Leigh Pate

I held out my hands and watched as the warm water rinse away the long hair that clung between my fingers and wrapped around my hands and wrists. I ran my hands through hair and rinsed away the hair again. And again. And again. It was time.

My oncology nurse had prepared me for this moment. “I will bet my last paycheck you will lose your hair”, he said. “Make sure you procure protection for your head from the cold and sun.” That was good advice. Hair is surprisingly practical. But his advice to avoid sunburn didn’t touch my worst fears. My hair was soft and fine and honey-blonde. Now that beautiful hair would be gone and replaced by the scarves and hats that are a symbol of sickness. My bald head would scream “CANCER” like a neon sign, flashing “sick person, right here”. Strangers would look at me and see a disease. But I wasn’t a diseased sick person. I was healthy and strong and fit and capable and attractive. At least I was until this breast cancer came out of nowhere. I hated the idea of the world seeing anything else.

A request to my friends yielded a cascade of gift certificates and hats and scarves. A trip to the wig shop became an adventure as we tried on dozens of wigs. And as we laughed and experimented it occurred to me that I could become anyone I wanted. Perhaps a platinum blonde Marilyn Monroe? Or sexy wavy long auburn locks? Or short and curly brunette? Eventually I decided to become a redhead during cancer. I had always liked red hair. So why not try it out now?

By the time my hair rained down in the shower that morning, my arsenal of head protection was ready. My boyfriend requested the job of shaving my head. He had been hauling borrowed clippers back and forth to my house for days — on call for the big day. So I went to him that morning after unstopping the shower drain and simply said, “It’s time.” We set up a chair and a mirror and went to work, shaving an interim mohawk and taking photos of the temporary punk rock alter-ego who appeared smiling back in the mirror. And by shaving my head he did more than save a trip to the hair salon. He gently transformed the fear of lost beauty into an embrace and acceptance.

Yet despite the preparations, I found much of the carefully procured head protection stayed unworn in the closet. I never touched the sassy red wig again — not even for the novelty of experiencing the world a redhead. I only wore the hats and scarves for their most practical purpose, which was to physically protect my head from the cold and the sun, just as my nurse advised. Somehow in all the preparations and the outpouring of support, I found I didn’t need to hide behind my hair anymore. Instead I went bare-headed … bald scalp shining … in my home or out with friends or anytime when head protection became hot or itchy or uncomfortable. I wore hats or scarves when they suited me, and never to hide behind them. I wore a black bandana printed with skulls and crossbones to yoga class, secretly loving the sideways glances from people too polite to ask. I pulled off my hat in work meetings as my way of warning colleagues not count me out and to show that that I was still a player in this professional game, cancer or not. I learned to accept the knowing smiles from women and men who did a double-take at the grocery store, then offered a smile that reached their eyes, an acknowledgement that they knew and understood. Eventually I struck up a lengthy conversation with a young hipster and when I explained I had cancer, his mouth fell open and his eyes went wide. I realized from his shocked look that he really had no idea I was even sick. He thought my bald head was just another hipster hairstyle, unremarkable in urban Seattle.

I finally realized that while my illness was screamingly obvious to me, the rest of the world rarely noticed. Most people see what they want to see. Most simply accept whatever you choose to present. And fundamentally, the bald head can mean whatever we make it mean both to ourselves and to others. Friends and loved ones will walk with you and love you and support you bald, redheaded or wearing a skull-covered bandana. And while the hair eventually came back, those lessons of love and loyalty and self never left.

Leigh Pate lives and works in Seattle. She was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2011.

Articles

Transformations: Embracing Baldness During Cancer

"I'm signing up for a half marathon this spring. Who's with me?"

My heart sank as I read this on my young friend's Facebook page — a friend still in the early stages of breast cancer treatment with months of surgeries, chemotherapy and radiation ahead of her. I recognized this trap. Before breast cancer, I was an amateur athlete. I was never the fastest or the strongest but I found joy in testing my physical strength and endurance. I biked across the U.S. and India and completed triathlons and runs. After being diagnosed with cancer in 2011 and enduring a year of surgeries, chemotherapy and radiation, I set an ambitious goal for the one-year anniversary of the end of my treatment: to bike 10,000 miles over three months in Asia and spectacularly thumb my nose at the cancer that had stopped me cold and left my body broken.

And why not? The media and the Internet promote glorious stories of cancer patients completing near-impossible physical feats. I took this message to heart. I was a survivor. I had beat cancer. If they could do it, I would too. I imagined myself crossing an imaginary cancer finish line with fists high and head thrown back in victory. I trained for months, gradually increasing the miles and difficulty of each ride, slowly building strength and stamina. But after nearly passing out during a bike ride a month before departure, I had to face facts. My hard work, determination and positive attitude were not enough to restore my health or pedal my damaged body back to pre-cancer strength.

Consultations with my doctors later confirmed my fears. My body had failed. It was not ready to meet my demands and I was not physically ready to reclaim my pre-cancer lifestyle and identity. The months after were the most depressing of my life. In hindsight, I realize that trying to do that ride was completely unreasonable ... and probably dangerous. It certainly delayed my true healing and led to a host of other painful, avoidable medical problems.

I had listened to the hype and myth of cancer survival instead of listening to my body. I paid for that mistake for the next two years. Eventually I reclaimed my body and the activities I loved, but there was nothing glorious or dramatic about my slow crawl back to health. Hours of physical therapy corrected damage from surgery. Trial and error experimentation taught me to manage the lymphedema that hamstrings physical activity. Time was probably the best healer of all.

I reached out to my friend and gently told her my story. I shared with her what I wish someone had shared with me. I urged her to listen to her body. I urged her to give herself time to recover and heal. She did not have to prove anything to anybody about being a strong person. She did not have to gloriously "beat cancer," regardless of the expectations of cancer's battle language or the media.

Everyone wants what's best for her. She has nothing to prove or accomplish to earn their love and support. I asked her to give herself permission to change her plans if that was best. She listened. In many ways, my true healing began when I accepted that the spectacular stories of patients coming back from cancer — the people I saw in the media and who I desperately wanted to emulate &mdash; were not my story. My healing began when I realized what most cancer patients eventually learn: Success after cancer is not a singular race or accomplishment. Conversely, success means coming to terms with post-cancer reality that damages our body and challenges our spirit and forces us to face our mortality. Achieving that is harder &mdash; and a bigger success &mdash; than any marathon.

Leigh Pate lives and works in Seattle. She was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2011. Her writing and photography is available at 

Leigh Pate

Transformations: Embracing Baldness During Cancer

Marathons: Coming to Terms With a Post-Cancer Reality

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