My Vie en Rose: A Breast Cancer Journey

Tag: CancerAwareness

  • From Long Locks to Baby Bald to Peach Fuzz and Back Again

    My hair loss has come in stages. So many cancer patients advised me to cut my hair short ahead of time so the actual hair loss would be less traumatic. At the time, my hair was past my shoulders. I found a cute picture online of a punky long pixie cut and booked an appointment at a very bougie salon in the nearest city.

    I brought the picture with me and explained that I’d been diagnosed with cancer, was about to start chemo, and there was a very real chance I’d lose my hair. When I left the salon, I was… not happy. At all. It was less punk and more “something I might be getting in about 50 years.”

    So we went home, and Mark fixed it for me. Eventually, I took his hair trimmers to my own head, cutting off more and more each time. When my hair started thinning rapidly, I grabbed a razor and shaved it all off.

    Big no-no, by the way. Razor cuts can cause folliculitis—in other words, infected hair follicles. I already have cancer; I’m not looking to collect bonus medical problems.

    After that, I just let it grow in. Slowly. Painfully slowly. For weeks, it was nothing but spotty peach fuzz on the top of my head. The back and sides? Smooth as a baby’s tush. Eventually, the top started growing actual hair that sticks straight up, with thick peach fuzz filling in the sides and back. It was about 3 months’ time to get to this point.

    And it’s coming in white.

    Still, it’s so nice to have hair on my head again.

    Unfortunately, it’s very common to lose every single hair on your head—and body—during AC chemo. What really chaps my ass is that I’m almost done with chemo. I’ve got about seven weeks left. But I’ll most likely lose my hair again in three to four weeks.

    So I’ll be nearly finished with chemo… and then I’ll be bald. AGAIN.

    Son of a B!

    And with my luck, I won’t even lose it evenly. No, I’ll just lose the hair on the top of my head and end up looking like a medieval monk who lost a bar fight.

    FANTASTIC!

    All joking aside, I’m still optimistic. This is hard and it’s exhausting, but I’m not done yet. I’ll keep showing up, keep fighting, and keep pushing my way through this—one day, one treatment, and one very questionable haircut at a time.

  • Talking to Kids About Illness: A Personal Journey

    Talking to Kids About Illness: A Personal Journey

    Now, I don’t have kids of my own, but as many of you know, I have two nieces who are my entire world.

    One is far too young to understand what’s going on with me. She just knows that Naenae is sick, looks a little different, and comes over wearing a different wig each visit. My oldest niece, though, is old enough to somewhat understand the situation. Her parents have sat her down and explained everything, but this weekend was the first time since my diagnosis that she stayed overnight at my house and truly saw what daily life looks like for me now.

    I’m currently between infusions, so I’ve been able to catch up on sleep, and the fatigue has eased a bit. She didn’t see me at my absolute lowest, in the thick of chemo exhaustion—but she did see, for the first time, that Naenae is truly bald, takes a lot of pills twice a day, and has hot flashes constantly. Still, I think she also saw that in so many ways, I’m the same Naenae I’ve always been.

    We were able to goof around and try on my wigs, which turned into an absolute comedy. She named every single one. Apparently, one of my wigs is a “Karen” (which I didn’t notice until she pointed it out—LOL). I also have a Chelsea, a Tiffany, and a dark brown one I bought to change things up that she very confidently named Edna Mode (The Incredibles). I can’t get over how creative and hilarious she is.

    Throughout the visit, she was her normal, kind, sweet self. I think a lot of kids might point out a bald head or feel uncomfortable. And while I know it must have been strange for her to see her aunt bald when she’s only ever known me with hair, she never made it awkward. Not that I expected her to be mean—she’s just not that way—but I do look very different than I have the past 11 years of her life. She really is my best little buddy.

    We did sit down and talk about what I’m going through—the medicine, the chemo, how it changes my mind and body, and the side effects. Even though they’ve been relatively mild, they’re the reason I haven’t been able to do sleepovers for about seven months. Most importantly, I made sure she knew that even though I’m on this journey, I am going to come out the other side healthy. I told her I fully plan to be around for at least a few more decades—to have fun and, of course, lovingly torment her in true Auntie Naenae fashion.

    Even though I have one of the best nieces ever, I was still dreading this conversation. But I can’t lie to or keep things from my best little buddy. She deserved to hear it directly from me—why things have been different, why Naenae hasn’t been the same lately. Seeing how well she handled it was such a relief. And when she looked at me, I could tell that when I said I’m going to be okay, she believed me.

    I also told her that if she ever hears upsetting stories from classmates or sees something scary in a movie or TV show that is cancer related, she needs to remember that everyone’s situation is different. She knows she can call or text me anytime if she feels scared or upset.

    I don’t think she truly realizes—no matter how often I tell her—just how much she means to me. Yes, I absolutely ran away when she picked up a garter snake, but I would step in front of a bullet for her without hesitation. She changed my life over a decade ago.

    I will fight through this for myself, for Mark, for my parents, and for everyone in my family—but mostly for her. She was my first niece, and I honestly don’t think I’d be the person I am today without my little best buddy in my life.

  • My Surgery Journey: Finding Strength in Each Step

    A gum graft and my wisdom teeth being cut out could not have prepared me for a double mastectomy — my first major surgery. The anxiety leading up to it was its own kind of marathon: mentally preparing for something you’ve never done before, saying goodbye to a part of your body, and waking up to “strangers” you’ll be living with for years to come.

    The first few days, I didn’t see them at all. My new girls were covered in gauze that looked like someone shaved the Abominable Snowman and stuffed every last bit into my surgical bra. The fluff was spilling out of every possible opening.

    After 48 hours, I was allowed to take a real shower — no more body wipes. I waited closer to 72 hours because, honestly, I was scared to look. When I finally worked up the courage, I only glanced from the top, like a kid peeking at a scary movie through their fingers.

    From that angle, all I could think was that they looked like someone had grabbed two memory foam balls, squished them tight (especially the right one, she had the cancer), and tucked them in. It actually made me laugh — not because they looked bad, but because they looked… new. Different. Like they were still trying to figure out who they were going to be.

    When I finally saw them fully, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d built up in my head. My surgeon had warned me they’d take months to settle and heal, and he was right. What I saw wasn’t scary — it was the start of something healing, just not quite finished yet.

    The drains, though? That was a whole other adventure. I had four of them, two on each side. I’m pretty sure the surgery wasn’t a procedure–it was my cyborg assembly and activation. Trying to get comfortable after surgery with sore incision areas and tubes hanging off each side was no easy task. No quick pivots, no sudden movements — everything had to be slow and deliberate, like I was learning how to move all over again.

    Then came the first shower. Once I removed the Abominable Snowman gauze and my surgical bra, I felt this weird, heavy sensation, like my implants were going to break through the stitches and fall right onto the shower floor. Spoiler alert: they didn’t. We went straight to the Cancer Center afterward, and my surgeons reassured me that everything was secure and tightly in place.

    About a month later, I had a smaller surgery to install my chemo port. It sits near my clavicle — a tiny square about an inch wide, with a catheter that runs up into a large vein in my neck. Once everything healed, it wasn’t too noticeable. It gives my care team easy access for chemo infusions without turning my veins into pin cushions, and thanks to my excellent surgeon, I’ll have minimal scarring when it’s eventually removed.

    Of course, things didn’t go entirely smoothly since my Mastectomy. I developed necrosis — something I wasn’t really prepared for but learned can happen when blood supply is disrupted after surgery. Sometimes the body reabsorbs the dead tissue, sometimes it doesn’t. In my case, it led to an infection and a perforation (basically, a small hole), which meant another surgery. More anesthesia, more stitches, two rounds of antibiotics, and a chest flush later — everything was cleaned, closed, and healing again.

    I joke that I’m becoming a bit of a pro at these surgeries now. Not by choice, but by necessity. Every time I go through one, I come out knowing a little more about my body — what it can handle, how it heals, and how strong it really is.

    These new routines are strange, but they’re mine. The scars, the drains, the ports — they’re all part of the story my body is telling now. It’s not glamorous, but it’s real.