Some words on body image during cancer

Since I grumbled about them ad nauseum in my last post, it gives me great pleasure to announce: I am now footloose and drain-free! I've also ditched the restrictive, dowdy surgical bra so I can resume wearing normal-people clothes. Big strides, folks. Aside from the sliver of gauze peeping out of my tank top straps, the average Joe could never detect I'd just had a mastectomy. 

It's possible I'm making too much of something centered on my own comfort and vanity. We are, after all, talking about a disease that claims 40,000+ lives in the US.. every year. Which, um, is a staggering number. Nonetheless, the topic of appearance is omg everywhere you look in breast cancer land. 

Most of the breast cancer literature I’ve encountered features headlines like "10 Ways to Glow During Chemo" & “How To Fool Everyone With Fake Eyelashes” (could have used that one, maybe) Everywhere I turned there were makeup tutorials, skincare regimens, hair-loss grief groups (certain they exist somewhere.)

"This headband makes me look less bald, right?"

When I found out that chemo was on the horizon, hair loss was always the first side effect mentioned. Oh sure, they told me about the crushing fatigue heading my way, and the fact that my ovaries would most likely go on permanent strike. But first, it was always: "You will lose your hair." 

Let me be clear: I am NOT above caring about my appearance. I care. I care a lot, in fact. And I understand that maintaining a positive self-image is an important issue for cancer patients. 

I’m only observing how inflated the subject is within the breast cancer community. There was no wig and hat pamphlet in Paul's care-plan folder. And, truth be told, Paul's potential baldness would have been a far greater loss than my own. (I mean—have you seen my husband's pre-cancer curls?!)

Come to think of it, I'm almost positive Paul's doctors never even mentioned hair loss when discussing chemotherapy. They were concerned with other things. Like shrinking tumors.

Matching His-and-Her Hairstyles

I guess it’s only natural that a predominantly (but not completely) female disease would be handled this way. Generally speaking, more women than men are going to be distressed by hair loss, scaly skin, and yellowed fingernails. Or, more accurately, they’re expected to be distressed.

This is not to say a patient's body image during cancer treatment is somehow irrelevant or unimportant. It is important. It deserves attention. But when we focus so damn heavily on how breast cancer affects our appearance, we risk further trivializing a disease that’s already widely regarded as "the easy type of cancer."

As for myself, I can tell you there were tears on my end when Paul shaved my thinning scalp. I didn't hate the way I looked without hair. What I hated was LOOKING LIKE I HAD CANCER. 

For the first few rounds of chemo, I managed to still look like me. More importantly, I still felt like me. 

But as the drugs started to take their toll, things changed. I distinctly remember the first time I looked in the mirror and saw someone I did not recognize. Call me dramatic, vain, whatever. I could not stop staring at my reflection—I was spooked. When did this happen?! Physically, I didn't feel like a cancer patient. I felt like Liz Coleman, living my Liz Coleman life.

But my face suggested otherwise. Regardless of how I felt, there was no mistaking—I looked like a cancer patient. Makeup-free, with a few stray strands of hair shooting out of my scalp, I looked sick. Exhausted. Not normal, everyday mom-exhausted. Cancer-exhausted. It took some getting used to. 

What also took getting used to was looking like a cancer patient in public. I’m as introverted as they come. I go to great lengths to remain invisible (a virtually impossible task with a rambunctious toddler whose top priority is to be seen and heard by everyone.) Braving Wegmans for the first time sans-eyebrows was stupidly unnerving. 

Poor Shark Girl's perplexing look resonates with me

Though it hardly phases me anymore, I used to be cringingly aware of how much we stuck out. A loud toddler, a bald chick, and a young guy with thigh-high support stockings and sandals are bound to turn at least a few heads. Though, really, I should be used to this since Paul's signature look pairs tie-dye with plaid. When first dating, one of his sisters asked point-blank: "Aren't you embarrassed to be seen in public with him??" Embarrassed I was not. Inexplicably proud was more like it. Young love. 

Ten years, a baby, 16 rounds of chemo, and a bi-lateral mastectomy later, I stand in front of the full-length mirror, looking not unlike a cast member of The Walking Dead—underweight, buzzed hair, deep undereye circles, and scars aplenty. I am positively gritty. 

But I feel like me. And It didn't take some glossy leaflet on self-care to get me here.

Just my equally oddball partner. That and the natural passage of time.