Part 8: Shampoo and Tampons, Chemo 1
My last meal was Saturday dinner. Tuesday morning I packed my chemo bag. At the chemo centre, they took blood from my finger to measure my white blood cells, red blood cells, leukocytes and iron (and about 20 other things) to make sure I was strong enough to go ahead with the chemo. Before each chemo, I met with Dr. H to review the bloodwork and anything else relevant to my treatment plan. Then I sat for six hours with chemo poison infusing into my veins, my hands and feet in a contraption to cool them to icy temperatures in an attempt to avoid neuropathy. I was wrapped in blankets and an electric heating pad to keep the rest of my body warm. Then I would go home, and the chemo side effects would unfold gradually over the following days. My first meal was Thursday.
The chemo side effects were significant in number, but tolerable. They would evolve over the course of several days. It would start with fatigue and inability to sleep. Difficulty regulating my temperature and reduced ability to keep my body warm. Sore throat in the connection between the throat, ears and teeth. Sore ears. Sore teeth. Headache. Constipation. Mouth that tasted like I ate the contents of an ashtray. Dry skin, eyes and mouth. Swollen legs. Restless legs and body. Constant dripping nose. Aching muscles. Aching bones. The worst side effect was the bone pain, which by day four and five was pretty darn painful in my knees, shins and back. But I was always able to do my morning walk and pool dip, as well as something productive every day. On a good day I was able to go to the office like any other day in my life, and on a bad day I could at least do household chores and make dinner.
I shaved my hair off on a Saturday in December, 18 days after my first chemo. My hair had been falling out in clumps, and the night before, I had woken up with a hunk of hair in my mouth. I cornered Bruce and said it was time. We went into the bathroom with his clippers, and I asked him to take it down to a buzz cut. We treated this as an item on our to-do list, not an “event.” Although it was entirely unspoken between us, I knew we both felt the hair wasn’t important — we understood that I was in the fight of my life. Having said that, it was a lovely surprise to see that I had a nicely shaped skull.
That afternoon my youngest was in a football tournament, and he asked me to wear my wig. I had purchased a wig in advance, so I put it on, and we went to the tournament. At the tournament, I ran into one of the mothers I didn’t know very well, and we greeted each other with smiles and small talk. As we concluded our brief conversation, she said, “Well, as long as you and the family are all healthy, that’s the important part.” I stood there smiling at her in my wig, feeling like I was lying and ashamed of my newly shaved head, my cancer diagnosis, or myself. Or worse, that I should be ashamed of my bald head, cancer, or myself.
I never did figure out how to wear a wig. Even once my diagnosis was well-known, I didn’t want to wear it. I was not ashamed, and I had nothing to hide. I’m sure people who saw me in my beanies and scarves knew I had cancer. Some people did stare and talk about me — I noticed it a few times on the train, in a restaurant, and on the street. I have no idea what they were saying, but I don’t think they were making fun of me. I choose to believe that they were saying “Good for her, coming to a fancy restaurant.” Or maybe they will remember me someday when they are bald from chemo, and they will feel emboldened to go to a fancy restaurant or to work. Or maybe seeing me helps them encourage a friend not to hide and to keep living, despite whatever challenges they may be facing. My beanies and headgear became, in some small way, an attempt to “normalise” living with cancer, to demonstrate solidarity with others facing similar challenges, and to always choose to live with courage, not shame or fear.
Things began to normalise at home too. I knew we’d found our stride in this crazy cancer journey when Bruce called down to me in my office as he headed out the door to go grocery shopping. He said, “Hey, hon, do you need anything from the store? Tampons, maybe?” Without missing a beat, I yelled back up to him, “Just pick me up some shampoo, please.” Although I couldn’t see his face, I knew he was grinning just like I was, and I felt some peace with our new normal.
I am writing a book about having Ovarian Cancer. If you have or had a gynaecological cancer, this book is for you. If you are caring for someone with a gynaecological cancer, this book is for you.
If you would like an email alert when my book is published, please email me on kristin.m.holter@gmail.com with the subject “Ovarian Cancer book” and I’ll drop you a note as soon as it’s out.
