tech tried to draw blood from my shaking arm.  At least she gave me a hug.  I made a huge scene all over that place that day, long blond hair bobbing as my chest heaved from the sobs.  I was a “hot mess” in every sense of the term, and I didn’t care who saw me.  I had been hit by the cancer train, and was about to be dragged down the railroad tracks of treatment,  kicking and screaming.

So, let’s just say, “survivor” grew on me.  It was more of an acquired taste.  I tasted it again and again; eight rounds of chemo, six weeks of daily radiation treatments, one year of Herceptin infusions, a port, mastectomy, three reconstructive surgeries, (so far), physical therapy, and endless, countless scans, injections, pills and tests.  Through all of this I found I have acquired a taste for survivorship.  It suites me quite well, actually.  So I celebrate today, everyday, and proudly celebrate my Cancerversary!  Three years, whoo hoo!  How about you?

Cancerversary Muse, the Lotus Flower

Talk Cancerversary is our way at Shop Cancerversary to celebrate, rant and laugh about all things cancer.  Our cancer journey doesn’t end with treatment, survivorship has it’s ups and downs.  We all have stories to share; funny, sad, hopeful, awkward, joyful, scary.  We are survivors, friends and family of survivors, and we’d like you to share your stories with us!

At Shop Cancerversary, we celebrate the milestones of the cancer survivor with inspirational, symbolic, empowered, and healing sterling silver, hand crafted jewelry and gifts.  We are inspired by and for women who have been affected by cancer.  What is a “Cancerversary?”  It’s any day, time,  or place in history you want to celebrate your survivorship….your cancer anniversary.  We all have different treatments, but our journey is the same:  We are survivors!

Our muse at Shop Cancerversary is the lotus flower. The lotus flower has been a symbol in many cultures, civilizations and religions for thousands of years.  From murky beginnings, the lotus flower defies all odds and rises from the muddiest of water to emerge unblemished as a beautiful, pristine flower.  The lotus is also a symbol of a powerful, vital force.  Lotus seeds found after thousands of years have still been able to germinate.  The lotus symbolizes life ever renewed, revitalized and pure, as it stretches out of the muddy waters every morning.

The lotus flower is a fitting metaphor for those of us who have risen out of the murky waters of cancer and found ourselves still a beautiful, powerful and vital person. You are a survivor, celebrate today!

Got any cool Cancerversary stories?  Share them with us!