Going, Going, Gone.

When I was younger I loathed my hair. Curly and wild with a mind of its own, I would sit looking at myself in the mirror and grow angry over the fact that I felt so different from my peers around me. Me with my corkscrew curls and them with their bone straight and manageable locks.

All I wanted, more than anything, was just to blend in. My hair though, my hair made me stand out.

My mom would constantly wipe away my tears and promise me that one day, one day you will love your hair Mandy. Woman pay hundreds of dollars just to have hair like yours.

I’d roll my eyes and think, no. I want straight hair.

In high school I’d wake at 5AM daily to spend an hour plus blowing my locks straight then ironing them out with the latest hot tool that came with the hope of fitting in.

At some point in my senior year of high school I surrendered to what I was born with. I was tired. Tired of fighting it and tired of spending so much time on attemping to alter it to look like everyone else.

Over the years I’d learn that my mom was right about this too. I did learn to not only love my hair but became so deeply grateful for the individuality that came with each twist and coil and the wildness I felt looking in the mirror.

My hair became one of my favorite physical attributes.

I grew it long and stopped using so many hair products to try and control it into place and allowed it to be wild and free. I allowed it to live untamed and soon realized that it was as if allowing my hair the freedom to be itself allowed me to as well.

When I was diagnosed with cancer back in November and after waking from surgery to learn that I would have to do chemotherapy, my first questions was, ‘will I lose my hair?’

Originally the plan was to do a chemo combo that would preserve my hair. Maybe it would thin out a little bit but would still allow me to walk throughout the world with a little dignity in tacked and animinity on days I didn’t want the world to know.

However, plans changed and although I was still given the choice, I knew in that moment the only choice I really had. And it came with losing the very thing that made me feel the most like me.

Despite my best efforts at keeping as much hair as I possibly could with cold capping, exactly fourteen days after my first chemo infusion I woke and ran my fingers through my hair and with it came a handful of curls. I knew at this rate my hope of keeping at least fifty percent of my hair was going to fade fast and I wondered what was I really holding onto anyways?

By mid-morning on Friday so much of my hair had come out that I sent a text to my friend who is a hairdresser and asked if she could cut it short. A few hours later I was sitting in her chair watching her cut my long locks into a cute bob.

A moment I thought was going to be sad turned out to feel…fine. I felt nothing but excitement when I realized my new do was actually really cute. I can do this I thought.

But the hope of this slowing down the hair loss began to dwindle by Sunday morning when so much hair had fallen out that I started to get bald patched peppered throughout and the joke I shared with my family and oncologist started to become a reality.

“If I start to look like Gollum from Lord of the Rings, I’ll know it’s time to just shave my head.”

By Sunday afternoon I looked in the mirror and knew.

I was already going to my younger brother’s house for dinner and I Facetimed him.

“Do you have clippers?”

“Why?”

“Cause I’m starting to look like Gollum. We are shaving my head.”

At first he wasn’t on board. All he could see what a decent amount of hair remaining but I flipped it over to the side to reveal what was hidden beneath my carefully placed strands.

“I can’t do this. I can’t walk around with bald patches.”

I thought I would cry. I thought I would stare at myself in the mirror as locks fell to the ground and feel as if a part of me was dying but the truth is, I didn’t.

Instead, I laughed.

As I shaved the first bit off on the side of my head I was met with a rush of adrenaline a joyful giggles. I was surprised to see that instead of sadness, I felt free.

We shaped my hair into different styles from mullet to mohawk and resided on leaving a bit on top just for fun. I mean, I’m probably never going to shave my head again, I might as well have a bit of fun with it.

By the next morning even that was starting to come out in droves and Monday afternoon I decided to say goodbye to the last strands and shave my head completely.

And for the first time in my life I have nothing to hide behind.

And that feels utterly liberating.

And absolutely freeing.

I Am No Super Human Void of Pain and Suffering

The last few days have been hard. I’ve been swept away by a lot of heavy feelings of grief as the reality of the next few months sets in.

Although I’m grateful I’ve had more energy the last week and the bone pain is gone, the fatigue I feel is something hard to explain. It’s deep in the layers of my skin, down to the bone. It’s hard to get a good flow doing much of anything and right now, my workdays look a bit like scattered dust blowing in the wind.

My hair is starting to fall out too. I’m lucky I have a lot of it but every time I get out of the shower and run a comb through it I’m met with having to say goodbye to a good handful of my identity.

Oh the weight gain and muscle loss. I’ve always been very active. I’ve climbed the tallest mountain in the lower 48 and finished 3rd in my age group in triathlons. Now I can barely recognize my body in the mirror and get winded walking up the stairs. It’s a hard adjustment. To look in the mirror and see a stranger at times.

I’m angry and sad. I find myself kicking and screaming inside that my life has to be paused in such an extreme way once again.

I was just getting back on track from my last cancer (6 years later) and from my hysterectomy two and a half years ago. I was finally able to grow my hair long. I found a way to move my body and was seeing older versions of her here and there. She was coming back alive.

I don’t go to this place often anymore because despite all of it, I’ve learned to find a lot of joy in the life that I now have.

But these feelings, This grief, it’s important too. And I’ll let it wash through me. And I’ll honor its purpose.

Because I’m human.

And cancer treatment is traumatic.

All of this is traumatic.

And I am no super human void of pain and suffering.

I am, grieving.

This Too Shall Pass

On Friday, January 13th, I began a journey I would never wish on anyone. I had my first infusion of chemotherapy and immunotherapy. This week, to put it bluntly, I’ve been a little worse for wear.

It’s funny, I had these grand delusions that I would be back up and working in just a few days. I can do this I thought. I’ve been to hell and back before and I always bounce back quickly. I will with this too.

This beast however, is one I have yet to experience before. This beast, has annihilated me, leaving me question so much already.

I’ve been dealing with neuropathy that is so painful I don’t quite have the words to describe it other than feeling as if my nerves are being ripped apart by electrical shocks and waves every few seconds. This began Sunday evening and has yet to leave. And that alone is terrifying. To think of a life riddled with this kind of pain.

I hear the second week is better though and the third well, I welcome that with open arms as it teases me with thoughts of being “almost normal” again. Yet, I know when I finally make it to week three the clock starts ticking again until I’m sitting in that same chair, in that same cancer center, getting those same drugs pumped throughout my body. Round two.

And the cycle begins all over again.

I’m doing my best to hold on to little moments of joy, although few and far between, and my mantra, although hard to fully believe, this too shall pass.

This too shall pass.

And I pray that it does and that this time next year I’m pain (and cancer) free.

I hope the rumors are true though and next week I’ll feel better and the following more like myself and I can get back to work in whatever way that may look like for the foreseeable future. I miss my craft. I miss creating and putting my thoughts into action. I miss the chatter of a podcast playing in the background while I get lost in my shop.

I think one of the most uncomfortable parts of all this is the not knowing. Not knowing when life will feel normal again. Not knowing if or when I can work again. Not knowing if this pain will subside enough for me to do the things I love dearly. The things that make me who I am.

All I can do is the very thing I’ve been trying to figure out how to do my whole life. Surrender.

Surrender, surrender, surrender.

And wait.

And just be.

And that, my friends, is an art in and of itself and I haven’t really learned that medium yet. But like with all my other artistic paths, practice makes me better and better. So, I’ll practice this too.

And eventually, this too shall pass.

xo, amanda

P.S. - Ongoing help is probably going to be vital until I figure out my new flow with work. I’m so grateful to you and to all who have supported me in the various ways laid out in my Cancer Gift Registry. It’s truly lifted me up and made me feel so loved.

You can find that registry here.