Cancer Survivor Finds Gratitude in the Return of Her Eyelashes

We take a lot of things for granted in life. And while gratitude for the little things is a lovely philosophy, the truth is this: if we felt conscious gratitude for absolutely everything, all the time, we’d be emotionally exhausted. Some things fade into the background simply so we can function.

That said, surviving cancer has a way of rearranging what you notice.

As a woman who has had cancer twice and is now medically NED — No Evidence of Disease (because once you’ve had cancer, they don’t ever really use the phrase cancer-free) — I can tell you that there is one small thing I am profoundly grateful for now… something I barely gave a second thought to before.

My eyelashes.

Before cancer, I didn’t think much about them at all. Like many women, I wore makeup most of my adult life. That usually included mascara. A few quick strokes with the wand each morning, and I was out the door. I never examined them. Never admired them. Certainly never felt moved to write in a gratitude journal about how lucky I was to have a full set of eyelashes.

Then came chemotherapy.

Most people know that chemo causes hair loss — specifically the hair on your head. And while I don’t want to be sexist, it is often especially devastating for women. Most of us eventually come to terms with it, but that first moment is unforgettable: standing in the shower, shampooing your hair, rinsing it out… and then realizing your hand is full of it. I remember it vividly.

Soon after comes the decision to shave your head, because somehow a smooth, bald reflection feels more palatable and easier to face than patchy reminders of what used to be.

But chemotherapy doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t stop at the scalp.

For many of us, all the hair goes — arm hair, leg hair, pubic hair, eyebrows… and then — drumroll, please —
eyelashes.

Yes. Eyelashes.

It wasn’t just that I was unprepared for how devastating that would be. I had never thought about the fact that I would lose my eyelashes, so I simply wasn’t prepared for it at all.

I still have photos taken of me while I was undergoing chemotherapy treatments: no eyelashes, barely-there eyebrows, and a few sprigs of hair sticking straight up from my head. I used to joke that I looked like a baby ostrich. Humor helped soften the sadness — the feeling of staring at a stranger in the mirror, an almost alien version of myself looking back.

Only later did I fully understand what I had lost.

Eyelashes, it turns out, are not just decorative. They’re functional little overachievers.

Their jobs include:

• Protection — they sense incoming debris like dust, dirt, sweat or bugs and trigger a blink reflex before anything hits the eye.
• Reducing airflow and dryness — they slow air movement around the eyes, reducing tear evaporation and irritation from things like wind or air conditioning.
• Filtering light — they subtly shade the eyes from harsh sunlight and glare. Nature’s sunglasses.
• Communication and expression — they enhance facial expression through blinking and eye movement, playing a role in nonverbal communication and emotional signaling.

As a therapist of three decades, that last one is my favorite. A built-in bonus.

There’s even research suggesting eyelashes work best when they’re about one-third the width of the eye. Too short, and they don’t protect well. Too long, and they actually funnel air toward the eye. Nature, apparently, did the math.

Now that I’m NED, I can say this with certainty: I have an entirely new level of gratitude for my eyelashes.

Each morning, when I sit at my dressing table, I actually look at them. Sometimes I criticize them — the lashes on my left eye never grew back quite as long as the ones on my right. But then I catch myself… and I apologize.

When it’s time for mascara, I lean into the mirror and apply it carefully. Outer lashes. Inner lashes. I check my work. I add another layer. Then maybe one more.

So if you see me walking around looking like my eyelashes have been lifting weights — or with a few tiny black flecks on my face that have jumped ship from lash to cheek — just know it’s because the ostrich woman — the one with no hair, faint eyebrows, and no eyelashes at all — still lives inside me.

And she is very clear — sometimes even demanding — about one thing:

More Mascara please!

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

For more news on cancer updates, research and education, don’t forget to subscribe to CURE®’s newsletters here.