Samantha Fisher

Me; my tumor, and my hair-

So this is what it all boiled down to-I was going to lose my hair and that was the worst thing ever. Forget that I'd gotten that phone call, the one where your doctor calls you at home to give you the test results of your biopsy. The one where she says, yes, it is cancer.

You get over that and you go into auto pilot, taking down important information like recommendations of doctors to call, processes you'll need to go through, what type of cancer you have and where to find more information -and subsequently where NOT to look for information-

And then you let it all sink in, and you say, ok, this is doable, I can so handle this. I’m one of the lucky ones; it was caught early, my tumor was small-

But then it all sinks in a little bit more, and I find out that my tumor has receptors for estrogen and tests positive for this protein that in any other time would have killed me-but now there is a chemo drug that I can get through a port for an entire year-every three weeks, and that's my gift, I get to live.

I waited one long agonizing month before the doctor took out the tumor-literally scooped it out of my breast. All the while anticipating what lay ahead. Would I have to add a cocktail of chemo drugs to my regimen? Had the cancer spread to my lymph nodes? Should I have a lumpectomy, or a bilateral mastectomy? These questions plagued me every day until I finally made the decision to trust my doctors’ opinions and have a lumpectomy. Once they removed the tumor-that's when they told me for sure, that's when they said-it was their recommendation, that I add a cocktail of chemotherapy into the mix-the kind of chemo whose worst side affect is hair loss-and there it was. I was going to lose my hair. I got to keep my breast, but I was definitely losing my hair, and that was more scary than hearing I had cancer. Almost as scary as telling my girls the news-telling them after knowing that my uncle was dying of pancreatic cancer, telling them knowing that their dad survived a cancer diagnosis 14 years prior. And when my 12 year old asked me if I was going to lose my hair, and she could probably see the fear all over my face, it was my 12 year old daughter who said, “Mom, it’s going to be ok, everything is going to be OK.”

But that was my reality-that was it-I was going to lose my hair and I was terrified. I was devastated. I was so mad.

I really loved my hair. Next to my sister, who had always been the skinny one, the taller one, the older one-it's one of the things I had-great hair.

For a brief while, I naively thought maybe my hair wouldn't fall out. I'd started treatment and was chugging along-NOT losing my hair, and I thought, well, maybe?

But then that day came-it happened. It was exactly like you see in the movies and TV. I was in the shower, home alone, and clumps just came out. It was like it was happening to somebody else. It was awful, and terrifying and shocking even, but it was.

I actually panicked, I called my sister, and cried and said, we have to go to the wig guys today! We can’t wait 'til Wednesday!! I would be bald by Wednesday!

“The Wig Guys” were a recommendation given to me by another breast cancer survivor. I was told that these were the guys to go to for hair. I would be able to choose my new hair, and even match the color-perfectly. So that’s what I did. A few weeks prior, I had met with Jeff and Brian at their home/salon. I tried on all sorts of wigs until I found the one that I felt passed as the closest to my real hair.

I eventually calmed down, and called Jeff who reassured me that everything would be fine. My hair wasn’t going to just fall out. Jeff told me not to worry. He advised me to leave it alone, don’t wash it, don’t brush it, and I would be fine until Wednesday. And so I did as he said. I didn’t touch my hair for the next three days. But, every time I looked in the mirror I was reminded of what was to come.

And then it was Wednesday, the day they would shave my head bald.

I had to take an Ativan that day. I was anxious, and nervous. I couldn’t catch my breath. Dan and I drove together, and my sister and mom drove together in another car. Dan and I didn’t do much talking on that car ride. There wasn’t much to say. Looking back, I wish I’d had the guts to shave my own head. I shaved Dan’s when he had cancer-it was almost like my appointment with the wig guys made the whole thing so much more dramatic than it needed to be.

Needless to say, we arrived at Jeff and Brian’s house, and were escorted into the living room, where we waited in bated silence for Brian to call us down to the “salon” where inevitably, I would lose my hair. The room was dark. Not a great deal of natural sunlight came through the front windows. Which just enhanced the dreary mood we were all feeling. The room was decorated in a sort of Asian influence. Everything was perfectly placed. Sitting there on those couches, I was numb.

We finally went downstairs to the salon, where

I sat in the chair. I could see my “new” hair resting on the wig stand. It was just there, lifeless, even though it was actually made of real hair-hair that someone, somewhere donated for that exact purpose. Brian began to cut my hair, shorter and shorter. It wasn’t so bad. I felt ok. We were all joking, and laughing, making light of the situation, and it wasn’t so bad. Finally, Brian asked me if he could give me a mohawk. Of course I said yes. I even let Dan take photos of me, (which he of course had fun with!) And then, that was it. Brian shaved my head, and my hair was gone. I was bald.

OK, so I was bald. Though I had the most beautiful wig, I couldn’t believe that underneath it I had no hair. The wig was itchy, and so hot. Oh my god, it was hot! In the beginning, my 9 year old couldn’t even look at me bald. But then one day, I forgot that I wasn’t wearing the wig, and I walked into her room! She looked at me kind of strangely and I realized what the problem was! But as soon as I realized, she said, Mom, it’s fine! You look great! That was so reassuring because then I knew that at least at home, walking around bald was going to be ok. And in time, my girls even encouraged me to be bald in the house.

On the flip side, there were certainly some advantages to having no hair. Instead of the usual 45 minute process of washing my hair, blowing it dry, flat ironing it…now it only took me 5 minutes to get ready to go anywhere- I just put my hair on, and off I went with perfect hair every time! I even got compliments on my perfectly blown dry hair! Those were always fun to hear, as I would smile to myself and think if you only knew!!

And here’s the thing, I could have so easily just worn scarves, or soft little hats, I could have just walked around bald! But I didn’t. I couldn’t do it in public, only around my family. Because here’s the thing, a man can walk around bald, and it’s totally accepted. You would never look at a bald man and think to yourself, gee, I wonder if that man has cancer. But you see a woman bald, and you immediately say to yourself, oh, how sad, she must have cancer. She is going through chemo. That’s just the truth.

And I looked like a cancer patient bald. I looked sicker than I was. I wasn’t even sick, at least not from cancer. That was the real kicker; I was often asked how I was feeling. I just

wanted to scream, I’m fine! The cancer isn’t even in my body anymore! I’m taking these drugs that made my hair fall out so it won’t come back!!!!!

Now, here I am-I have six months of hair growth, and it’s growing back thicker, and curly-different than it was. I hate it. I hear at least once a day-every day how cute my new short hair is, and I hate that people think I CHOSE this style! But it's back, and I'm on the other side…. And I realize that it’s really JUST hair. Of course NEVER say this to a woman who is about to lose her hair to chemo.

It’s just that as a woman, so much of our beauty is about our hair. We spend so much money on coloring and straightening, buying the right hair dryer and brushes, and, well, beautifying ourselves through our hair.

I know there are women out there with past and present diagnoses of breast cancer, and for some, the loss of their hair isn’t even the half of it. There are women with roadmaps of scars all over their chests and abdomens from all the surgeries their breast cancer required. Breast Cancer has left its imprint on me. I too have my small scars, and I

do see them every time I look in the mirror. I see my port too, but more than anything, when I look in the mirror I see a different me, a changed me. I see my short hair, and I am reminded everyday that I am different now. And someday when my hair is longer, I don’t know if what I will see in the mirror will be any different than what I see right now. Will I always see a woman who at the age of 41 was diagnosed with breast cancer?

My oncologist told me that part of the emotional healing process is finding things I can do that are about my life NOW. She said try not to strive to get back to the way I was before my cancer diagnosis. I think some people call it, “The New Normal.” But still, my hair-I want my old hair back. So on this next road, the one where I fight to stay strong, eat healthier than I have ever before, exercise like I can’t live without it, I am growing my hair, and watching my physical and emotional self change and grow too, EVERY day moving forward. I want to be there to give the new me a big hug.

I remember back 14 years ago when Dan, my husband for only one year, was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s. (He’s been cancer free for 14 years now!) I remember the people I worked with back then all said the craziest things to me. They were just trying to be supportive. They told me things like, “This will make you stronger, or, “This will make your marriage closer.” Well, I am pretty sure we didn’t need a cancer diagnosis to make us stronger and closer as a couple. Our love brought us closer and made us stronger, 14 years ago, and again last September. And I certainly never thought we’d be fighting cancer again. You just have to be willing to take the curve balls life throws you. We did what we had to do. We picked ourselves up, we fought and we marched on. You don’t give up. You trust in the fact that you are exactly where you are meant to be, and you just move forward.

There comes a time in your life when you walk away from all the things in your life that are negative, and the people connected to that bad energy. You begin to choose the positive, and those people who help generate the good energy. You choose the people who make you laugh. You forget the bad and you focus on the good. You love those who treat you well, and hope those who don’t will find a better way. Life is too short to be anything but happy. We all fall down in life, but it’s the getting back up that lets you know you are truly living.

My hope is that I never forget the infinite possibilities that I know to be born within myself. That I use the gifts that have been bestowed upon me, and that I pass on the love that has been given to me. That I learn to be content with myself just the way I am, short hair or long, scars, both physical and emotional. Of course there will always be a part of my cancer that I will carry with me forever, because it’s part of my story now. But I hope that I allow my soul the freedom to sing and dance, because life is precious and full of amazing things and people, and if you open your eyes, I’m pretty sure you’ll find everything you need is right in front of you.

And today, exactly one year after my mammogram, the one that detected my tumor, and September 6th, the day that changed my life forever, with a diagnosis of cancer, I am ALL CLEAR! I won! I beat cancer! I KICKED CANCER”S ASS!!!!!!!

I can finally see the finish line now. October 6th I have my very last of the chemo treatments, and my port will be removed, and I finally can close the book, hang up my combat boots, and look forward-to a long, healthy life. At least I know it surely won’t be cancer that knocks me down!

And for what it’s worth, all the people in my life who rallied behind me, supported me, held me up when I was down, made me laugh when I was sad, brought me warm blankets and fuzzy slippers, kale salads and Josh’s French fries, encouraging and thoughtful gifts, jars of candy to count down the days-to all the beautiful people who I call my friends and family-you are my heroes -especially my two girls and my amazing husband. My 12 year old and 9 year old daughters are the pillars of strength. To them, my hair was nothing. And when they saw my bald head for the first time, and I REALLY looked like a cancer patient, they told me I was beautiful, and that truly was everything. And when my husband took over the job of “mom” while still being Dad-I sat in awe of my beautiful family, and felt lucky to be alive so that I could continue to witness such incredible love.

I am a lucky girl. Not just because I won, but also because I got to fight! I learned so much about myself during this past year. I found strength within me I didn’t know existed until called upon. My pink combat boots and boxing gloves are a little more worn now, (and yes, I really do have pink boxing gloves) but they were mighty. I am officially a part of the club now-The Survivor’s club! I’m setting the gearshift for the high gear of my soul, and I am gonna ride this next wave stronger than ever!