Sending out some well wishes to a few friends — Carmen, who, on her second run with breast cancer, is recovering from tram flap surgery. And Lynea, she’s navigating the murky waters that come flooding in after a new breast cancer diagnosis. Also, Stacie, sporting a newly-shaved head as she fights her way through the burden of chemotherapy. Genne, too. She is healing from a mastectomy and reconstruction, and the whole ordeal has challenged her to the core.
If you are somewhere along the path of cancer survival and would like a wish sent your way, please leave a comment and tell me what’s going on in your world.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
Breast cancer looks like a lot of things. It looks like scared faces, surgery scars, bald heads, ports, radiation tattoos, growing hair, the color pink, after-treatment celebrations and so much more.
What does breast cancer look like to you?
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.
Above photo: My journey through breast cancer, illustrated through images of hair, or lack thereof.
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 must admit it’s tough for me to write this post, to share with you passages from a woman’s very personal diary, a young woman who had breast cancer, fought it and then passed away. It’s tough because it makes me sad that Laura, a young wife and mom to little girl Charlotte, had to die. It’s tough because Laura had the same disease I had, and that makes me consider my own mortality (again). I also feel guilty, in a weird sort of way, that I’m living and she isn’t.
It’s all so unfair, the way breast cancer swoops in, takes over and does what it wants. There’s no changing it at this moment in time, I know, but I like to think that awareness is a pretty powerful tool for clobbering the disease. Because if we know about breast cancer, how to help prevent it, how to empower those who have it and how to honor those whose lives are lost along the way, we can surely make strides. And this is why I pay tribute to Laura today.
In May 2006, after experiencing breast-feeding difficulties, Laura was diagnosed with stage three breast cancer in her left breast and surrounding lymph nodes. She went through the “ringer,” she wrote, thought she was in the clear and then the disease can back.
June 8, 2006
I started chemotherapy today. More on that later, but for now, I feel seasick, mild headache between eyebrows, a little warm. Drinking lots of water and staying still. Numbness coating legs, feet, knees so a little wobbly. Loud noises are a little startling. Foggy brain.
Late June/Early July 2006
I have breast cancer, And now everyone else knows it, too, because my hair fell out and I have to wear scarves. But it’s okay because I’m getting better.
After a trip to the emergency room, a four-day stay in the hospital for low white blood cell counts, viral and bacterial infections and surgeries, Laura wrote:
I am learning to find a deeper peace with God.
Chad writes that things go well for a bit. Laura feels better, they don’t need to rely on volunteers as much and Laura does a little potty-training with Charlotte. Chad and Laura are optimistic. So are doctors. Then things go downhill. Laura experiences severe pain, suspicious spots are found on her hip and Laura has back surgery to fix a fractured vertebra. Her disease had progressed.
After contemplating the real possibility that she might die from her cancer, Laura wrote a letter to her husband, Chad. A few of the sentences she wrote:
I’d like to be creamated because it takes up less space, is cleaner, and quick/easy/cheaper.
If you want to remarry (which is fine, you deserve it), find someone who wants to be a good mother to Charlotte. Maybe someone who could give her some brothers and sisters.
Please let her be in contact with my family, even if it’s only once a year at the holidays if you choose to move away. They love her, and I want her to really know and love them, too.
On November 13, 2007, Laura passed away. But her legacy lives on in My Life With Laura: A Love Story, a book dedicated to little Charlotte, so she will forever know her mother.
It’s skin cancer, that little red spot on my arm that I watched and watched and watched. It must have taken me months to get my butt into the office of my dermatologist. What’s wrong with me? I know what’s wrong: Even after having a serious form of cancer, I still believe the darn disease isn’t going to happen to me. A red patch on my arm? Probably nothing. So I plug along, until it hits me that the thing isn’t going away, that its changing shape and color is probably a sign of something I don’t want. Cancer.
I think I knew the day of my biopsy what the outcome would be. And my phone call this morning confirmed it. Basal cell skin cancer. Bummer. It’s not a big, scary deal, though. Most skin cancers are of this variety and are largely curable.
I’m headed to have this cancer removed on Monday. A doctor will dig deep and remove everything she can. And I won’t have it anymore. And then hopefully, I will learn my lesson and report to her office for anything else that looks remotely suspicious. That’s my plan, anyway.
Danny recently made his Nanny a thank-you card for the Christmas gifts she gave him. He drew pictures of her favorite things—a butterfly, a flower, a swimming pool, a rainbow, an alligator, a snail and a wolf (a cat is what he intended, but he said he couldn’t draw one). When I told him I really liked the snail, he announced that he would make me something. “It’s a secret,” he said. “Don’t look.”
I didn’t look. But I couldn’t help but notice the fit he threw when he messed up on his masterpiece. Crayons went flying. Scissors hit the floor. Groans and moans filled the room. I was mad. I told him his behavior was not appropriate, that he needed to calm down and start again. He eventually did. I praised his ability to recover and told him, “I love you, Danny.”
“I love you, too,” he said. “A little bit.”
I’m OK with this. I know Danny loves me more than he lets on. He proved it by making me four perfect snails, one for each person in our family (”This one is daddy, this one is you, this one is me when I was a baby and this one is Joey when he was two”). He put them in brown lunch bag, folded it over, taped it closed and asked how to spell “Jacki.” I told him. He wrote it down. And then he presented me with his gift.
“It doesn’t matter if the letters are backwards,” he declared while handing over the bag. No it doesn’t. A backwards “J” works just fine for me.
My four little snails, drawn with orange marker and cut out in kindergarten fashion, sit next to me at this very moment. They are beautiful. And so is Danny. I really love that guy. A lot.
First, my hair was blond. Then it was gone. It grew back dark and curly. Now it is less curly (but only entirely straight when I flat iron it). And it’s lighter (without the assistance of any chemicals), like it’s going back to its original color. Funny what cancer did to my hair. And how I like it better now than ever before.
It’s an emotional time for reader Laura. She’s just completed chemotherapy for breast cancer and will soon head for a mastectomy and reconstruction. A perfect time for a shiny, new necklace, don’t you think?
Lucky Laura. She won the hand-crafted breast cancer awareness necklace that my blogger friend Christine made and offered for my recent giveaway.
“I look so forward to wearing it,” Laura tells me. “I feel honored!”
Today is Love Your Body Day. We’re talking about it on That’s Fit, readers here on my personal blog are sharing what they love most about their bodies for my latest giveaway—click here, reveal your most prized body part, and enter to win a dazzler of a dress—and now, I’ll tell you what I love about this 38-year-old body that belongs to me.
To be honest, I’ve always been a bit hard on my body, generally wishing it was thinner, stronger, tanner, tighter, more toned. I’ve even gone as far as reducing my once-too-big boobs and tucking in my sagging-skin tummy. I explain my breast reduction as necessary for comfort—four pounds of heavy, dense tissue were removed—and I justify the tummy tuck too. Comfort again. After seven years, I just couldn’t deal anymore with the excess post-pregnancy stuff hanging from my middle. Comfort aside, though, I admit both surgeries gave me an appearance I wanted: Small boobs and a flat tummy, both better matches for my other body parts.
I love my boobs and my tummy now. Truly love them. There are other parts I love too—parts never reconstructed or enhanced, like my toes.
John told me on one of our first dates that my toes are cute. I agree. They look best in flip-flops, painted just right with my favorite really dark color.
I also love my hair. Never thought I’d say that after shaving off my blond locks nearly four years ago in preparation for the big chemotherapy fall-out. But my hair grew back better. And my hair stylist Trippe cuts it perfectly, which makes me love him almost as much as I love my hair.
Other parts I love: My arms, for toning up so nicely; my legs, for allowing me to run lots of miles; my brain, which is getting smarter by the day, thanks to second-grade homework and four tests per week; the whole darn thing, really. I mean, this body of mine delivered two whopper-sized baby boys and beat breast cancer too. I love it. Simply love it.
What do you love about your body? Name something. Anything. Your eyes, your ears, your lips, your fingernails. Surely, there’s something that makes you happy. Think about it, and share by leaving a comment, either here on this post or on the giveaway post, where you stand to win something pretty.
One day, while in the midst of chemotherapy and walking for exercise, a neighbor noticed me and waved. A few days later, she told my sister: “That’s so great your sister didn’t lose her hair.” Ah, but I did. My neighbor just couldn’t tell because my wig was pretty darn deceiving.
My pretty-darn-deceiving wig came from a pretty great place called Hip Hats With Hair. I bought something called Underhair, which isn’t a full wig but this really soft cotton thing with hair on the sides and back. Hats, scarves, or wraps go on top. There are other products—the PonySport, the Scarfabulous, the PonyMode, and the SydneySwim. All made from human hair, these cool cancer cover-ups can be cut, washed, dried, and styled. You can even request hair samples and check out various colors, textures, and lengths.
These hip hair options are not cheap (they can cost hundreds of dollars) but for people like me, who want to look not so bald, price might be a non-issue. Looking like I didn’t have cancer was my issue. If it’s yours too, check out this pretty great place, right here.
Oh, get your doctor to write you a prescription for a wig and you might save some bucks. My insurance covered $40 for me.
. 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.
written by Laura’s Husband, Chad Moutray. If you like what you read and want more, 
