Wow… no more writing during my bad week! If you read my last post, the “(Hopefully) Not Too Depressing Cancer Blog” failed at it’s first goal. I’ll always be honest about what’s happening, but c’mon, let’s keep it light!
One of the trickiest things about going through cancer treatment has been learning that no one really knows how the body is going to respond to it. This means that the nurses and doctors have prepared me for things that haven’t happened (yet), and failed to prepare me for some things that have happened.
I’ve seen enough movies and TV shows to know that chemotherapy makes your hair fall out. So when my nurse told me that my hair would be gone in 2-4 weeks I wasn’t surprised at all. I was however a little disappointed just because I felt like at age 29 I finally learned how to deal with it. Since Lance Bass’ spiked hair with frosted tips went out of style, I’ve been reeling.
I decided I wanted to be proactive with the whole hair thing. I didn’t want to watch it slowly thin and fall out. Amanda leaves enough long brunette hairs around the house for both of us. So, I decided to make things easier on all of us and just buzz it all off.
This was all good until I talked to a friend of mine who is a doctor a few days later. He was surprised to see my hair, because apparently most people don’t lose their hair on my specific treatment… great.
I’ve been keeping an eye on it and after 6 weeks of growing, it seemed to be coming back normally. So, I decided to go in to my barber to get it cleaned up in preparation for it all to grow back nicely.
Here’s the kicker… now that I’ve paid for a haircut, it seems to be coming out in handfuls. M. Nite Shyamalan could have written that one.
There were a few side effects that came up, that I was unprepared for (the worst of which finally seems to be resolving). I don’t want to go into detail, so I’ll sum it up with a photo.
Above is a prehistoric chair made of Metamorphic rock. You could describe it as a very, very hard stool. Doesn’t it look hard to move?
I know some of my readers probably don’t appreciate my toilette humour, and for that I’m sorry… sorry you’re dead inside. Poop is hilarious.
So it goes.