Tomorrow I will have my hair cut, colored (come on-I don't even know what the natural color is and I'm too old and vain to find out now), highlighted. (By Monsieur Christophe. Highlights are a necessary evil when you color over the age of 30 and want to make it look semi-natural. My days of flat-colored "red" ended in my mid-20s.) And yes, CJ does all the highlighting. (I try to tell him that it's a practical application of art. Like the Bauhaus. I don't think he's buying it.)
Am I sad? Well, duh. Yes. I love my hair. I've never been bald. I was born a monkey. No, not kidding. According to my mother and her meticulous Baby book, I had to have my first haircut at 3 months. Apparently, my bangs had grown down to my mouth.
So, I'm kind of viewing these last few days before chemo starts on Friday morning as my last few days of normalcy.
I'm getting a wig. But I've decided to not do the scarf thing. It's one thing if it's because you are cold; but if you think you are fooling anyone, think again. A scarf + no eyebrows = chemo. If you are going to try and fool people, don't do it half-assed. I've decided to get a really nice wig or bald it.
Why am I doing chemo, even though the one bit (.4 cm of invasive cancer) is gone and anything under 1 cm is not usually recommended for chemo? To lower my chances of recurrence. And adding the hormonal therapy, herceptin, to help with the HER2 Neu helps, too.
I was given 5 choices of treatment by the great oncologist I (finally!) settled on. I picked the one that told me what I wanted to hear. I'm simple that way. Kidding. Dr. Neelima Dendalouri was highly recommended and my age (Wow. When did I get to be that old?) She takes into consideration the fact that I have PCOS and can't wait 5 years to have another child.
I chose the one-chemo drug treatment, Taxol. I'll be part of the final phase of a clinical study. (Which apparently is mandatory when you are diagnosed with Breast Cancer. You must volunteer for a medical study and participate in buying Breast Cancer Awareness items and fundraising for the Susan G. Komen Fund. Otherwise, women in pink shun you.) I still haven't given a dime to the Komen Fund and have zero interest in any Race for the Cure. Consider me shunned. (I'm not cruel; I just prefer Habitat for Humanity.)
My chemo treatment is weekly, from this Friday to the last Friday in March. A low dose with higher frequency.
I'm not looking forward to the next few weeks; but, if I'm going to be ugly (and please, hairless makes everyone look like an egg, no way around that) it might as well be during the ugliest time of the year. Same thing with being sick. If I'm going to be sick, I rather be sick now so I can play with Elizabeth outside in the summer.