Strand-Dead
‘Stigma’ is defined as ‘a mark of disgrace associated with a particular circumstance, quality, or person.’, and stigma fully surrounds a cancer diagnosis. Immediately, the idea of a terminal illness comes into play, watching someone wither away in front of you as they cough and splutter up anything they try to eat. This is not always the case, and in my diagnosis it absolutely is not, and I refuse to let it be irregardless. Possibly the biggest sign of cancer, or the treatment involved, is the loss of hair; the hats and headscarves used to attempt to cover the sheen of your scalp, the eyes glued onto you as you walk down the street that anger you deeply. The prospect of losing my hair overwhelmed me, it was the biggest thing I worried about going through radiotherapy, not even the thought of treatment not working crossed my mind before hair loss did. The first question out of my mouth when I was told I would be beginning chemotherapy was ‘Will it affect my hair too?’ as I sat across from my oncologist with only half a head of hair remaining. To my relief, chemotherapy will not affect my hair, and it continues to regrow months on from radiotherapy.
Losing hair scared me so much because I knew I would be marked, I knew the stigma that would surround it and had some idea of what to expect as time went on. I wasn’t looking forward to how I would feel when my hair began to fall out, but specifically I wasn’t looking forward to how I was going to look. As a woman who attempts to be outwardly feminine, having a full head of long hair was something I always had. The ability to curl, put up, pin down, and sweep to the side was something I appeared to take for granted as I grew up, but why would I not? No one grows up preparing to have a brain tumour, or preparing to go through radiotherapy so why would I not make the most of it?
The first instance of me losing hair during my diagnosis began at surgery, I was blessed enough to have a female-heavy team for my surgery, and my anaesthetist understood the importance of shaving away a minimal amount of hair so I could cover the scar that would span a good 6-7 inches across my head. The first surgery in October meant I lost a slither of hair, particularly in comparison to the amount of hair I lost later on. As the initial 3 months passed my hair began to get that little bit fuzzier, and my scar began to disappear, until January came to a close and showed I would need another surgery to remove a recurrence. The second bought of surgery meant that once again, my hair would go, only this time I lost a more substantial section as surgery was more about saving my life against an aggressive tumour, not that the first surgery wasn’t to do with that anyways. The February surgery was precise, I had a drain implemented in my head to ensure excess blood drained properly from my head and so I lost a larger amount of hair. The front of my hair was now much sparser than expected, but when I realised I’d made it out of another surgery intact with no complications that was the last thing I was worrying about.
I knew this time that following surgery, I would be going straight into radiotherapy and potential chemotherapy; I knew then that losing the rest of my hair was now going to become an indefinite side effect, and I had to get over that. The idea of losing my hair loomed over me, and I distinctly remember crying about it at the kitchen table with my Nan, the prospect of losing something that defined my confidence and femininity felt like an impending doom. Beginning radiotherapy meant I could get some answers about what I was expecting to lose, my radiographers mapped out broadly where I could expect to lose hair and to what extent. I understood it would be localised, and trying to research via Google meant I just scared myself into thinking the whole lot was going to go. All in all, radiotherapy made me lose around a third of my hair. Radiation therapy not only destroys cancerous cells, but also affects healthy cells in your body. The healthy cells that are most at risk for being damaged by radiation therapy are those that tend to grow at a fast rate, which includes your hair cells. It takes between 3-4 weeks for your hair to begin to fall out, and it will continue to do so until a few weeks after your treatment ends. There are plenty of alternatives out there for when your hair does begin to go, including hats and headscarves, but NHS wigs are provided if you so wish to have one, I was lucky enough to qualify for a wig from the Little Princess Trust, which I’ve happily worn out to dinner. When my hair first began to fall out I cried about it, but it was more the horrid relief that it had finally gone, after I had spent the last few weeks tugging on my hair to see if it would fall out or stay firmly in my scalp. After 3 weeks, it began to come away and a new section of my journey had begun. My radiotherapy team recommended that I left my hair alone, and if I wanted to minimise hair loss to only wash my hair once a week. However, I made the decision to shower everyday as I usually would at home, and with that accepted the consequence of losing more hair. As the days went on and the hair began to go, it became more of a nuisance than a reason to cry, though I still had my moments. This was something I found to be true with other patients, sharing stories of hair loss and laughing at the nuisance of yet another load of hair coming out.
The bigger nuisance, however, began with other people. I had seen so many people with various haircuts that I wouldn’t think to glance twice, it became normality for me. This didn’t resonate with other people, and I began staring back at people viscously as they gawked at my haircut. I had a few months of regrowth following my surgery standing proud on the top of my head, and the left side and front of my hair had withered away, so there was no way of hiding anything naturally. Catching the guilt in people’s faces as they realised I’d noticed what they were doing became a hobby, the thing is that we as patients KNOW what we look like and it is very clear that we have lost hair, your staring isn’t going to make us feel any better. We know we are bald, get over it. Much of the time I went with the natural look, solemnly using a headscarf to cover myself, but even if I was wearing one I’d still get stared at, so it made no difference to me. I have always said that similar to how I can tell if you glance at my chest in a conversation, I can tell when you glance at my head too (1 second in head time roughly translates to 1 minute in reality, you are staring at me for far too long!). Some people, however, have absolutely no shame and will actively point at your head as they make an oncoming remark as they walk past you, I had this happen a week ago as I walked around the zoo with my family, as my Mum caught a man making a comment as I walked by. The likelihood is as time goes on I’m going to become more impatient, so next time you sneak a peek I’m either charging you money or calling you out on it.
The concept of losing hair made its way into my poetry, something I find I actually wrote about frequently with the thought of being marked by my treatments, even writing a poem about the antics at the zoo. Poetry began to be a great help and a personal therapy that allowed me to creatively express how I was feeling in that very moment, as I often write on impulse and emotion rather than setting a time apart to write like I do with my blogs. My poetry is much more personal to me, and something I don’t share often, perhaps only ever showing 2 people any of my poems with one of which being my therapist. I’m not quite ready to share yet, but there is always a chance I may do that in the future when I’m confident enough in my works. Being an ex-literature student meant I had never delved into writing my own works, only analysing and critiquing other’s works but the cathartic release poetry brought was something I needed. Since March, when radiotherapy began, I’ve written 10 poems, which may not sound like alot but I’m constantly reworking and rewriting them to this day, as perhaps one day I really will release an anthology when this is all over. Until then, don’t stare at our heads!
Losing hair scared me so much because I knew I would be marked, I knew the stigma that would surround it and had some idea of what to expect as time went on. I wasn’t looking forward to how I would feel when my hair began to fall out, but specifically I wasn’t looking forward to how I was going to look. As a woman who attempts to be outwardly feminine, having a full head of long hair was something I always had. The ability to curl, put up, pin down, and sweep to the side was something I appeared to take for granted as I grew up, but why would I not? No one grows up preparing to have a brain tumour, or preparing to go through radiotherapy so why would I not make the most of it?
The first instance of me losing hair during my diagnosis began at surgery, I was blessed enough to have a female-heavy team for my surgery, and my anaesthetist understood the importance of shaving away a minimal amount of hair so I could cover the scar that would span a good 6-7 inches across my head. The first surgery in October meant I lost a slither of hair, particularly in comparison to the amount of hair I lost later on. As the initial 3 months passed my hair began to get that little bit fuzzier, and my scar began to disappear, until January came to a close and showed I would need another surgery to remove a recurrence. The second bought of surgery meant that once again, my hair would go, only this time I lost a more substantial section as surgery was more about saving my life against an aggressive tumour, not that the first surgery wasn’t to do with that anyways. The February surgery was precise, I had a drain implemented in my head to ensure excess blood drained properly from my head and so I lost a larger amount of hair. The front of my hair was now much sparser than expected, but when I realised I’d made it out of another surgery intact with no complications that was the last thing I was worrying about.
I knew this time that following surgery, I would be going straight into radiotherapy and potential chemotherapy; I knew then that losing the rest of my hair was now going to become an indefinite side effect, and I had to get over that. The idea of losing my hair loomed over me, and I distinctly remember crying about it at the kitchen table with my Nan, the prospect of losing something that defined my confidence and femininity felt like an impending doom. Beginning radiotherapy meant I could get some answers about what I was expecting to lose, my radiographers mapped out broadly where I could expect to lose hair and to what extent. I understood it would be localised, and trying to research via Google meant I just scared myself into thinking the whole lot was going to go. All in all, radiotherapy made me lose around a third of my hair. Radiation therapy not only destroys cancerous cells, but also affects healthy cells in your body. The healthy cells that are most at risk for being damaged by radiation therapy are those that tend to grow at a fast rate, which includes your hair cells. It takes between 3-4 weeks for your hair to begin to fall out, and it will continue to do so until a few weeks after your treatment ends. There are plenty of alternatives out there for when your hair does begin to go, including hats and headscarves, but NHS wigs are provided if you so wish to have one, I was lucky enough to qualify for a wig from the Little Princess Trust, which I’ve happily worn out to dinner. When my hair first began to fall out I cried about it, but it was more the horrid relief that it had finally gone, after I had spent the last few weeks tugging on my hair to see if it would fall out or stay firmly in my scalp. After 3 weeks, it began to come away and a new section of my journey had begun. My radiotherapy team recommended that I left my hair alone, and if I wanted to minimise hair loss to only wash my hair once a week. However, I made the decision to shower everyday as I usually would at home, and with that accepted the consequence of losing more hair. As the days went on and the hair began to go, it became more of a nuisance than a reason to cry, though I still had my moments. This was something I found to be true with other patients, sharing stories of hair loss and laughing at the nuisance of yet another load of hair coming out.
The bigger nuisance, however, began with other people. I had seen so many people with various haircuts that I wouldn’t think to glance twice, it became normality for me. This didn’t resonate with other people, and I began staring back at people viscously as they gawked at my haircut. I had a few months of regrowth following my surgery standing proud on the top of my head, and the left side and front of my hair had withered away, so there was no way of hiding anything naturally. Catching the guilt in people’s faces as they realised I’d noticed what they were doing became a hobby, the thing is that we as patients KNOW what we look like and it is very clear that we have lost hair, your staring isn’t going to make us feel any better. We know we are bald, get over it. Much of the time I went with the natural look, solemnly using a headscarf to cover myself, but even if I was wearing one I’d still get stared at, so it made no difference to me. I have always said that similar to how I can tell if you glance at my chest in a conversation, I can tell when you glance at my head too (1 second in head time roughly translates to 1 minute in reality, you are staring at me for far too long!). Some people, however, have absolutely no shame and will actively point at your head as they make an oncoming remark as they walk past you, I had this happen a week ago as I walked around the zoo with my family, as my Mum caught a man making a comment as I walked by. The likelihood is as time goes on I’m going to become more impatient, so next time you sneak a peek I’m either charging you money or calling you out on it.
The concept of losing hair made its way into my poetry, something I find I actually wrote about frequently with the thought of being marked by my treatments, even writing a poem about the antics at the zoo. Poetry began to be a great help and a personal therapy that allowed me to creatively express how I was feeling in that very moment, as I often write on impulse and emotion rather than setting a time apart to write like I do with my blogs. My poetry is much more personal to me, and something I don’t share often, perhaps only ever showing 2 people any of my poems with one of which being my therapist. I’m not quite ready to share yet, but there is always a chance I may do that in the future when I’m confident enough in my works. Being an ex-literature student meant I had never delved into writing my own works, only analysing and critiquing other’s works but the cathartic release poetry brought was something I needed. Since March, when radiotherapy began, I’ve written 10 poems, which may not sound like alot but I’m constantly reworking and rewriting them to this day, as perhaps one day I really will release an anthology when this is all over. Until then, don’t stare at our heads!
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