Photo courtesy of Jordan Pfaff, almost 5 years old
I’ve never really liked the curly hair I got post-chemo. Now, it’s not as curly as when it first sprouted, but it’s definitely wavy and full, and on a humid Florida day (that would be, like, seven days a week, mostly year-round), it grows really big. Thank goodness for the flat iron, because I use my pretty pink one every. single. day. no. exceptions. (Well, except for that one day I let my locks go natural and Joey greeted me after school with an enthusiastic, “What happened to your hair?”)
OK, so I overuse my flat iron, and the crazy-hot heat is damaging my hair for sure. So realizing my strands really needed a break, I had this hair-straightening procedure done two weeks ago. Here’s how it worked: My hair stylist washed my hair and dried it, rubbed and combed in this solution, dried it again and then flat ironed it all over. For three days — OMG, three days — I could not wash my hair (ewww!), supposedly so the magic could lock itself in and straighten my hair for up to four months. And now that I’ve been washing and conditioning my hair for a bit (with special no-salt products), I’m here to tell you what I think about what cost me $150 (plus tip, plus $30-ish for products).
The Coppola Keratin Complex Smoothing Therapy seems to have some merit. It has not worked miracles, and I still have a sort-of bend in my hair, and it’s not immune to the effects of weather, but my hair is smoother and straighter now than it was pre-expensive treatment. I can blow-dry it and leave it as is, if I’m OK with a tiny bit of fluff, or I can dry it and pass through a couple of times with the flat iron — which is what I’ve been doing. My ideal scenario would have been to pack away the iron entirely, but my hair is just not as poker straight as I’d dreamed it would be, so I use it a little — much less than before, though, so that’s a good thing.
When four months is up, or whenenver the effects wear off, I’m not sure I’ll do this again. Truth be told, the no-shampooing thing was really hard, mostly because I like to exercise and sweat every day (so hair washing really is a daily necessity for me) and also because my hair got heavier and greasier by the day, and that just basically grossed me out. I guess if after three days I was rewarded with perfectly super-straight hair, I’d take the plunge and empty my wallet again, but it’s just not. It’s an improvement. Just not dead-on straight — you know, like the hair I had pre-cancer, the hair I permed non-stop because I was sure I wanted curls forever. Well, I was wrong. I don’t.
I got my first port in April 2005. I was told I should probably get a port prior to chemo (for breast cancer), so I found a general surgeon who could perform the surgery ASAP. I only had to do four rounds of chemo, but I didn’t want to take any chances with ruining my veins. As it is, I only have one arm which can be used since I had lymph nodes removed on the other side. After I completed my chemotherapy, I went ahead and set a date to have it removed, since it was pretty much useless as far as using it instead of an IV for surgery and such. My general surgeon didn’t find it necessary to take me back into the OR to remove my port. Instead she did it right in her office, claiming it wouldn’t hurt. At the time I had it removed, only three months had passed. So when she took a scalpel and sliced through the original incision, she was cutting through a healing wound — and it hurt. The site never healed correctly after that. Scar tissue formed on top of scar tissue. But still, it wasn’t all bad.
In 2008, when my cancer returned, it was thought that I would have to endure chemo again. So when the breast surgeon went in to remove bits of my chest wall, she placed a port so I wouldn’t need another surgical procedure. It wound up unnecessary, as I underwent radiation instead. The port sat unused until April of this year. I was undergoing breast reconstruction surgery, so my plastic surgeon removed it. Not long after, as it was healing, I noticed some areas that hurt when I touched it. Upon closer inspection, I found that I had very small bits of nylon surgical sutures poking out of the scar. I couldn’t pull them out or cut them any closer to the skin. These stitches sticking out, along with scar tissue on top of scar tissue, made for a pretty uncomfortable area. When I found out that I would be having revisions made to one of my breast implants, I asked my surgeon if he could make it a little less sightly. He agreed to revise the scar for me as part of my procedure on Monday. I’m looking forward to being able to wear my seat belt and bra straps comfortably again.
For the most beautiful hair ornaments in the world, France Luxe is the place to shop. Headbands and barrettes are the specialty at Laurie Erickson’s store, but for those without hair, she’s got something pretty amazing, too.
Through her Good Wishes program, Erickson is donating silk headscarves to women and girls losing their locks to illness or treatment. Why? “Our goal is to provide a small bit of comfort and share the power of positive thinking and good wishes with these individuals on their path to healing and recovery,” says the company website.
Yes, you can score a scarf for free (value: $72-$94) if you are dealing with the crappy state of hair loss. Even better, you get to pick your print. Just call this number to request your fancy freebie: 888.884.3653.
Writer Abigail Thomas offers in her book “Thinking About Memoir” the following writing exercise: Write two pages (one post) in which a child comforts an adult.
That’s easy.
The child was Joey. The adult was me. And it happened in February, 2005, one day after I realized my hair was shedding from my scalp faster than I could say chemotherapy. It had been 13 days since my second treatment with the toxic breast cancer drugs Adriamycin and Cytoxan, and not a rubber band nor a hat could hold my wisps in place. My scalp was sore, each hair still attached to my head hung with a weight that was nearly unbearable, and it had become abundantly clear that the moment had arrived: It was time to shave my head.
“Don’t worry, mom, you’re not going to die,” announced my almost 4-year-old boy, who was taking his turn shaving away the last of my chemo-stricken hair. “It’s only a haircut,” he assured me.
Whether he knew it or not, Joey was absolutely right. It was only a haircut. I didn’t die. And while some of his comments during my years fighting breast cancer weren’t as comforting — “You look like an alien,” he revealed while visiting me in the hospital in March of that same year — this is the one that still brings tears to my eyes, because, well, it was innocent, it was real and most of all, it was damn comforting.
Deb is about to get a brand new, pink breast cancer bracelet in the mail, because she is the lucky winner of this pretty giveaway prize. Congratulations, Deb!
Thanks to Dawn at Out of the Blue Delivered for donating this bracelet, and for raising awareness about a disease that too many of us must fight.
The toughest part of my dance with breast cancer was losing my hair. Seems crazy, doesn’t it, that a tumor was living in my body, threatening to take my entire life away, and I was worried about my hair. Yea, crazy. I know that now that I’m alive, probably because the same drugs that left me bald also wiped out a treacherous disease. Still, it’s heartbreaking to lose a headful of hair. Even Farrah Fawcett, who is courageously fighting her own cancer battle, hung onto her famous hair for as long as she could, only succumbing recently to the toxic hair-stealing chemotherapy drugs.
The reality of cancer treatment is that many people will lose their hair. And lots of them, like me, will determine it a tragedy. That’s why the Look Good … Feel Better (LGFB) program exists — to help women face the challenge of a lifetime. LGFB (organized by the American Cancer Society) offers workshops to help cancer survivors feel better. I attended one, and I learned how to draw on eyebrows (yes, chemo takes those too), apply make-up on blotchy skin and cover my head with wigs and scarves. I went home with my very own cosmetic kit, matched to my skin tone, and I met a whole bunch of women walking in shoes that were much like mine. LGFB also offers one-on-one consultations, self-help materials and a 24/7 toll free information and help line — 1-800-395-LOOK.
Take advantage of LGFB if you can. And suggest it to any loved ones who might need it. And do you know of any survivors who deserve to win a trip to NYC (you, maybe)? Check out this contest. LGFB is celebrating its 20th anniversary by searching for five Women of Hope they can pamper with a complimentary make-over and a trip to the annual DreamBall, a black-tie gala and the program’s largest annual fundraiser.
By the way, that’s Nancy up top. She’s a LGFB participant. Doesn’t she look good?
Here I sit in a chemo chair in February 2005, getting dosed with the toxic drugs that are hopefully saving my life, while my mom sits nearby, holding my baby niece Jordan. This lovely man toured the infusion center on this Friday, singing a personalized song to each patient in my similar predicament. He sang about me, my mom and Jordan — the two girls who sat with me for every chemo session. Click on the photo to start video.
I haven’t been watching much of “Grey’s Anatomy” lately, but I do know that Katerine Hiegl’s character Izzie Stevens has cancer, so when I caught tonight’s episode, I was somewhat prepared for the storyline. What I wasn’t prepared for was my reaction to the end of the show, when Izzie pulls fistfuls of hair from her head.
She cried.
I cried.
I cried big, sobbing tears, because even though I am almost five years removed from that same helpless, hopeless feeling, it was still there, right in the pit of my stomach, waiting to be called up.
My cancer memories are vivid. Every one of them. But nothing is as vivid as the feeling that suffocated me the day my hair started falling out, when it washed from my head in the shower and gathered in the drain, and wound around my brush, and then covered my pillowcase when I woke up the next morning.
“That was the worst,” I told my husband as “Grey’s Anatomy” ended tonight and Izzie sat in a hospital bed with a completely bald head. “You survived it,” John said. Yes, I did. But I’ll never forget it.
A friend asked me the other day what I suggest she buy her neighbor who is in the midst of breast cancer treatment. I gave her three ideas. First, I suggested this inspirational book by Dr. Bernie Siegel. It’s all about exceptional patients, and it will convince you that the right attitude really does heal.
Then I recommended this book by Dr. Susan Love. I was once told it’s the bible on breast cancer, and now that I’ve consulted it for my every breast cancer question, worry and freak-out, I know that every breast cancer girl should have this book by her bedside. Dr. Love knows her stuff, and she explains it like she’s a trusted friend with all the answers.
And then there are socks — comfy, cozy, fuzzy socks. I got yellow ones in the mail (Thanks, Ginger!) when I was knee deep in chemotherapy, and they really saved the day. There’s nothing like feeling all warm and toasty when the world is crashing down around you.
Every time I look down into my kitchen sink, I see this breast cancer strainer drain. A mommy friend gave it to me, way back when I was knee deep in chemotherapy, not a hair on my head. This momma was one of many who dropped by meals for me and my boys, and along with the food she delivered on her assigned night, she brought me this.
If you’re looking for a simple, yet meaningful and not-so-expensive gift for someone touched by breast cancer, this just might fit the bill. Click right here to purchase your very own.
The first time they accessed my port for chemo. My chest is pretty flat because they haven’t filled my expanders with saline yet.
My sister cutting my hair. This was soooooo hard. My boys were watching. Very emotional time for me.
The finished shave. It felt really weird.
A big hug from 3 of my boys. They were very supportive, even though it was very traumatic for them, having to watch my head being shaved.
Post chemo. You can see that I’ve lost most of my eyebrows and lashes. My face is a little puffy from the steroids they put me on during chemo. This was a good day – I was waiting at the airport for my son to get off the plane – he was returning after 2 years on an LDS mission in Japan.
Want to show me what you think breast cancer looks like? Please send me a photo that captures the essence of breast cancer, and I will display it here. Email to jackidonaldson@gmail.com, make sure your shot is at least 450 pixels wide and tell me something about the photo. No blurry pics, please.
Iris says, “Much more than cancer, are friends with whom you can rely on during the most difficult stages of treatment, they do look as a beautiful field of lavender. I had the privilege of being supported by my friends, who planned for my an amazing visit to flower fields of lavender in Quebec after my last session of chemotherapy.”
Want to show me what you think breast cancer looks like? Please send me a photo that captures the essence of breast cancer, and I will display it here. Email to jackidonaldson@gmail.com, make sure your shot is at least 450 pixels wide and tell me something about the photo. No blurry pics, please.
Lisa says, “My mom is on her second fight with breast cancer. She was diagnosed this last time near Mother’s Day and I was getting married in September. Last June she had a bilateral mastectomy, then 18 weeks of chemo, and then 30 treatments of radiation. During her first appointment with the oncologist she told her doctors to do what they needed to do, but she was going to my wedding (in Vegas) in September. I offered to change the wedding and she didn’t want me to do that. It was right in the middle of her chemo and she said it was a goal she set in her mind to get to that point. She went and got her chemo treatment that morning before we jumped in the car to go. She had all her instructions and whatnot in case she needed to go to a hospital out of town. Nothing was going to stop her … through out everything she kept the most positive attitude. She is amazing.
My day was so wonderful and special. I married a fabulous guy, but also a lot of that was b/c my mom was able to be there. She is the rock in my family and I was so blessed that she was able to attend.”
Want to show me what you think breast cancer looks like? Please send me a photo that captures the essence of breast cancer, and I will display it here. Email to jackidonaldson@gmail.com, make sure your shot is at least 450 pixels wide and tell me something about the photo. No blurry pics, please.
Tracy says, “I decided to shave my head before my hair started falling out. I asked my family and some friends to come with me so that I wouldn’t lose my nerve. It was an extremely emotional day for everyone as you can see from the picture of my husband and children. But what I found out in the end is that I still looked like me when I looked in the mirror and once I accepted it, my family did the same. One of my favorite pictures of all time is the picture of my newly shorn head with the hands of my husband, my mother and my two children on it. I think it shows strength and acceptance and that has been the story of my breast cancer journey. Strength from family and friends, strength of my own and acceptance that these are the cards we were dealt. I have recounted the entire head-shaving day on my own blog and find that it is one of my favorite entries.”
Want to show me what you think breast cancer looks like? Please send me a photo that captures the essence of breast cancer, and I will display it here. Email to jackidonaldson@gmail.com, make sure your shot is at least 450 pixels wide and tell me something about the photo. No blurry pics, please.
I admit it, I’m concerned about my weight. Not worried about it, just concerned about in a way that makes me work at keeping it right where it is. But I don’t exercise and eat right (yesterday doesn’t count) for weight reasons alone. I also do it for my overall health, which really is a bigger concern for me than the numbers that stare up at me from my scale each day.
A healthy lifestyle as it relates to cancer prevention gets a lot of press. It’s pretty much a fact nowadays that by eating certain foods, ditching all the junk and working up a good sweat most days of the week, we can ward off all sorts of disease. Simple stuff. Also pretty high pressure.
Now that I’ve had cancer, I know that the way I live my life can quite possibly keep me from getting it again. So I do my best. But when I cheat and eat that plate of chicken nachos or skip a day (or week or month) on the workout circuit, I feel guilty, as if I’m rejecting the medicine that can keep me well. It’s a weird mix of motivation and burden. Knowing I have the key to a long, healthy life makes me want to eat veggies for all of time. But knowing I have the key to a long, healthy life makes me feel like I’m doing myself a major disservice when I steal fries of my kids’ dinner plates.
I know, I’m human, and I can’t be perfect all that time. Still, it weighs on my mind. Which is why today, I walked for 3.5 miles, and tomorrow, I plan to lift a few weights. A fruit salad is on the menu for breakfast this morning, and I’m recommitting to a ban on most packaged foods. It’s the least I can do to ensure I’m here for the long haul.
Today, I shampooed, conditioned and combed my old wig. It sits drying on my bathroom counter. When it’s all done and pretty, I’ll mail it off to my friend Carmen, who just the other day had her first chemotherapy for breast cancer.
This is not Carmen’s first experience with chemo, and it’s not the first time I’ve sent her my wig. This is her second dance with the breast demon, you see, and so she’s had chemo before, she’s lost her hair before and she’s worn my wig before. She’s not happy she must do it all again. I’m not either. I am happy to help, though, and that’s why I’m eager to get my hair to her, so she can be ready when everything comes tumbling from her scalp for the second time. Hopefully, for the last time.
Dear Carmen,
Best wishes to you. I know life must seem crappy and uncertain right now, but there is one thing you should know for sure: You will look so much better wearing this wig the that styrofoam head wearing it right now. Your eyes are more sparkly, your skin is more radiant and your nose is so much prettier (what the heck happened to that thing?). You are beautiful, my friend — hair, no hair or fake hair. And when you get all your new parts, you will be one hot momma.
Hang in there, Carmen — your battle might be new, but your fierceness is not. Fight with all your might, and you will again emerge from the darkness. And remember these words, because if cancer ever invades my body again, I want you to throw them right back at me.
I’m still fighting cancer. Sort of. It’s my hair, actually. It’s the hair cancer gave me that causes me to resist. It’s the curl, which really is more like a wave, that makes me plug in my flat iron each morning and straighten every bend and turn in my once poker-straight, once very blond hair.
Yesterday, I let my brownish, curly-ish hair go. I shampooed it, dried it and let every strand do as it pleased. I was OK with it at first. Then I went out to lunch, saw my reflection in the glass door of my favorite Heavenly Ham restaurant and realized I’m a straight-hair kind of girl. Flat looks better on me. Full and fluffy looks better on other people.
I couldn’t wait to get home. First, though, I had to get my boys from school. Joey’s first words when he spotted me waiting for him outside the front doors: “What happened to your hair?” Then I greeted Danny. “Why is your hair curly?” he said in the car after tracking me with his eyes for a while. “I just did it differently,” I told him. “Do you like it?” Joey piped in: “It’s not my favorite.”
It’s not my favorite either. Damn cancer. Why must it give me curly hair? Sure, it’s better than no hair. It’s just not ideal hair. Which is why I fight it. Today, the flat iron comes out again.
The following article was previously published in Gainesville Parenting Magazine.
Danny wants to be a dog walker when he grows up. He’s had a bit of practice walking his Nana’s dogs and is pretty sure this career path suits him well. If it doesn’t pan out, he has another option.
“When I grow up, I want to be a football guy,” 5-year-old Danny told his daddy the other day. If he ever asks me for guidance, I’ll push him in the doggie direction. It may not be as glamorous a job as football, but it’s got to be easier on the body. Should Danny opt for football, though, and end up needing medical attention, his brother Joey can respond.
Joey wants to be a doctor. He sprang his decision on me one day while we were walking through the parking deck at North Florida Regional Medical Center. We happened to be on the level where doctors park their cars, and we were admiring all the fancy vehicles when it clicked for 7-year-old Joey: If doctors have nice cars and nice cars cost lots of money, then doctors must be rich. On the spot, he named his future profession. He will be a doctor—or a “blogger.”
“I don’t want a job,” Joey declared recently while strolling around the yard. “I want to be a blogger, like mommy.”
I guess blogging—and all the other writing I do—doesn’t seem like much of a job to a kid who just knows his mom is with him all the time. That’s precisely why it’s such an ideal endeavor for me. I get to stay home with my kiddos, write when they are in school, and then seem completely unemployed when they return home. Still, I have a job. Joey will realize this some day, when he figures out the ways of the world. For now, I’ll let him bask in the simplicity of life, until his lease on this gift runs out.
There’s something so innocent and basic about how children approach life, something that makes it easy to dream of walking dogs and fixing bodies one minute and playing football and blogging the next. Wouldn’t it be grand if adult minds could arrive, if only for a moment, at the very place where kids imaginations run wild—the place where everything seems to make perfect sense.
After Joey announced his plans to become a doctor and just before a school drop-off one morning, I noticed a slick, sporty little car driving next to our worn and tattered mini-van.
“Look at that nice car,” I commented to my boys. Looking in the direction of the woman driving this cool ride, Joey said with absolute certainty: “She’s a doctor.”
Yep, life is simple for little ones. And how fun it is to be the mom of two of the greatest dreamers around—and to have a job that allows me the time to marvel at the wonder of my glorious guys.
There you are, plugging along with your day, happy as can be and fully expecting that nothing can disrupt your groove. All the while, something deadly is growing inside your breast and even though you do your self-exams, perhaps even get mammograms, you have no idea it’s there. But it is. And it continues to grow, sometimes for as long as eight to 10 years before it can be detected. And then the day arrives when it appears, maybe underneath your fingertips in the shower, maybe in a annual exam, maybe in the form of dimpling skin or nipples that suddenly invert, maybe after your infant refuses to breastfeed because it becomes apparent that something is wrong. But there it is. The tumor. The mass. The cancer. And it wrecks the day. Totally and completely wrecks the day. To be honest, cancer wrecks many days. But the first cancer day really sucks.
My friend’s sister-in-law just had her first cancer day. And so I wrote her an e-mail and said this:
Breast cancer is both a horrible and wonderful disease. It might be hard to believe the wonderful part at this moment and I can tell you for sure that in my early days with the disease, there was absolutely no bright side. Now, however, I have this head full of hair I like better than ever, I have a writing career that was born from cancer, I have a deeper love and appreciation for my family and friends, I worry and stress less (well, sometimes) and I have met some of the most glorious survivors who assure me I am not alone.
It’s my somewhat standard message to those new to the disease. And I mean every word of it. Cancer can be horrible, especially on that first day. But the days do get better. They can even return to happy. And then you get back to plugging along, happy as can be. Am I fully expecting nothing can disrupt my groove? No, not anymore. I am prepared for the ball to drop at any moment. I don’t think it will. But I’m ready.
1) I have two beautiful boys who made big entrances into the world: One was 10 pounds, 9 ounces and the other was 10 pounds, 2 ounces. No C-sections. Just lots of drugs, lots of a pushing, a vacuum and two whopper episiotomies.
2) My big boys left me with big tummy skin. Five years after the second baby arrived, I had a tummy tuck. I must say it was one of the best moves I’ve ever made. Something about sitting down and not having a roll of skin flop over the top of my pants is quite liberating.
3) My biggest boy (Joey, he’s 8 years old) won’t stop growing. The kid wears my same shoe size, is something like four feet nine and weighs well into the 80s. His doc thinks he may be six feet six when he “grows up.”
4) A tummy tuck is not the only surgery I’ve had. Before kids, I had a breast reduction and lost 4 pounds of dense, heavy tissue. I went from a 34 DDD to a 34 C. Another great move.
5) My reduction may have saved my life, because 8 years later, a cancerous tumor showed up in my left breast. Had all that tissue not been removed, the mass could have been buried deep inside, detectable perhaps only at a late stage.
6) My breast cancer was caught early (I found it while taking a shower). It was stage I, with no spread to lymph nodes. Still, it was aggressive and so my treatment was quite harsh.
7) Being bald was the toughest thing I’ve ever had to endure.
8) I am a licensed cosmetologist. Thought I didn’t want to go to college, so I did a vocational program in high school. Then realized I did want to go to college and spent the next seven years there.
9) I got my undergrad degree from Kent State University and my grad degree from the University of Florida.
10) I was born in Ohio and lived the majority of my years there. Yet Florida seems more like home, maybe because my mom and sister live here.
11) Someone I know thinks my mom, sister and I look exactly alike. I guess that means I look 62 or my mom looks like she’s in her 30s. I’m going with the latter.
12) For 30-some years, my sister and I were never told we looked alike. Then my hair grew back brown instead of the blonde it had always been, and it’s like we’re twins or something.
13) I have very poor vision. What someone with perfect eyesight can see from 400 feet, I can only see from 20 feet. I hid my glasses in my bedroom closet for the whole year I was in first grade. Wonder if that made things worse.
14) It took me 37 years to learn how to eat well. I figure a healthy lifestyle is my key to surviving cancer so no red meat, alcohol or sweets for me. I only drink water (although not enough, I’m pretty sure) and try to consume lots of fruits and veggies. I watch calories and fat but sometimes go overboard on the bad carbs. I just can’t resist restaurant bread.
15) I’ve been known to exercise obsessively (to maintain my weight and stay healthy too) but am sad to report that I’m just not feeling the motivation lately. Burnout, maybe.
16) I’m a neat freak but not a clean freak. I don’t clean once a week or anything, just when I notice the dust piling up. But everything must be in place at all times.
17) I traveled to Europe just after graduating from high school and for the whole month I was away, I wanted to be home. I never want to go back.
18) I hate to travel. I hate packing, driving or flying long distances, living out of suitcases. I was miserable on a flight to Hawaii many years ago, and while traveling from Ohio to Florida as a kid, I could will myself to sleep for almost the entire drive.
19) My boys have never seen snow but can’t wait to see it. And I can’t imagine ever getting them to a snowy location, because it will require travel.
20) My boys want a baby sister. I don’t want another baby.
21) I miss my grandma, who died three weeks after my second guy was born.
22) I love candles and silence.
23) I love when my boys are really happy. My heart breaks when they are really sad. 24) I have been married for 13 years. John remembers exactly what I was wearing the day we met. I remember that he complimented me on my cute toes.
25) I’ve worked at a hair salon, a yogurt + tanning salon, as an RA at Kent State and a judicial officer at UF, as a college administrator, a preschool assistant teacher and as a server of booze at Blossom Music Center in Ohio. My favorite jobs, though, without question: Mommy and writer.
. A mommy friend gave it to me, way back when I was knee deep in chemotherapy, not a hair on my head. This momma was one of many who dropped by meals for me and my boys, and along with the food she delivered on her assigned night, she brought me this.
