I decided to take Charley with me to go look for a wig. The idea of wearing a wig was bizarre. I still had my own hair. On a bulletin board at the JCC I’d noticed a list of wig suppliers, and one was close to my home, so I called to book an appointment. I couldn’t wait forever to do this. The man I spoke with, Carlo, was nice. I asked him if I could bring Charley, and he was fine with that, but mysteriously told me to use the side door when I arrived. I wondered why.
I didn’t tell Charley where we were going until we were getting ready to leave. “I need your help with something,” I said to her as we got dressed. I’d put Rudy down for a nap, and my friend Susanne, who was Greg’s boss’s wife, had come over to babysit.
“What do you need?”
“Remember when Mommy talked about the medicine? Well, we’re going to the wig store so I can buy some fun hair to wear until my own hair grows back. I want you to tell me which looks good.”
“Can I try on some, too?”
“Absolutely! As many as you like.” I was relieved that she was keen to go.
On the way to the hair salon, Charley had a quick nap and I knew she’d be in even better spirits when she woke up. When we arrived, my mother met us in the parking lot.
“We’re supposed to use the side door,” I said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” We then discovered that the side door led to a private area attached to the main salon but used only for wig fitting.
“I guess it allows women privacy if they’re at all uncomfortable with the process,” I said quietly.
Carlo came over. He couldn’t have been more welcoming. “You must be Charley,” he said as he bent down to greet her.
She was pointing in all directions. “I want to try on that one and that one and that one.”
“Thanks for seeing me today, Carlo. I wanted to come last week, but I didn’t realize how ill I’d be feeling after that first chemo session.”
“You’re here now, and we’ll find something that’s perfect. Please have a seat. Are you planning on sticking with the same style and color you have now?”
Each of the wigs that caught Charley’s eye looked drastically different from her own hair. Meanwhile, I hadn’t even thought about what I wanted. “I think so.”
With that, Carlo got to work. He looked at my hair, felt it, and began taking wigs off the shelves and putting them on my head. Mom kept Charley occupied by pulling down every wig she liked. Trying on wigs was an odd experience. They didn’t fit correctly and needed to be stretched and manipulated, and because I still had a full head of hair, they pouffed up at the top. They definitely didn’t look like me, that was for sure.
“None of these is going to feel perfect right now,” Carlo said. He must have seen the worry on my face. “They’ll feel better once your hair is all gone. And I’ll cut and style whichever you choose to match your hair now, so it will look much better.”
I was surprised. I didn’t realize that a wig would be styled to match my look. Even so, they didn’t feel like my own hair. As Carlo finished adjusting the tenth wig, I said, “This is the one.” The cut wasn’t perfect, but the color and texture were as close as I was going to get. Mom took a couple of fun pictures of Charley and me before we left. Was she taking them because she wanted to make sure she had a keepsake for Charley if I didn’t make it? I stopped my thoughts mid-track. I wasn’t going to go there today. I was going to focus on how glad I was that I had brought Charley along, that we had photos at all. That we’d had a good time. Including Charley in the future whenever possible was the best thing I could do, for her and for me.
I was running out of time. I knew from the experts at JCC that the timing of when a person’s hair falls out was quite exact: between seventeen and twenty-one days after chemotherapy begins. I had only a few precious days left to spend with my lovely locks. I needed to decide what to do, to plan how things would go.
“Hey, Lepa, it’s Alana. Thank you so much for offering to come to the party to cut my hair. I really appreciate it.”
Lepa had been so quick to answer the phone and she almost didn’t wait for me to finish talking before she jumped in. “I’m so happy to help. Don’t worry at all. I’ll give you a nice cut. I don’t want to buzz it off. I want to give you a cute haircut. Maybe a pixie cut or something. It will be beautiful.”
“Thanks, Lepa. I’m very nervous.”
“It will look great. A short haircut will suit you. You have a beautiful face, just like your mom. I’ll see you, okay?”
“See you, Lepa. And thank you again.” I hung up. Lepa always made my mother’s hair look wonderful, so I felt a bit more at ease after speaking with her, but I wasn’t excited about any of it. Before I could think about it any more, Charley joined me in the living room. She demanded I stay right where I was. I didn’t dare move an inch, even though she left the room.
“Look what I found,” she announced as she came back. She had formed a little pouch with her shirt and brought out practically every elastic hairband and barrette that had been in the bathroom drawer.
For the next fifteen minutes, she played with my hair—she’d always loved doing that—twisting and clipping it, and I soaked it all in. When she was done, she sat back and admired her work. “Mommy, you look so pretty!” We both went to look in the mirror. Bands and barrettes were everywhere, tufts of hair poked out in all directions.
“I do look pretty, Charley, I do.” I kissed her. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
She skipped away, and I started crying. Not only was cancer going to take away my hair and my breasts, it was going to take away those special moments—for me and for Charley. The tears kept coming.
Chapter 15
IT’S MY PARTY, AND I’LL CRY IF I WANT TO
My idea of the little head-shaving party for a few friends had ballooned into a bona fide event. Andre and Michael made sure to keep me up-to-date as all their plans fell into place.
“I’ve arranged for some hairdressers I know to come and work for free,” Andre said. “For anyone who wants to join in on the fun of being bald!”
“We’ve gotten people to donate amazing prizes for the auction—cases of wine, signed NHL hockey sticks, spa treatments, gift certificates and other great things,” Michael added.
“I’ve even worked on setting up a barbershop area in the restaurant for the haircutting.”
“And we’ve sold a ton of tickets,” Michael said. “Over two hundred so far!” The two of them were beyond proud. I was so happy for them. They’d done an incredible job and I couldn’t wait to see the results. But I couldn’t help but feel dismay when November 25, the day of the party, arrived. I had only a few more hours with my long hair. I wanted to head to the bathroom to spend time styling my hair for the last time, but I had Rudy with me and everyone was busy elsewhere.
“You’ll ruin all the fun, Rudy,” I said as he kept tugging away at my hair, trying to pull it out—and succeeding at times. I was just about to scream when my mother noticed my frustration.
“Here, let me take him.”
I gratefully handed Rudy over to her and locked myself in the master bathroom so I wouldn’t be disturbed by anyone. I spent more time doing my hair than usual—even separating it into sections when I blow-dried it, the way a hairdresser would. I rubbed a strand between my fingers, trying to absorb how it felt and looked. Somehow it already felt different. There was less of it, for sure. But there was something else I couldn’t quite pinpoint—a difference in the texture, perhaps, caused by the chemotherapy? I might just have been imagining it, but whatever it was, I knew it didn’t matter. Soon most of it would be gone, anyway.
Only Charley was coming to the party. Since Rudy was only nine months old, we’d decided to leave him at home with a babysitter.
“Hey, Charley, look what Mary Kay sent you!” my mother called out as Charley and I made our way out to the kitchen after getting dressed. “It’s a pink ribbon for your hair.”
“It mat
ches your outfit, Charley!” I said. She was wearing a dress, as usual. She loved girlie things.
“You look good, Alana,” Greg said.
“Thanks.” Figuring out what I would wear had been easy. “I can’t believe Mary Kay sent me this. She must be psychic.”
“What do you mean?” Mom asked.
“A few days ago, I was looking through the T-shirt section at Target and saw this purple T-shirt with the word Believe embroidered on it. I loved how sparkly it was, and thought it would be great for the party but decided not to get it since I already had so many T-shirts. Then yesterday a package arrived for me, and it was this!”
“It was a sign,” Mom said.
“It was! You know how significant the word Believe has become to me with my special project.”
Mom nodded.
I had realized early on in this journey how important keeping busy was—it was one of my coping mechanisms. I also knew I didn’t like the idea of wearing a scarf around my head to hide any hair loss. I somehow equated this with the idea of being old. But I didn’t want to reveal my baldness—I didn’t want to look like I had cancer. “I think I’ll get fewer looks from people if I wear a toque instead,” I’d told my mother one day a few weeks earlier.
“I’ll look for one when I’m out. Maybe I’ll see something you’ll like.”
“But I want to have the word Believe embroidered on it, with a pink ribbon substituted for the letter l.” I drew a little sketch of what I was thinking and showed her. “I truly believe cancer isn’t going to beat me. I’m going to beat it, and I want the world to know.”
“I’m so proud of you, Alana.” She surprised me when she started to tear up. “Everyone is going to love that hat.”
“They’ll all want one.”
“They will. You should sell them.”
I thought she was kidding, but it dawned on me that she had a great point. “They will want one! Andre and Michael are coming up with all those fabulous ways to raise money and offset our costs, so why can’t we sell hats to raise money, too? And not everyone who has cancer has the support I do.” I thought of the people I’d seen at the chemo suite getting treatment all alone. “Imagine what it’s like without a family or friends like ours? We could raise money for a charity like Wellspring, too.”
Mom was totally on board, and we got to work. I pulled together a website and showed it to Greg. Wellspring was the perfect charity to give the proceeds to, as it is a network of community-based centers that provide much-needed support to cancer patients and their caregivers.
“Impressive!”
“I want to sell as many Believe hats as we can. I can’t help but think that the amount of support people get affects how well they cope during treatment. That’s why I think I’m handling everything so well—because I have all of you helping me.”
The night of the party, I knew the T-shirt was the perfect choice of outfit and would perfectly complement the hats we’d be selling. As we headed out and I shut the door behind me, Mom asked, “You remembered the hats, right?”
“They’re already in the car.”
“How many do you have?” Greg wanted to know.
“Forty-eight pink ones and forty-eight black.”
“Let’s hope we sell them all!” Mom said.
“I’m sure we will. I’ve had so many people tell me they want one.”
I was feeling tiny butterflies before we’d even pulled out of the driveway. By the time we arrived at the restaurant, I was downright nervous. My mind was eased only by my previous discussion with Lepa, but my stomach sank at the idea that even a pixie cut would probably fall out within a week or so.
Mom looked at me when we got out of the car.
“I’m a bit tense,” I whispered. I didn’t want Charley to hear. I ran a hand through my hair. “I hate to admit it, but I realize it’s going to feel weird with such short hair.”
“You’ll always be beautiful, Alana. No matter what,” she said, and gave me a quick squeeze before we went into the restaurant.
“Alana!” Andre shouted when he saw me, and he gave me a big hug.
“I love your T-shirt,” I said after he let go of me and I could get a good look at what he was wearing. His pink shirt had our school name on it and a picture of a volleyball, but I’d never seen Andre wear pink before. “Where’d you get it?”
“We ordered them for the volleyball teams this year. I know the school colors are blue and white, but we decided to make them pink in honor of you!”
“We?” I looked around. I hadn’t noticed because Andre had grabbed me right when I’d walked in, but all the teachers from my school were wearing the pink T-shirts. I could feel myself blushing and waved to everyone. Tony was behind the bar, serving up drinks. “You guys are great.” I walked around, saying hi, introducing everyone who didn’t know them to my family.
“Alana!”
“Nina!”
Nina and I taught together—I taught eighth grade and Nina sixth—and we were fast friends.
“Don’t you love the T-shirts?” she asked.
“They’re amazing!”
“Look what I have for you.” She handed me a bag.
“You shouldn’t have,” I said as I took it and opened it. Inside was a T-shirt of my own that read Boobie Brigade: We Fight Like Girls.
“I love it, Nina! It’s fabulous!”
“Melanie, Virginia, Adriana and I came up with the idea. We talked about it at school and had them made for the five of us.”
“You guys are incredible.” They had been there for me right from the beginning. They came over one night shortly after my diagnosis and rallied around me, and they had been there for me ever since. I couldn’t have made it without them—without their home-cooked meals, their positivity, their support.
“And check this out.” Nina waved me over to a table so we could sit down and pulled out her camera. She flicked it on and passed it to me.
“Get well soon, Mrs. Somerville!” I could hear little voices shout. It was the boys’ and girls’ volleyball teams, all glorious in pink. I choked up.
“Andre had the shirts made in time for me to tape the message,” Nina said, then noticed my reaction. “Oh, Alana, I’m so sorry.” She wrapped her arms around me.
“No, it’s so nice of all of you—and the kids, too. It just seems wrong that kids so young have to hear about cancer. Why should kids that age—or any age—have to deal with that?” I tried to smile. “But this is a party, right?”
“Right!” She put away the camera, and we went to get some drinks from Tony. As we chatted with him, Lepa set up her haircutting station. I sneaked away to talk to her. Andre had done a great job with the “barbershop.” There were two barber chairs sitting in front of a roped-off area at the back of the restaurant where everyone would watch the haircuts. I shivered. I would be sitting in one of those chairs soon, facing the crowd, with Lepa standing behind me.
“Lepa, thank you so much for coming,” I said and took her hand.
“I am happy to be here, for you and for your mom. How is she?”
“She’s keeping it together. She’s a rock.”
Lepa smiled. “Listen, Alana, when your hair starts growing back in, come see me and I’m going to keep it nice, okay? No charge.”
“You’re the best. I’m so lucky to have you here.” I squeezed her hand.
More people had shown up while I’d been chatting with Lepa, and before I knew it, the restaurant was packed. I mixed, I mingled, I sat for photos. I felt as though I was reliving my wedding: everyone was there for me, everyone wanted to talk to me. Most of them just wanted a chance to connect, and to tell me they were thinking of me. I felt so grateful that people had taken time out of their busy lives.
My friends, some of whom I was seeing for the first time since I’d been diagnosed, were a mixture of curious and cautious. A small group gathered around me. “When is your next round of chemo?” one asked. “How did you feel after surgery?” another
inquired. The questions—“What did the lump feel like?” “How did you find it?” “When did you know it was cancer?” and more—flowed from there, the faces growing more and more eager for information as they realized I was happy to respond. In fact, it felt therapeutic. Answering people’s questions meant I could do something to help them, letting them know more about this disease.
This was a scene that was repeated many times throughout the evening. The conversations followed the same pattern each time—a movement from generalities to specifics. And almost always the questions came from women. They were interested yet fearful. I figured most of them would go home that night and check their breasts, carefully. I knew they were afraid they’d end up like me. Wanted to reassure themselves they wouldn’t. I understood, but it made me sad. This didn’t affect only me anymore. My disease had touched so many people in a way I’d never imagined it would. And for fleeting yet incredibly disturbing moments, I wondered, Will this be the last time some of my friends and family see me?
All the while I knew that at some point the haircutting would have to begin. That hovered over me like a horrible creature in a never-ending nightmare. We all talked about anything but the haircut, but everyone knew that’s what I was there for, that it was inevitable. Finally the hairdressers were all set up, and the crowd was getting antsy. I wanted to tell someone how scared I was, but I simply couldn’t bring myself to say the words out loud.
“Hey.” Michael appeared by my side. “Shall we get going?”
I couldn’t move. After what seemed like minutes but was surely just a few seconds, he graciously said, “I’ll go first.” He must have realized how hard the situation was for me. My knees felt like they were going to buckle. He sat down in one of the chairs and Lepa got to work. I couldn’t help but stare. It was so odd to watch as his thick beautiful curls fell to the floor. But when it was all over, everyone applauded—he looked great with a buzz cut. He’d handled his haircut with such grace, I realized I could, too, but more people had already kindly lined up ahead of me to give me more time to collect myself. When I sat down, a former student of mine named Brody took a seat in the chair next to me.
Holding on to Normal Page 8
