Top Ten Reasons to Be Thankful for Being Bald

Recently, my friend, Tina, reminded me of one of her mother’s many sayings, “You get used to hanging if you hang long enough.”

That got me thinking about how back in July, being bald alarmed me. Five months later, I’m still glad baldness is temporary, but I also see an upside.  

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, here’s my list of The Top Ten Reasons to be Thankful for Being Bald:
10. You save a bundle on shampoo and conditioner.

9.  Month after month, you never have to shave your legs.

8.  No eyelashes to get stuck in your eyes.

7.  You get to laugh out loud when your friend, Dot, recites Fuzzy Wuzzy Was a Bear, Fuzzy Wuzzy Had no Hair!

6.  No jaunts to the hairdresser to choke on nail lacquer or hairspray fumes.

5.  Your annual skin check at the dermatologist is easier when she can actually see your scalp.

4. You never have a bad hair day.

3. No fretting about grays.

2. You can put on your husband’s goofy hair hat, rock the Guy Fieri look, and remember not to take yourself too seriously.

And the # 1 Reason to be Thankful for Being Bald:

This too shall pass. Your hair grows back!

“They” say you don’t always get the hair you had before chemo. Salt-and-pepper might grow back gray and curly might come in straight. I liked the wash-and-wear-just-enough-curl in my old hair, but to show up Fuzzy Wuzzy, I’ll take what I get.

Did I miss anything on my Top Ten Reasons to Be Thankful for Being Bald? And, what’s on your list of things you once dreaded and learned to be thankful for?

P.S. To thank you for stopping by, I’m running a Thanks-Giveaway. Win e-book copies of CAPE MAYBE and PEACE BY PIECE.

Easy to enter:
1.  Follow this link to my Facebook Author Page

2.  Like my Facebook Author Page (on the banner at the top)

3.  Look for the Thanks-Giveaway post and confirm in comments that you liked the page
 
That’s it; 3 simple steps and you are entered. For a bonus entry, share the link on your FB timeline or tweet so your friends can enter too.

What Not to Say to Someone with Cancer

by Carol Fragale Brill

Are you old enough to remember the old Art Linkletter show, “Kids say the Darnedest Things? It turns out, adults do too. Since sharing I have cancer, I have heard some doozies. Maybe it’s that facing someone with an illness or disability unsettles us to the point where we grope for words, or ramble and unintentionally blurt out the not-so-empathetic thing.

Here are some of the “darnedest” things I wish I could un-hear.  

1.    Cancer Stories with unhappy endings - “My (fill in the blank; sister, mother, cousin, neighbor) just DIED from cancer.” Or even worse “Died from the same kind of cancer you have.”

 

I can’t tell you how many times, after hearing I have cancer, the first thing someone tells me is about someone that died. Most of us have at least one personal story about someone who suffered an unpleasant cancer death.

Unless I ask you, this is not a good time to remind me that people die from cancer. If you feel compelled to share, make it a hopeful story about someone who beat the sucker and is cancer-free.  

2.    Chemo Horror Stories. “Do you know how often after chemo, cancer returns with a vengeance?”

 

In what universe does a person in the midst of chemo treatments need to hear cancer and vengeance in the same sentence? The only thing the local store-owner who said this to me accomplished is making me want to avoid him and his store with a vengeance.

Before starting chemo, I was freaked out enough about losing my hair, the possibility of nausea and vomiting, and the long list of other potential side-effects shared by my doctor without being bombarded with unsolicited real-life accounts of organ damage, excruciating mouth sores, fingernails that turned black and fell off, or life-threatening dehydration. There is only so much cancer and chemo horror I can take-in without completely wigging-out. If I want to hear the gory details, trust that when I’m ready I’ll ask you.

And for the record, my experience with chemo isn’t nearly as nasty as those alarming stories. That’s what I’d like someone embarking on their own chemo journey to hear.

3.    The royal “We”. “We will get through this,” “Just six chemo treatments? We can do that.”

On a recent episode of Parenthood, I almost cheered out loud when a character who plays a cancer survivor complained about how much “we” statements bugged her.

Not all “we” statements bother me. I love to hear “we” when you mean you and someone else like, “we are praying,” or “we want to help.”

I know my cancer causes distress to those who care about me. I believe when you say “we” you mean you want to be there and support me. Instead, what I hear is you believe you’re experiencing the same thing as me--that you have as much skin in this game as Jim and me.
“We” can wish it were different. The reality is this cancer is happening inside only my body. That changes my life and Jim’s in ways it doesn’t impact anyone else. There are parts of having cancer I have no choice but to do alone—parts even Jim can’t do for me.

Melissa Etheridge, a cancer survivor, says it poignantly in her beautiful song, “This is Not Goodbye,”  

Where I go now, I go alone.

This path I walk, these days of stone. 

Before using the royal “we” it might help to ask yourself, “How does her cancer change my day to day life?” If you are doing pretty much what you always did, consider ditching the “we.”  

I know no one intends to upset me when they say these darnedest things. Innocent or not, some remarks nearly pushed me over the edge in the early weeks after my diagnosis when I was numb and fragile—when it was nearly impossible for me to hear a sad cancer story and not project the same thing happening to me. While I’m getting better at not agonizing and melting down, there are still things that rattle my hope and that I’d rather not hear. 

This was a hard post for me to write. I don’t know if others with cancer feel the way I do, so in spite of the title, this post is about me with cancer, not we with cancer.

Please share in comments and help me better appreciate and understand the flip-side, What does hearing a person has cancer—or any serious illness or disability—feel and sound like to you? 

And, follow this link to hear Melissa Etheridge’s song, “This is Not Goodbye”

                        https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ksihRX4kPtM

When Small Acts of Kindness are HUGE

 

by Carol Fragale Brill

A couple of blogs ago, I wrote about my worry that chemo treatments and losing my hair might make me look sick or unable. I imagined people would gawk at my scarf-wrapped head—or worse, dart their eyes away from me, rendering me invisible. 

Like so often when I wring my hands and project about the future, those worries were a waste of energy and time—teaching me once again that worry is like making loan payments before you get the loan. 

Repeatedly, the small gestures of others have reminded me how the littlest ripple of kindness can grow into a wave. Like the first time I wrapped my head in a “dress-up” scarf and self-consciously ventured out to an upscale restaurant for dinner with Jim. The waiter gushed about how attractive he found “my very stylish scarf.” A seemingly little gesture—for me and my self-esteem, it was absolutely huge.

I can’t tell you how often strangers—mostly women but also a good number of men—go out of their way to make eye contact with me, hold my gaze, and smile in a way that telegraphs encouragement and support.

My favorite example of a stranger’s small act of kindness might be the woman who came up to me in the grocery store, gestured discreetly at my head-wrap and said, “I had that same hairstyle three years ago.” She winked and added, “Don’t worry, it really does grow back.” 

Even more encouraging than her headful of hair was her healthy appearance—living proof that you can kick cancer’s butt.

The concept of small acts of kindness might sound cliché. For me, these little ripples from strangers help normalize a time that often feels anything but normal. And, far from making me feel invisible, they validate my experience and boost my self-esteem.

So what small acts of kindness has someone showed to you? And, what can you do today to start a ripple that churns up a kindness wave?

Bald IS Beautiful

by Carol Fragale Brill

Over the last couple of months, my family and friends have repeatedly reassured me that Bald is Beautiful. While I appreciate the sentiment, I didn't believe them and chalked it up to everyone just being supportive and kind.

And then I saw Joan Lunden's picture on the recent cover of People Magazine.

To say I am in awe and inspired that Joan Lunden bared her head on PEOPLE— a magazine read by an estimated 43 Million+ people and seen my who knows how many more— is a huge understatement.

Asked about her decision she said, "It was such a tough decision. . ."And it wasn’t the comfortable decision — knowing you were going to be seen by everyone in such a vulnerable way — but I know it was the right decision. I knew I could be a voice for a quarter of a million women . . . and I wanted to show that your health is more important than your hair. Your hair grows back after you stop chemo, and then you have your life."

I wonder if in weighing her uncomfortable decision she grappled with all the reasons not to do it—if like me, she came up with a long list of what-ifs and buts.

There’s a saying I learned from my Scottish friends, Bella and Julie that goes something like—if ifs and buts were candy and nuts, every day would be Christmas. The first time I heard that saying, I had no idea what it meant. Now, I think it means we can— and often do— stockpile excuses not to do stuff—especially the hard stuff that forces us to face fears or risk being seen as vulnerable.

Before I actually lost my hair, I was sure I’d keep my head under wraps with everyone but Jim. I can count on one hand the family and friends who have glimpsed it. And, then, Joan Lunden showed the bravery and beauty to let People put her bald head on their cover. I had to ask myself, if she put it out there for the millions who read People, is it time to suck-up the fear and insecurity by doing my small part? 

Unsure and uncomfortable, I talked it over with Jim. He asked me why, after being so private up until now, I’d want to take the risk.

The best answer I have is that the sooner I accept that being bald is part of my life right now, the sooner I take away its power and move on.

 

So, it seems like the best way to honor Joan Lunden’s bravery, is to (gulp) find the guts to follow her lead and do the same thing here.

Learning to FIGHT like a GIRL

                                                    

 by Carol Fragale Brill

Recently, I’ve received a lot of gifts with the slogan, FIGHT like a GIRL. They got me thinking about what FIGHT like a GIRL means to me.

As a little girl, I adored frilly dresses and ribbons and lace on my Easter bonnet, but since my teen years, I’ve never been a girly-girl. I like to look feminine, but I’m not big on accessorizing, elaborate make-up, or perfume wearing. I’m more a touch-of-lipstick-dress-for-comfort-left-over-hippie-sensible-shoes kind of girl.

So, it surprised me when in spite of everyone reassuring me my hair would grow back, my first reaction to learning I’d lose my hair from chemo was, “I have to have a wig, I can’t be seen without hair!” Before my hair even started to fall out, without considering other options, I got myself a wig.

Then someone asked me, “What exactly is it about losing your hair that has you so upset?”

Her question helped me realize my reaction was purely emotional. It’s not really about my hair. It’s about how much I value my healthy independence and determination and that when others look at me I don’t want them to see a hairless, sick, unable person. I want them to see self-reliant, determined ME.

Years ago, I had the privilege of attending a panel discussion about disabilities. One panelist was blind, one deaf, one a paraplegic, and another had speech and motor impairment from muscular dystrophy. Each of them held professional jobs—accountant, librarian, banker, computer technician. Their profound message has stuck with me over the years—Instead of disabled, think of me as DIFFERENTLY ABLED. If it looks like I need help, don't just do it for me, ask me. If I say I don’t need help, respect me and my independence and let me do it myself.”

That pretty much sums up for me what it means to FIGHT like a GIRL.

I am so grateful that my family and friends have offered me all kinds of help and support. For me, Fighting like a GIRL means learning to graciously accept help when I need it. And when I don’t, being able to gracefully say no thank you, I can and need to do that for myself.

It means letting go of female stereotypes, and trusting I can fight this fight from my comfort zone where I feel most like myself.

Fighting like a GIRL means it is okay if some days finding the courage to face the day means letting myself weep in the shower as tufts of my hair clog the drain or if tomorrow I need to take the wig off the Styrofoam head in my closet and wear it to feel my best.

And for today, Fighting like a GIRL means learning to rock the bandana and “pirate” wrap look because they take me back to my not-so-girly-girl roots and remind me I’m still ME.