The New (2016) Version of Me

 Any Felicity fans out there?



This post is long overdue.

These photos -- the first/best photos of me since cutting, losing and regrowing my hair -- were taken back in November. That feels like eons ago. Since then I've had two hair cuts!

New version of me, November 2015

This is 40. And a half.

A friend of mine, Elise, took these photos. I remember feeling happy and free and beautiful that day, and when I look at these photos I see that in my face.

But the truth is, I am still grieving my old self while I am learning to love my new self. It is hard to look at old photos and see the old me. The youthful me, with long, brown hair. I am not quite used to seeing myself with short hair. I am not used to seeing myself so gray. I am not used to seeing so much of my face. I am not used to seeing my body so soft. The newness is hard. Change is hard. 

When I opted to remove my ovaries and tubes -- to willingly enter menopause at 40 -- I didn't consider the emotional impact. I prepared myself for (some of) the physical changes, but I didn't prepare myself for how I'd feel about them. It's not just the hair, it's the aging that happened overnight.

I could just dye my hair (again). And I can grow it out. I can exercise more. I might do all of these things. And don't get me wrong, I do love me. I just got a hair cut I love (it's short and not wavy!). I don't even mind the sparkle. It's a process, though.

When she learned of my diagnosis, Elise offered to take family photos as a gift to me. We finally made it happen this past November when the whole family was in NJ. I think we were a little more than she bargained for: in addition to my husband and two boys, I brought along my parents, my sister, my brother in law, my brother, and Odin the dog.

The family.

Odin was my brother Pete's dog. Pete died in November 2013, and Odin now lives with my parents. Having Odin at the photo shoot was a way to honor Pete's memory and made taking family photos after such a great loss a little more bearable.

Look at this face! I love you, Odin!

In December I gifted to Elise a quilt for her new studio space. It was so good for my soul to make something for her to honor her gifts and our friendship. Would you believe I forgot to take photos of it? Here's hoping Elise reads this and sends me a beautiful photo to share with you. :)

If you ever have reason to be in Northern New Jersey, check out Elise Campbell Photography.

Past the halfway point

Wow, it's been quiet here. I've been thinking about writing, but not doing the writing.

I've reached the halfway point! Actually, I've past it. Tomorrow is my third chemo treatment (out of four). Today I am happy and feeling great. Today is the last day in what I've dubbed "the 10 days of awesome" -- the period when I feel normal again, before doing it all over again. I am grateful to have celebrated my birthday (40!) and my anniversary (15 years of love!) and Easter (with family!) while feeling absolutely great. It was just what I needed to get ready to do it all over again. 

So, to kick off round 3, I'm going to let you in on the not so nice part of this experience. Here, friends, is the update I shared with the village following round 2. I'm happy to say things look and feel different two weeks later, but I know I'll be getting very familiar with the ugly again, this weekend.

And soon, friends, there will be the long overdue sewing update. Because incredibly, I have managed to do a fair amount.


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The second treatment was harder than the first. Chemo is not for wimps! I’ll say upfront: I’m OK, I’ll be OK, but writing this while in the aftermath of chemo means you’re getting a glimpse at the ugly and not all rainbows and sunshine. 

I've been thinking a lot about language. I had cancer, not I have cancer. It's a subtle distinction that means a lot at a time when I am desperate to feel normal.

Just a reminder: the doctors removed the cancer with surgery, and since the tests show no signs of cancer in my lymph nodes, they declared me cancer free. The chemo is purely extra credit. I'm not treating any cancer, and there won't be any tests to take at the end to tell me I’m cured. The chemo is only to decrease my risk of a recurrence.

My balding head and days in bed make it hard even for me to comprehend. When I had cancer, I looked healthy. Now that the cancer is gone, I look and feel sick. 

Truthfully, no one can guarantee the cancer is gone. But I'm not willing to say "I might have cancer" until my 50th birthday (doctors use 10 year survival statistics). That's depressing! 

What's also depressing: my itchy, patchy, balding head. My three year old asking why daddy threw my hair away. Spending an entire weekend in bed and not on the playground with my boys. The white film on my tongue that I scrub and scrub and won’t go away -- and that makes everything taste bad. Feeling so crummy you can't help your amazing husband (who does everything and sweetly tells you it’s so you don’t have to worry). Turning 40 in two weeks and not wanting to celebrate because you look and feel terrible.

It can't be all sunshine all the time. The good news is I will be feeling better in a few days. Food will taste good again. I’ll get a good night’s sleep, put on sparkly eye shadow, and go to the office. I'll regain my optimism and courage before I have to sit in the chair and do this all over again. Two more times. I can do it.

Hair.

My long hair is now short. And by the time I get used to seeing myself with this cut, my hair will be gone.

I haven't had short hair in 13 years. The fear that I wouldn't like it, knowing it would take so many months to grow back, always holds me back.

One of my strongest memories of my first mom is the day she cut her hair. She had long, straight, beautiful golden hair. When she came home from the salon with a shoulder-length shag cut -- it was the early 1980's -- I sobbed. Big, heavy sobs.

Losing my hair is the part of this whole cancer saga I've dreaded the most. The doctors try to reassure me, "This isn't your mother's chemo!" (Note: I think when they say this that they momentarily forget my mom was a real person who was treated with chemo) -- but they are quick to add I will still lose my hair. And based on some ill-advised internet research, the other side effects aren't fun, either. Body aches, BONE aches, fatigue, nails falling out...

Nope. This isn't my mom's chemo, but it won't be a walk in the park, either. Of course, after reading this Los Angeles Times editorial (and necessary critique of breast cancer awareness trumping investments in research) by Laurie Becklund, I'm more determined than ever to get my A in cancer recovery. Because wow. While chemotherapy, treatment and diagnosis may have improved in the past 30 years, there's still a heck of a lot more to do before we can keep women truly safe.

This morning I told my kids I'd be getting a hair cut. "No, mommy! But you won't look like you!" M said. Fortunately he recovered by the end of the day and proclaimed the cut a success. And just as he's getting comfortable with the new mommy, we'll talk about the next mommy: bald mommy. Kids are resilient, I know. It still sucks.

I admit, it feels nice to have short hair. And while it will take many months to grow my hair back to this length, it will take a lot less time than it would to grow my long hair back.