Compare the Hair

Like most chemo patients, I lost my hair.  It started to flee from my head just as I was getting my second infusion, two weeks after round one.  Once it started to go, I went ahead and had my friend Becky come over and give me a buzz cut, as I thought it would make the whole process of losing my hair a little less messy and less disheartening.

One question that seems to arise, though is this:  What will my hair be like when it grows back?

• Will it grow in splotches?
• Will it be really curly and frizzy?
• Will it be thinner?
• Will it be the same color?
• Will it have the same texture?

It seems to me that all I knew of were survivors whose hair grew in curlier and wavier than what they had had before.  For some, their hair grew splotchy, although evening out later.

My hair was salt/pepper in color.  My hair was coarse.  My hair had a natural wave to it.  My hair was thick.  I often had women tell me they wish they had hair like mine because the salt/pepper mix was evenly distributed and my hair had a nice wave to it.  I wore my hair somewhat short, and so all I did was "wash and wear."

When my hair began to grow back, it at first looked whiter/greyer than it had been.  I thought I would be all right with that, considering what I had endured.  That would be something to be expected because of the trauma to my body.  My hair did not come in in splotches, and so about 10 weeks after my final chemo infusion, I had enough hair to opt to no longer wear a wig or hat when I went out anywhere.  I did not mind that my hair was short.  I just was glad to be able to let go of the coverings.  About a month after that, I had my sister-in-law give me my first trim, primarily around my ears.  The hairs she cut were white and fine.  Anyone who rubbed my head -- and it was funny ones who were curious and did -- DIFFERENT!

The challenge has been how to style it.  I do not like to put stuff in my hair; but, it tends to hang straight.  My hair is still soft.  My hair is thick, but not in the same way it was because of the texture of my hair now.  The curls I would get at the ends of my hair in the back when my hair was getting longer no longer happened.  I could, in a sense, go longer between haircuts. 

Some think that my hair is more a brown/salt color than it was.

So, take a look here and see what it looks like.  The pictures are pre-chemo and post-chemo.

 

Thoughts That Come and Go

Although I am considered NED (no evidence of disease), I have to admit that reading or hearing that someone has died and cancer is the attributing factor can give me a quick jolt.  A dose of reality, I guess.

Why is it, then, that I am a bit unsettled?  Statistically, on this side of the initial battle, I am in the 67% - 80% of cancer survivors who should make it to the five-year mark and beyond.  My type of cancer has a better chance of being subdued for years, compared to some types.  That figure is for someone categorized at the stage at which I was categorized.  Those I read or hear about could have been at a riskier stage, or they may have survived their disease for many years.  Rarely do I know.

I sometimes wonder, then, what will be written about me and my life, should I succumb to this disease before the Lord returns.  Will my life have made a difference in the lives of my family and of others?   What would I want my memorial service to be like?  Where would I want it to be held?  What am I doing with the time that I currently have?

I do not dwell on these thoughts for long, mostly because I am reminded that not one of us has the guarantee of another minute, hour, day, month, or year.  It does not matter if we are dealing with a disease or not.  Our lives could be over in a flash.  What matters is whether or not we are ready for what lies beyond the grave.  I am.

I think that being jolted a little when confronted with the reality that is cancer is another part of life as a survivor.

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This part of November takes my thoughts to my friend Val, who lost her cancer battle three years ago this month. .. 

Sometimes

Sometimes I get weary of all of that is associated with being a cancer survivor.  I don't like October, with all the attention given to breast cancer.  Why?  Because it seems to me that other cancers deserve more attention than they do.  How did breast cancer become the popular cancer?

Sometimes I get weary of not being able to sleep in the positions I used to.  I just can't.  I know that it does affect how much sleep I get nights.  I rarely have a really good sleep because I have yet to find what works best for me, from new position to perhaps different pillows.  I get weary of the chore it is to get turned over from one side to the other or even from my back to either side.

Sometimes I forget what I have been through and its impact on my life and that fact that some things will never be the same.  Sometimes I want to think that life is back to normal -- but it's not.

Sometimes I do think about the possibility that the cancer could return, maybe some place else.  Sometimes I forget that I have a 67% chance of being here in 2017 and 33% of not -- not taking into account the fact that Jesus may come back before then.

Sometimes I wish that my joints and bones were not so stiff after a day at work.  Not sure if it is the floors at school or my age or my genes or side effects of my medicine.

Sometimes I wish I would quit talking about my "battle."  Is it because I need to?  Is it because I don't want others to forget what I have dealt with and am dealing with?  Is it because I have to remind myself of the reality of my life now?

Sometimes I think of the time when none of this will affect me anymore.  God has promised there will be no more sickness in Heaven.  Wow!

-------------------------

The timeless theme, Earth and Heaven will pass away

It's not a dream, God will make all things new that day

Gone is the curse from which I stumbled and fell

Evil is banished to eternal hell

No more night, no more pain

No more tears, never crying again

And praises to the great, "I am"

We will live in the light of the risen Lamb

See all around, now the nations bow down to sing

The only sound is the praises to Christ, our King

Slowly the names from the book are read

I know the King, so there's no need, no need to dread

No more night, no more pain

No more tears, never crying again

And praises to the great, "I am"

We will live in the light of the risen Lamb

See over there, there's a mansion

Oh, that's prepared just for me

Where I will live with my Savior eternally

And there will be no more night, no more pain

No more, no more tears, never crying again

And praises to the great, "I am"

We will live in the light of the risen Lamb

All praises to the great, "I am"

We're gonna live in the lights of the risen Lamb

Written by Walter S. Harrah • Copyright © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4iPIi7sunEU

A Year Post-Chemo

July 16, 2012, was the day I finished chemo.  July 16, 2013, was the day I joined 11 others from my church to head to Juneau, Alaska, to help missionaries with the building of their place of worship.  What a difference a year makes! 

My husband helped with the building project.  I helped with the cooking and laundry.  We were gone for about two weeks.

I found my energy levels were not too lacking, although sleep posed a challenge because of the amount of daylight hours (about 20) there.  All of us ladies tended to take a breather afternoons.  I still find my left arm just does not work as well as it once would, but that is probably how it will be because of the amount of surgery and the scar tissue.  That challenge did not really hamper me, although I find that my arm muscles are sorer than usual -- even four or so days after getting home.

God is good.

Santa Beard

I think that I have had a "hair explosion."  It's not just because my head hair is growing quite well -- filling in well and evenly.  I look in the mirror and see what looks like the signs of a white beard on the sides of my face.  UGH!  It's not so much evident on the front part of my face as it is looking at the sides.  It is as if I have grown sideburns. 

I take my fingers to tweak the hair.  There is enough of it that I can do that.  UGH!

My questions have been these:

1)  Is this something new that will always be a visible part of me?  Will it eventually disappear?
2)  Can other people see this as well as I can?
3)  Should I try to trim it or should I just leave it?  I don't want to inadvertently create a more "whiskery" look.

The hair is soft and fine.  It appears that its visibility has a lot to do with the brightness of the lights where I am.

I have read up on this.  I have also asked my friends Carol and Andi about it.  Do I do anything about it or do I just leave it?  This is what I have learned:

Some women shave the area and then wish later that they had not.
Some women shave the area and the "Santa" hair does not return.
Some women just leave it to see what happens, as the thoughts are that this is like baby hair and will eventually disappear.

I can't say that I have heard of this hair being dark or thick.  It seems to grow in light and white.  It is sometimes called "Santa Beard" or some other Santa descriptor.

So, I'll have to see what happens.  I have asked some of my friends how well they see the "Santa Beard," and they will say that they do not notice it until I get up close to them and show them.  I would say, then, that I could deal with this, if it does not disappear over time.

I have decided not to shave it.  I did take some scissors and lightly trimmed the sides a teeny bit, but I think that will not be a problem.  I will just take my chances, believing that this will eventually calm down and not be noticeable, even to me.

De-ported!

Got my port out after having it implanted under my skin, up near my clavicle, 9½ months ago.

The purpose of the port was to make things easier for me and my veins during the period in which I had to do chemotherapy.  Infusions, as well as blood draws, were done through this port.

I remember the day I had it put in -- March 23, 2012.  I had been told the Monday before this by my oncologist that I was going to have to do chemotherapy after all.  We would start that the first week in April.  In the meantime, his office would contact my surgeon to make arrangements to have the port inserted.  As it so  happened, I had an appointment that Monday afternoon with the surgeon.  By the time of my appointment, he knew about my need for a port.  He had on hand a sample of one to show me and to tell me what he was going to be doing -- that Friday morning.

I showed up at the hospital early on March 23.  Although the insertion was to be an out-patient procedure, I was put under for the process.  When I came to, I initially wanted to sleep more, until I realized that if I wanted to leave the hospital, I needed to wake up.

I was patched.  The surgeon had a portable x-ray machine come to my room to get some images to be sure that everything looked good as far as the port was concerned.

My port had its first use the first week in April, when I went for blood work that was preceding my starting chemo.  The nurse had a gadget that was a needle made for use with ports.  She would insert that nasty needle into the "target" that was my port, a raised area that could easily be seen and felt.  The needle had some small tubes attached to it.  These were used to feed things into the port.  Always we would begin with a saline solution.  We knew things were good to go IF when we got a blood return.

Almost always, getting that blood return was not easy.  I would then have to stretch out flatter than I was.  If that did not work, I had to raise my arm.  If that did not work, then I had to turn to my side.  If that did not work, then I had to cough.  It seemed I just might have to stand on my head . . .  Eventually, though, we'd get it.

After I completed chemo, I still had my port.  One reason was that I was needing to have two more CT scans, one the end of July and another the end of November, to be sure some spots seen on an earlier CT scan were not a possible problem.  From the middle of July until the first part of December, I had to go get my port flushed every six weeks.  That would be the usual pattern until the time came when I could get it taken out.

I was excited when the oncologist told me that I could get my port out.  Arrangements were made with my surgeon, and the procedure was taken care of last Tuesday.  Again, it was at the hospital, early.  This time, though, I just had a local anesthetic.  I knew what was happening the entire time.

The gross part was when Dr. Bang was tugging at the port to free it.  He would also cut away the tissue that had grown around the port.  I heard him scraping it, also.  UGH!  Finally, it was free and out.  Pressure was put on my vein, up by my clavicle, to stop the bleeding where the tube from the port had been inserted in March.  I was patched up.  DONE!

I have said to several of my friends that I look at this past year as a time when I have been engaged in a battle.  I am battling a disease.  Getting my port out was an indication to me that for now, I am winning that battle.

To God be the glory.