It’s funny to me, that the only wig that I felt most comfortable in, was my purple one. I loathed the brown one and felt disgustingly fake in it. And despite it’s luxurious length and volume, style and color (all of which I never had naturally), I tolerated the blond one.

But that purple one. . .there was something about it.

As soon as my hair grew back to a length that was wear-able and not patchy and as soon as my port came out signifying chemo infusions were in the past tense, I couldn’t get rid of my wigs soon enough. I remember driving to Hana’s and donating them back…walking in and feeling the rush of emotions and the punch to the gut that came with the smells and sights of that beautiful but dreadful store…and muttering under my breath as I closed the door behind me, ‘good riddance. May I never see you again.’

But that purple one. . .that one I kept.

It sits in my closet on it’s little stand. I see it every time I walk in. It is striking and it’s color, both magnificent and bold. What is it about that wig? I loved wearing it (well, that’s relative…I couldn’t w a i t to take it off the second I could once I got in the car after work because it was soooooo itchy and uncomfortable) and I loved how it made me feel. I loved it’s show-stopping color and cut. I loved being ‘that’ person. Yet…I was wearing a wig? Because I was bald. Because of chemo.freakin.therapy. Because of cancer. I guess that’s what that wig means to me – during the most unspeakable time, the one where I wanted to crawl in a hole and wish it all away, I could put on my purple hair and grit it through another day.

But that purple one. . .the one that is heavy with hard memories also makes me smile.

Sometimes I miss my purple hair. That’s weird. I know. And sometimes when I say that out loud, people will tell me either, ‘You could just dye it?’ or ‘Well, you can still wear it whenever you want, you know that, right? It is a wig.’ They’re right…I could dye my hair. I mean, I’d have to bleach it first and then dye it and then re-bleach it and re-dye it and then re-bleach it again and re-dye it again and again at a budget-wrecking cost. But yes, I could dye it. And sure, I could just put my wig on whenever I wanted to. I know how to do that. And I know how it feels. And I did save it. But, I don’t think it works that way. And I don’t think that’s really the point. Because just as disgustingly fake as I felt wearing my brown wig when I was bald, I would feel that if I covered or colored my regrown hair with purple. When I say I miss my purple hair, I don’t think I’m looking to recreate “that look,” nor do I think I miss being where I was. Gosh, no. But I do think I miss something. 

That purple one. . .it means something. A lot of something.

*Post 941

Purple :: 10/31/17 :: Post 64

I went to work today and felt pretty good. Definitely tired, had a major headache, had some significant heartburn and the mouth side-effects have already started (much earlier than they did in round one), but I made it through the day. I even facilitated a training for a majority of the day…and served a client, too!

I also went with my purple wig and it was kinda fun. Everyone liked the look and that felt so sweet to be validated so much. What amazing people I work with. My girls and Chris liked it too (Annie was especially excited I wore my wig today). And – bonus – it kept my head nice and warm. I did find it very refreshing to take it off, though…

That’s an interesting place to be… Coming from a place of grieving the loss of hair to getting more and more comfortable with no hair to wishing for the moment I could take the hair off. Whoa.

And then I look in the mirror tonight grieving the loss of the little 1/8th of the little of what’s left.

I think there has been so much grace in the midst of all of this, though, that I have had the capacity to navigate the next hard thing when that next hard thing is here…I say that because I know that the transition to true baldness will be a tough one, but one that I will be able to manage because I have made it through so much already. So so much.

There isn’t much more for me to say tonight. The fatigue is hitting me hard right now. My eyes are blinking extra slowly. My mind is quieting down. My spirit feels a stillness. Sleep will overtake me soon.

THREE :: 10/31/18 :: Post 413

T – 3 days for NEW YORK CITYYYYYYY!

The weight of my story is so heavy. NYC will be a welcomed memory.

October 31 of 31 :: 10/31/19 :: Post 776

I struggle so much with the word ‘survivor’…it’s weird. For some, this word may denote an accomplishment and I am so glad they feel that way-I do not want to take that away from them. And for some, I imagine it means that they see their battle as over, which I celebrate with them. For others, it might be a strong word to add to their identity, which, of course, holds much truth.

But every time I hear it, I have this subtle little emotional response of disdain for it. Do I not like it because it’s cliché? Do I get annoyed with the ease that people have of saying it when no part of surviving anything is easy? Do I get perturbed with the fact that I don’t really have a word that I like better so I’m stuck with it? Do I not appreciate the fact that it insinuates that the battle is over?

I suppose it is all of this – the accomplishments, the celebrations, the strength in identity…the cliché, the underestimation, the insinuation… While I will try and embrace the positive connotations, I find myself, more often than not, responding to “you’re a survivor,” with “but this isn’t over…” because:

Breast Cancer Awareness Month…

…Day thirty-one – Survivorship. The word, even though it has ‘survivor’ in it, actually implies that surviving is a process, that it is not a singular entity. And it turns out that survivorship is hard. And really lonely. Many who walk closely at the beginning or during treatment naturally fall away as the treatment phase ends, because most people think that when treatment is over, so is cancer. But it isn’t. Cancer isn’t ‘done’ and survivorship is actually life-long. Keep checking in. Please.