Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy Page 8

  The younger man is trying to pull himself together and his eyes are still red and his lip is still quivering. He touches my hair again, gently, for a texture feel, then brings over two Styrofoam heads with straight black hair and bangs on them.

  “These are real hair wigs and very expensive. Women in China sell their hair for dowries.” He explains to me that this particular wig took four women’s impending marriages to be made, as he pulls the wig over my head and instructs me on how to glue it on. So that’s how wigs stay on? Glue? The hair is almost identical to mine. Long, straight, and black. The bangs are exactly the same. I look at myself in the mirror. The wig looks the same as my old hair except that the wig seems thicker.

  I always hated my hair. The kids in elementary school used to chase me around the playground and call me witch because it was so long and black. My hair was always my signature, though. When my three-year-old neighbor drew a picture of me, there was long black crayon scribble. And if any witnesses were to describe me at a crime scene, I am sure “long black hair” would be the first words they would use. Now I am feeling guilty that I ever hated my hair. It is so beautiful, how can I lose it?

  I put the wig on hold and leave the store. I am wig waffling. I keep going back to try it on, putting it on hold, going back, and not buying it. But this is not like putting a sweater on hold, and they are losing their patience with me even though I know they feel badly for me because I have cancer. I need help and I ask my boss Meredith to come with me to help me pick it out. Meredith is so classy and has such great taste and is always brutally honest about what she doesn’t like. Forget “does my butt look big in this?” I am now dealing with “does this wig look okay?” and I really need someone I trust to pick out my hair.

  When I return with Meredith, they pull out the wig, and several men gather around, saying how beautiful and natural the wig looks. Meredith does like it, but she thinks it needs a better haircut to look more natural. But there is nothing natural about cutting off your hair for a dowry. I cannot let that go. They are instructing me about how to wash it, and then suggesting another wig, too, a more casual one that is only half real hair. I can even wash it in the washing machine. The older man has come over to whisper a secret: “You need to get your hair cut. It’s too long and it’s releasing and it’s such a mess.”

  He is touching my hair again and his moist eyes are convincing me this is something I need to do. But how can I get a haircut when it is all about to fall out? He tells me the salon next door specializes in this type of haircut. He walks me next door and introduces me to Gabor of Salon Gabor. The man from the wig shop tells Gabor I need a “haircut.”

  I tell Gabor to please not cut off a lot, just a trim, and he understands how reluctant I am to remove anything, considering the circumstances. I am praying he will not cut off too much since we both know it is not going to grow back anytime soon. As he is snipping and the hair is falling around me I start to cry because this is not a normal haircut. There is just nothing normal about my life these days. It is not normal that all I worry about is living until I am thirty, putting my eggs in a safety deposit box, and proving myself to my bosses at ABC not because I’m a recent hire but because I want to show them having cancer doesn’t mean I can’t be counted on.

  Gabor cuts me an I’m-about-to-totally-lose-my-hair-from-chemo-so-I-need-to-get-a-few-inches-off-so-it-won’t-be-messy-when-I-really-lose-it shoulder-length bob. It is sweet how it flips up on the ends and he tells me how pretty I look. For a moment I even forget about my little bald spot.

  But I begin releasing so much that now I am down to combing over the patches of hair on my head. Every time the wind blows, I panic. I thought I would start wearing the wig but when I try it on all I can see is how wrong it looks on me. I squint my eyes and the hair comes into focus, and that is when I think maybe I can see them: the women in China. They are lining up to cut off their hair so they can get a dowry. Giving something away because they have to.

  Maybe I purchased their courage? The wig feels like a cover-up and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hide my baldness. I’m scared everyone will look at me and know I’m wearing a wig. I guess I really want everyone to really see me and understand what this cancer is doing to me. I decide I will not wear the wig, and that I want to go bald, slowly. I remember the women in China. I have to be brave.

  It takes all the courage in China to leave my apartment when I am officially a comb-over. I have always wondered why any man would ever wear a comb-over. Now I know. My comb-over is screaming that I can’t let go. I am holding on to those defiant pieces. I am begging them to stay put—no, ordering them to hang on, please pretty please. I refuse to let anyone trim them, those few combed-over patches (even comb-overs need a trim). I have become like one of those comb-over men because I will not let anyone near it.

  People notice me on the street and then quickly lower their eyes. But they look up again. They are rubbernecking and I am the car wreck. They must wonder what is wrong with me and I think that is good. I want them to notice what breast cancer has done to me. I think about the other things that I had tried to cover up, like zits in high school. I want this flaw to get noticed.

  I miss my ponytail most. It used to be a my-hair-is-such-a-mess-I-will-just-pull-it-back ponytail. Now, a ponytail seems like such a luxury. So much hair that it needs to be tied back? I can’t remember that. A ponytail seems like such a trophy of health and so carefree, and will I ever have a ponytail again just wagging back and forth like a happy dog’s tail?

  Shampoo commercials seem to always be on. I watch and drool: the one where the woman flips her hair in slow motion and then they kind of freeze when she flips her hair back. That extended moment of hair glory is too much. It is hair porno. Way too hard core, nothing subtle about these commercials.

  I start watching Hair Club for Men infomercials at 3 A.M. when Tyler is on call at the hospital. I cry during the testimonials, when the men talk about how different they were before they lost their hair. How confident they were, how happy they were, successful they were. I understand. When they get their new hair, they seem like they are really existing again, not just wearing hairpieces. I almost order that spray paint stuff that they sell for bald spots on another network. Almost.

  When I get to L.A. on assignment (to convince a woman who left her husband and daughters to marry a convicted killer in jail, to tell her story) I panic because it seems harder to be a balding woman in L.A. where there is so much gorgeous hair (and breasts). No one can see my one boob in L.A., but my balding head is obvious. Being a bald man in L.A. is sexy, but being a bald woman is different. Someone must be looking out for me, though, because I get to fly first class. Dr. O insisted because she said the air is much purer up front and all the recycled air could make me sick because my immune system is so compromised. It is really embarrassing to explain my situation to ABC Corporate Travel and I even have to get a doctor’s note.

  When I am in L.A., all I see is hair, most of it blonde. The camerawoman I’m working with finally asks me if I’m okay. I can’t help but notice her beautiful blonde shoulder-length hair. “Oh, I’m going through chemo and I don’t want to wear a wig.”

  She is so sweet and concerned and asks why I’m not wearing a wig. I am not sure why until I’m at the airport coming back to New York I see a young man with one leg. He has a metal rod for the other. I know about the rod because he is wearing a pair of jeans and he has deliberately cut one of the pant legs short. I understand why he is showing it and maybe I understand my decision to show my balding head more. I want people to know that I am suffering and how invisible I feel.

  But I am not invisible in Dr. O’s office because I look too young. This is not the kind of getting noticed I am craving. When a nurse says “Mrs. Lucas” during one of my consultations with doctors everyone expects my mother to be the patient. She is in her fifties like most of the breast cancer patients. One patient makes a point of telling me in great detail one day that my case
is a tragedy.

  “I thought what was happening to me was cruel. And then I saw you. How old are you? Twenty-something? Unbelievable tragedy. At my age I guess I expected this, but you . . .”

  Is that supposed to make me feel better? Are there lesser evils here? I need to be invisible here, too.

  I guess I want everyone to notice my baldness except my mom. Today she is coming to take me to my chemo. The last time she saw me was two weeks ago when I was still releasing, but now I am balding. I am scared for her to see my baldness. I don’t want her to be scared of how I look. Maybe I will wear the wig for her. But maybe seeing me in a wig would break her, too.

  Before my mom picks me up in the taxi at 20/20 to take me to chemo, I consider putting on the wig—I have it and the wig glue in my bag. I even considered calling her and asking her not to come, but I need her there. Having her with me at all these medical appointments is so much better than having her with me at a Girl Scout troop meeting when I was little. When I step into the taxi, my mom touches my head.

  “Oh, Geralyn, your hair is really coming out.”

  I can see what this is doing to my mom. I am going to glue on that wig, I’m thinking to myself. But what she says next stops me from ever wanting to wear the wig again.

  “You look so courageous. I’m so proud you’re my daughter.”

  I have finally found a way to get noticed again.

  But it is so short lived. There is one more rambunctious release left that makes even my comb-over fall out. I am in the shower, and when I start lathering my comb-over, most of it stays in my hands. The big patches of hair just come out. No warning. It is there in my hands with the shampoo lather. I calmly rinse off the suds and place the hair in the sink outside the shower. In a strange way, it reminds me of my first haircut lock, in my baby book, tied with a pink bow. I dry the chunks of hair that have just fallen out and put them in a Ziploc bag. For some strange reason I need to save them so I can touch them and see them if I need to. I can’t just throw them in the trash.

  I have thrown too much away lately.

  9

  Meeting My Mojo

  Now that my hair is gone I realize, standing in front of the mirror looking at my baldish head, that I might have nothing left to lose. Since the past has betrayed me and the future is uncertain, my life is all about “right this minute.” I need to live up to every moment. Although I am disappearing on the outside, what is left inside feels so raw and powerful it’s hanging on with claws screaming, “My show must go on! Don’t give up now!”

  I need to find a way to walk out the door and show up at work bald.

  I bought the black wool baseball cap as an experiment to see if I could wear it instead of a wig. When I put it on, I can’t see out from underneath it, so I turn it around and it looks kind of cool.

  I am not cool. I wore pink monogrammed sweaters in high school, and my style is still conservative: Jackie O suits, bangs with shoulder-length hair. I have had the same hairdo since I was two years old. I am reluctant to take fashion chances. But my life has now become about taking chances, because I might be dying and time is so short so what do I really have to lose?

  So I put on my favorite black suit to match the baseball cap, but it still doesn’t really match because the reverse-style baseball cap is too cool for my black suit but it will have to work because I need to leave the house. My doorman touches his hat as he holds the door for me. He must notice my cap.

  I am so scared for everyone at 20/20 to see my baseball cap because they will know that my hair has finally fallen out. Is it disrespectful and unprofessional to wear a baseball cap to work? I called my boss Meredith to ask if she thought it seemed rude of me to wear the cap to the office. She told me that I was being ridiculous and of course I should wear my cap.

  On my way in the door at ABC News, I wonder if the security guard notices my cap. Getting into the elevator and riding all the way to the tenth floor is testing my strength. By floor 8 I am thinking about hitting LOBBY again but it is too late and the doors open at 10. I see the landing. It is a runway, waiting for me to show off my new cap and also show the office that my hair is officially gone.

  As I am taking a deep breath, I see my executive producer, Victor. I was hoping to make it to my cubicle before anyone could see me so that I could reposition my cap one more time. And I was hoping I could test it out on some other coworkers before the big cheese saw me with it. I am praying that he doesn’t notice my hat. Since my cancer, all I want him to notice is my work.

  I haven’t missed a day of work since I returned from my mastectomy surgery. It was hard to come back because it felt like everyone was talking too fast. My chest was also pounding, but I refused to take my painkillers because they made me too tired. I keep coming to work. Showing up at work defines me. Just being there is a victory. I am too scared to lie at home in bed because I feel like I am dying. I need to prove that my brain is still working. It is really all that I have. Even on the day when there was twenty-six inches of snow on the ground, three buses, two vomits, one subway, one taxi, and four treks over huge piles of plowed snow later, I showed up. I rested once, but who even knew that. All that mattered was that I was there at my cubicle, ready to pounce on the day’s top stories for 20/20.

  My stomach is cramping, my hair is falling out, but at least I can still think. My brain is on fire. I can’t count on anything else in my body but my mind. I am bloated, I am seasick, I taste metal, my right eye keeps tearing, but I still am finding great stories for 20/20 segments. No one on the other end of the phone knows I am bald. Part of my job is to deliver newspapers, and lately I’ve had to deliver one at a time because they feel so heavy. I don’t tell anyone.

  And controlling my body has become a constant challenge. Every day I will myself to make it up the ten floors in the elevator without puking. It would be so humiliating if I didn’t make it and vomited on Hugh and Barbara. I mean, they’re my idols!

  I am on my chemo for two weeks, and then there is a two-week break. For the two weeks straight that I am “on” chemo, I take a cytoxin pill six times a day. No wonder cytoxin means “cell-killing,” because about twenty minutes after I take it I feel my stomach cramp and I need to go into the bathroom and just deep-breathe or puke and then spray aeresole hairspray to cover the smell (not as obvious as air freshener). It is stressful having only a cubicle during such privacy-demanding moments, but thankfully, my cube is right next to the bathroom. I am a frequent visitor. I always show up at work on Friday afternoons after my chemo shots, too, even though my skin is the shade of an artichoke.

  My skin color and thinning hair aren’t the only things my bosses are noticing. I am convinced that everyone at ABC only knows me as “cancer girl,” especially because I was profiled in an ABC News special called “Cancer in the Family.” But when I get paged to Victor’s office, Meredith is there waiting, and they want to promote me! I am just hoping to live out the year, but they give me a three-year contract. They believe I will make it, and they don’t want NBC or CBS to hire me away. Getting noticed at work is giving me some power back and pushing me to be bolder and turn up the volume in my life.

  And now, even today, after all my hair has just fallen out in the shower, I am here. My show must go on. But facing Victor in my baseball cap feels almost as hard as when I told him that I had cancer. I keep my eyes down and try to keep walking, but he stops me.

  “Geralyn! You look so cool! I love that hat!”

  I am stunned by his compliment, and so grateful that Victor can see my coolness and not my cancer. I am reappearing. I am still tired all the time, but especially tired of looking so exhausted and feeling invisible. I think I have found a way to start reappearing. I am holding on to myself so hard while things are falling away. How do I explain this power?

  I remember a little food shack in Provincetown where I used to spend my summers when I was little. It was called Mojos, and it was painted all different colors. When the wind blew I heard chimes fl
oating in the air. I can still picture the way the word Mojo was written in wavy letters. I thought I knew what mojo meant—but I wasn’t sure. I kept asking people. Everyone knew what it was, but couldn’t explain it. The word mojo is now popping into my head all the time. It feels so mysterious. I look it up in the dictionary to make sure my mojo is the real thing. Pronunciation: ‘mō-(,)jō. A magic spell, hex, or charm; broadly: magical power.

  I have cast a spell over my own life. I have willed myself to find my magic that must still be there. Despite the baldness and one boob and occasional heave, I am charming. I have met my mojo.

  Things that used to scare me don’t anymore. Cancer scares me, people don’t. I can ride in the elevator with Barbara Walters and not be scared of chitchat. There is suddenly something so free about living in the moment. How do I feel so alive while all of my fast-growing cells are being killed in chemo?

  Mojo.

  My mojo keeps pushing me to reappear.

  Cancer is making me cooler than I have ever been. I dare myself. Every chemo treatment, I wear a shorter skirt. I had always loved showing my arms and their definition from the weights at the gym, but now they are covered with black veins. I decide to show leg instead. My tailor keeps blushing as I direct him to go even higher above my knee. I start wearing high heels to chemo, too. Hearing the click of my patent leather strappy shoes against the sanitary white floor gives me so much hope.

  The shorter skirts are making my cap look more deliberate, but they still do not match. I buy a black satin miniskirt and a black satin cap to match. It looks deliberate and the cap is blending and it doesn’t seem like just a prop to cover my bald head. The dress code at ABC News is working—someone in the elevator is startled to hear that I have cancer.