dancing girl painting

October is one of my favorite seasons. I think of leaves changing, Halloween, pumpkins, and I also think of awareness. In October of this year, we celebrated World Ostomy DayMental Health Awareness Week , Domestic Violence Awareness Month, and Breast Cancer Awareness Month. It is a month to love ourselves and our bodies — a month of awareness I think we need to honor every day, all year long.

dancing girl

It is a month to show our support in whatever way we can – whether it’s sporting a pink ribbon, participating in a run, or learning more about the issue. This mixed media painting above, “Dancing Girl,” was a piece I created in Yale Hospital and is now in a brand new Breast Cancer Outpatient Center. I couldn’t be prouder to be displaying it in a brand new beautiful center in Connecticut.

Making art, going to a medical checkup, reaching out to a friend – there are many ways we can spread the word about the importance of women’s health to raise more awareness around breast cancer. There are many common misconceptions about breast cancer, and to know it exists isn’t enough. That’s not the kind of awareness this month is about. Awareness starts from within – from the intimidating, yet extremely empowering fact that we have the ability to keep our amazing vessels as healthy as we can. That’s a wise and daily approach to healthcare.

breast cancer fact sheet As women, an important stance we can take to breast cancer is prevention, and the best stance anyone can take to any kind of physical illness is good self-care. It’s an effort I try to make daily –  I’ve been through enough already! So the least I can do is take an empowered approach to my health for the one body I have. After 27 surgeries, my digestive system was surgically reconstructed with the intestines I had left, and now I want to make sure I fill that system with the best nourishment possible, and do everything I can to take care of myself – inside and out. No matter what we’re going through, we need to love, nourish and care our bodies. What else can I do? I try to exercise, eat healthy foods, and see my OB-GYN regularly.

Here are some ideas to keep your mind and body healthy:

My biggest healing and recovery resource has been sharing my story. If you’re going through something… talk about it. Sharing our story makes it more palpable for ourselves. By just speaking it, writing it, dancing it – we reframe what has happened to us in a way that we can easily process. And the mind and body are definitely related – so take care of all of you. We can cope with any detour in life if we travel it together. You are not alone, and just having someone be able to nod their heads in empathy makes things that much easier. I think awareness months are also about knowing we’re not alone. Life can be a bit hard, and it takes a bit more work at times, but there is some kind of power in numbers here. Knowing we all struggle, we all get frustrated, we all feel messy, sick, angry, sad, or just don’t want to deal – when we know others go through this too, we actually feel human. So this month – and every month — let’s spread awareness in our world. But let’s not forget the best kind of awareness – our own. Take care of you. Together, we’re stronger. Creativity is healing. So get creative, get mindful, get self-compassionate – and let your body do the rest.

Amy  is a  PTSD peer-peer specialist, artist, author, speaker for RAINN and TEDx, award-winning health advocate, actress and playwright. Endorse Amy’s nomination by WEGO Health for a Health Activist Hero Award until October 21st at amyoes.com/health-activist.  Amy is currently touring with her one-woman musical, Gutless & Grateful to theaters, schools, healthcare communities and more.  For information on keynote presentations, workshops and signature talkbacks, (and specialized versions for corporations, college campuses, survivorshealthcare professionals, and artists) visit amyoes.com.  Amy also offers private coaching to help others navigate their own beautiful detours, and subscribe for free excerpts of her upcoming book, My Beautiful Detour, and download a free creativity e-book.

The Mighty, in partnership with Fuck Cancer, is asking the following: What do you wish you had found on Google when you were first diagnosed? Find out how to email us a story submission here.


I ran my fingertips through pale pink sand and gazed at a glistening blue-green ocean ahead of me. I was laying on a lounge chair, enjoying a peaceful break from my busy life during a beach-side vacation. I yearned to immerse my entire body in the warm water but thought twice about going into the ocean. A large sign with a picture of a jellyfish had caught my eye earlier that day as my husband and I walked onto the beach.

Remembering this sign, I was now trying to decide if I should go into the ocean. Ordinarily, this would be a no-brainer. There were lots of other tourists basking in the sea, taking in the sound of the waves hitting the shore and the glorious color of the water, fully enjoying the moment. 

The moment. I recently learned to appreciate precious, fleeting time. I didn’t always follow the mantra to “live in the moment.” But surviving breast cancer at age 33, less than a year after becoming a mom, taught me the importance of it, among other lessons.

Between the time I went for my initial mammography exam until the time my tumor-status was determined post-operation, my life was in question. There was a good chance the cancer in my breast had escaped to nearby lymph nodes. But it didn’t. For that, I live in the moment. There was a good chance that if it was invasive, I would have needed chemotherapy. But I didn’t. For that, I live in the moment. There was a good chance that because I would need chemotherapy, I would struggle to fulfill my dream of completing my family. But I didn’t. And for that, I live in the moment.

Surgery to remove a good portion of my right breast followed by six weeks of radiation that left me exhausted was not a walk in the park. It was a struggle when I couldn’t lift my baby for a few weeks after surgery. It was an emotionally and physically trying time for me because I was working while undergoing radiation and taking care of my family. My life was on the line, but I still had to be a mom and an employee. A positive attitude kept me afloat. I was able to power through this rough patch in my life knowing everything would be OK.

Now I realize breast cancer could have killed me. After I finished treatment, I began to reflect and developed a new outlook on life. Facing cancer head-on has made me see that life can snap away in a moment and has opened my eyes to these life lessons.

Everyday moments of bliss, whether they are with family, friends or alone, are incredibly valuable and not to be missed. Bliss is spending time with my 2-year-old daughter. We watch “Dora the Explorer” in bed on weekend mornings, splash around in the pool and whip up batches of muffins together.

Life is short, so do what fulfills you. Since I was a child, I have enjoyed writing. It’s even been part of my career, although it’s been corporate-focused. After surgery, I began to pour my thoughts onto paper and realized writing about personal experiences really fulfills me.

Be positive.
 I try not to let the little things drag me down. I turn negative situations into positive ones and try to be flexible. When my job was eliminated shortly after I finished treatment, when all of my energy had been sapped out of my body, I felt defeated. I took time to sulk and then moved on, knowing a better opportunity was on the other side of the rainbow.

Time has seemed to speed up since I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I now realize the precious nature of every moment, so I am anxious to hold onto as much time as possible and make the most of it.

Cancer returning to invade my body is always on the horizon of my mind. I grapple with thoughts of being diagnosed with breast cancer again and being ripped away from my daughter, my husband and my family and friends. I vigilantly check myself every month and routinely go to see my doctors, but I try to not let this ever-present worry get in my way of living my life. 

On that note, since living life trumps worry, I waded into that glorious green-blue sea and basked in it. I was even stung by some sea creature on my foot, but it was minor, and I didn’t let it stop me from enjoying my time in my happy place. Before I knew it, I was back in my everyday routine. Each day is not to be missed.

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The Mighty, in partnership with Fuck Cancer, is asking the following: What’s the best advice you’ve gotten or a mantra that spoke to you following your diagnosis?  Find out how to email us a story submission here.

Breast cancer. Who – me? Stage 2 invasive ductal carcinoma. That certainly wasn’t in my life plan! I was diagnosed in January 2016, and these are some of the valuable lessons I learned early on in my journey. 

1. There is a difference between a crisis and an emergency. 

It was an emotional crisis to hear my diagnosis, but I learned it was not an emergency. In the midst of the initial shock, tears and sleepless nights, there was time for me to come up for air. A good friend recommended “Dr. Susan Love’s Breast Book,” and I devoured it. It was a great crash course in breast cancer. It took me three weeks to finalize a treatment plan, during which I had further testing, visited the surgeon and oncologist, and sought a second oncologist’s opinion. 

2. Trust my gut.

My brother gave me some wise advice the first week I was diagnosed. He said, “Sis, sooner or later you’ll be faced with decisions only you can make. You need to trust your gut.”

My oncologist recommended four months of chemotherapy to shrink the tumor before surgery. He also mentioned that I qualified for a clinical trial that would use a pill to cut off the estrogen supply. It involved a second breast biopsy besides my initial one, and a third biopsy after the first month of treatment, so he didn’t think many women would want to participate. Mark and I were at the check-out desk scheduling the appointment for my chemo port placement when I asked him to go back and see if they would give us the clinical trial papers so I could look them over. I spent the weekend stewing over chemotherapy side effects versus the possible risks of the clinical trial. Early Monday morning I read through the clinical trial again and my gut clearly told me, “It’s the right thing to do.” My cancer is 100 percent estrogen receptor positive and slow growing. Since chemotherapy works to destroy cells with rapid growth, my gut told me that cutting off the estrogen supply trumped chemo. It was a relief to cancel the port placement appointment.

3. There is no turning back.

That is the thing about cancer. You have to make treatment decisions, and you will never know the outcome of the options you didn’t choose. Even if you change course midstream, you can’t necessarily go back and start over. I remember crying for two days before I started my pills. I wanted to stay “normal” for a while longer. Then I realized that normal had already changed, and what I really wanted was to be post-treatment. There was no way to get to post-treatment unless I let go of being pre-treatment.

4. Get organized.

I was quickly accumulating pamphlets and reports from my office visits and tests. I knew it was time to get organized. We bought four nesting bins: medical records, billing information, cards and letters, and miscellaneous handouts. I take a small notebook to every appointment with a list of questions and write down the answers on the spot. I also keep a record of the date of every office visit and procedure. I vowed that cancer was not going to take over our kitchen table. Instead, I have it neatly stacked in the corner.

5. Be willing to accept help from unexpected places, and don’t expect help from expected places.

Mark and I have repeated this advice to each other more than any other we have received so far. It came from a physician friend two days after my diagnosis. I am a private person, but we soon realized that people can’t reach out if they don’t know anything is wrong. To balance that, I also learned it is OK to only share when you are ready. If people ask questions that are too personal, I feel empowered to say I’m not ready to talk about it.

6. Build a support team and a medical team.

Some people are eager to offer unsolicited advice and talk about their experiences with cancer. I appreciate their good intentions, but I did not want to make decisions based on anecdotal information. A good friend suggested, “Build your support team and build your medical team. Use your support team for support and your medical team for your treatment decisions. It is OK to keep them separate if you want to.”

7. A positive outlook makes a difference for me.

I used to hate the saying:  Life is 10 percent how you make it and 90 percent how you take it. It made me feel like all my hard work only added up to a 10 percent difference. Now I realize that even if I can’t control a situation, I can control my outlook, and a positive outlook makes the biggest difference of all for me. I have made a conscious choice to focus on the positive. I have erased negative texts instead of sending them. I have chosen not to complain when things go wrong. The biopsy I had one month into the clinical trial had to be repeated the following week due to a processing error. Instead of focusing on the negative, I asked if they would take some extra time with the ultrasound to measure the size of my tumor. They agreed, and I had the relief of finding out it was already shrinking. We waited two hours for an appointment last week and spent the time Googling cartoons about long waits in doctor’s offices! Picture this: The patient is sitting on the exam table and his right leg is sticking straight up in the air.  The doctor stands beside him with stars floating around his head like he has just been kicked.  The nurse says, “Looks like appropriate reflexes for someone who’s waited two hours!” We were chuckling when the doctor walked into the room! When I am feeling especially discouraged, I always look for a way to reframe the situation in a positive light.

8. Cancer isn’t a competition.

I have been blessed to connect with two friends who are going through breast cancer treatment ahead of me. When we first met and shared our stories, I tried rank ordering who had the “best” and “worst” diagnosis and treatment plan. That is something I conjured up on my own, and it was not helpful at all. I still have three more months of taking pills to cut off the estrogen supply before I know whether I will have a lumpectomy or mastectomy, and I will only learn if I need chemotherapy after the surgical pathology report is back. This could end up really good or really bad. That does not negate the stress I’m going through during this waiting period imposed by the treatment plan I chose. I have lost a lot of sleep over the “what-ifs,” but I’ve also made good use of this time to consult with the radiation oncologist, plastic surgeon and mastectomy fitter so I will be prepared to make decisions when the time comes. I have a newfound respect for all women with breast cancer, regardless of the details. 

Everyone has to find the path that is right for them. Writing poetry, e-mailing friends and writing in my prayer journal helped me process some of my emotions.

9. Stay engaged.

Mark found a friend whose wife is also going through cancer treatment. They have started meeting for lunch regularly. The most helpful advice Mark got from his friend was, “Stay engaged.” Mark sat down with me one evening and said he wanted to stay engaged but didn’t know what he wanted to talk about or if he even had anything to say. An hour later, we were still talking.

10. My faith is a source of strength during this process.

My first husband died when I was 37, and I learned I could rely on God in hard times. Even when I was mad at Him and someone else had to stand in the gap for me, I believe God was always there. I had plenty of time to re-evaluate my priorities and started living a more authentic life. Facing my cancer diagnosis almost two decades later, I was feeling pretty good about how I was living my life without regrets. I felt I was reaping the rewards of what I had been through in my 30s. That was – until I had lunch with Nancy! She is in her 90s and her husband was moving to a nursing home because of his poor health. Mark and I took her out for lunch to lift her spirits, and she ended up lifting ours. I told her I knew they were going through a hard transition, and it would be nice to know how long the roller coaster ride would last so she would know how to pace herself. Nancy replied, “Oh, honey, then how would my faith have a chance to grow?” That stopped me in my tracks.

Lunch with Nancy gave me the resolve to stop coasting on past experiences and open myself up to the new lessons cancer has for me to learn. I joke that my life goal is to take up smoking on my 100th birthday and light my first cigarette from the candles on my cake. That leaves me 44 more years to coast or grow. 

You can’t gain speed coasting unless you are going downhill. I choose growth. I choose faith. I choose life.

Editor’s note: Any medical information included is based on a personal experience. For questions or concerns regarding health, please consult a doctor or medical professional.

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Life is full of dramatic ironies. I had spent the past four months meeting weekly with my therapist, as she tried again and again to help me see the legitimacy of depression as a chronic illness. The kind of illness that can kill you. The kind of illness that entitles you to ask for help from friends and family. “I wish you could see and understand and say out loud,” she said time and again, “you have a chronic illness that can be and has been life-threatening. If you had cancer, diabetes, or congestive heart failure, you would have no qualms about telling people that you are sick and you need their support. The depressive episode that you just experienced almost killed you.”

She was right. I had indeed been close to death when I sat in my living room trying to kill myself. But now I was in recovery, though not yet recovered, not yet well. Just because you survive a heart attack doesn’t mean you are well enough to return to business as usual. I was committed to slowing down, working only part time, and doing the difficult work of introspection to determine what needed to change for me to get mentally well. No easy task, but I was committed to this new “staying alive plan,” as I called it.

I’m a girl who loves an action plan, and so I accepted this new beginning and my goal of “getting better” with zeal. I would name and accept depression as an intermittent presence in my life, but I would not let this illness kill me. I quit a full time job I didn’t like very much, despite its benefits and health insurance. I continued working 20 hours per week at my second job that I actually enjoyed, training youth on issues of reproductive justice. I swallowed my pride and asked my parents for financial help, explaining to them what had been going on with my mental health. When the deposit appeared in my bank account, I cringed with sadness and shame at the thought of my 30th birthday rapidly approaching and me asking my parents, at retirement age, for money. I reminded myself several times a day, this is what I need to do to get better.

They say things get worse before they get better. Four months after my depression almost killed me, one month after I had committed to the “staying alive plan,” I received unexpected bad news in the unlikeliest of settings.

I was in a parking lot on a perfect spring day when I was told I had breast cancer. Minutes earlier, I had been seated at my desk in front of my computer in the office I share with my coworker. I heard the phone ring, saw the phone number of the incoming call and knew it was the doctor’s office. My first emotion was relief. Good news would come over the phone, I had assumed, and bad news would come in person, at my scheduled follow-up appointment on Monday. This was Tuesday, and they were calling me. It had to be good news. They wouldn’t give bad news over the phone. (Spoiler alert: they totally can and will give you bad news over the phone.)

“Just one second,” I said, as I rose from my desk, and paced quickly to the end of the hall, pushing down the bar on the glass door that led outside. I wrapped my one free arm around my ribcage while holding the phone to my ear with the other, not because I was chilly — it was warm with a clear blue sky — but almost instinctively to brace myself for the news I didn’t know was coming. “OK, I’m here.” The kind, pleasant, well-measured voice of the surgeon on the other end of the call resumed. “We have the results back from your pathology, and unfortunately it is bad news. We found a cancer.”

Each of her words hit me like a punch in the gut. Unfortunately. Bad news. Cancer. I was silent, slowly pacing up the inclined walkway away from the building. My eyebrows knit together, my eyes squinting against the brightness, as my brain tried to process what I was hearing. She must have said the wrong thing, I thought. It’s supposed to be good news, she’s supposed to tell me this is over. Things are supposed to be getting better.

Finally I realized she was not going to say anything else until she heard a response from me. “OK…” I managed to produce a word from my throat. Surely now she’ll realize she made a mistake and correct herself. But she didn’t. She went on to describe the findings of the pathology report in her characteristically slow, deliberate voice that I would come to find comforting, as I would come to think of her as “my surgeon.” From that point on in the call, I heard and digested only fragmented words and phrases. Carcinoma. Invasive. Margins. Genetic testing. Mastectomy. Chemotherapy. Radiation. All words that have become part of my lexicon and daily conversations with doctors, friends, and family. But that day, the effort to digest two simple words, “breast cancer,” took my breath away.

I finished the phone call with my surgeon, and through the fog of it all, I heard her say I would be scheduled for three different doctors appointments at the Cancer Center on Thursday. At some point, I had found my way to my car and unlocked the door to slip inside the driver’s seat. I leaned my elbows against the steering wheel for a moment with my head in my hands, then said, “OK. Thank you,” and hung up. I struggled to breathe. It was still a beautiful spring day, and the breeze rustled the leaves of the tree overhead.

That day was an uninvited new beginning. The day I was diagnosed with cancer and my 30th birthday a month and a half later would stand in my memory as bookends to a surreal and nightmarish chapter of my life.

After that phone call, I left work in a rapid fury, rushing back inside the office building to gather my things. I didn’t know where or what I was rushing to, but I knew I could not stay there. As I merged onto the freeway, I thought, what are you supposed to do the day you find out you have cancer? I had never heard this question asked, and I didn’t have an answer. I made an attempt to survey my body, mind and heart. What do you want or need right now? To call my mom. To be with friends. Alcohol. Cigarettes. To break things. My mom had been staying with me to help me as I recovered from the surgical biopsy that led to my diagnosis. I called her from the car; she was out walking, enjoying the weather. “They said they found cancer,” I told her. She stayed calm. I stayed calm. It was strange that we were both able to maintain a calm exterior in the face of such terror.

As I established earlier: I’m a girl who loves an action plan, and so I set to work. I dialed my friends as I drove, assigning tasks to various individuals. I was piecing together a plan, an “I found out I have cancer” ritual. We’d meet at A. & K.’s house. A. would buy beer and champagne. C. would pick me up and drive me home in case I drank too much. I would bring snacks. J. would bring my cigarettes, which she typically rationed to me at her own discretion, in an effort to modulate my smoking habit.

It’s not surprising that my gut reaction to my diagnosis was to create a ritual. I find them helpful, especially in times of transition. They guide us along the process of change and afford us some symbolism to understand the chapter that is closing and the one that is opening.

On the night of my diagnosis, I sat in the backyard with my four dear friends. We drank. I rushed everyone to drink their beers quickly, so that we could amass enough glass bottles for the main event. We smoked, and no one gave me shit for smoking cigarettes the day I was diagnosed with cancer. We laughed darkly about the absurdity of it all, of me surviving severe depression only to be diagnosed with cancer. When the laughter ran out, we stared silently at one another with a sad helplessness in our eyes until it was twilight and we couldn’t see each others’ faces. Then, we lined up in front of the house, several feet from the brick foundation that lined the crawl space. And we threw the beer bottles with all our might at the crease between the house and the concrete driveway. Each shatter was musical but short lived. They punctuated the words from the surgeon’s phone call, and the silent dialogue that had run through my head. Unfortunately. *shatter* Bad news. *shatter* Cancer. *shatter* Fuck. *shatter* We took turns, with me doing the honors of breaking the three extra bottles. It was over too quickly.

I ushered everyone inside for the final piece of the absurd, tragic cancer ritual. A. began pouring champagne into blue-patterned teacups. C. read a poem about welcoming pain and sadness when they come to reside with you unannounced. I said to my friends, “We’re going to toast the beginning of this shitty season, and we’re going to toast again when it’s over.”

Cheers. And, fuck you, cancer.

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If you need support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255

The Mighty, in partnership with Fuck Cancer, is asking the following: Share a story about one moment or conversation related to a cancer diagnosis or experience that made an impact on you. Find out how to email us a story submission here.

Cancer is time-specific. A lot of time is spent waiting. Waiting for results, waiting for tests, waiting until you can have treatment, waiting until you have recovered from one treatment to have the next treatment, waiting to heal from surgery, waiting for side effects to disappear. The list is endless.

Waiting, as I’ve recently discovered, is daunting. I wonder how many minutes, hours and days are wasted waiting for time to pass. But I’m not waiting on health professionals today, though. Today I’m waiting for me. 

Today I’m waiting to feel like my old normal self. I’m waiting to feel carefree, bogged down only by life’s minor impracticalities. I’m waiting to wake up worrying that I haven’t put the bins out or hoping that it’s my day off and I don’t have to jump up at “silly” o’clock and get ready for school. I’m waiting to see if I will get mildly irritated that my son will ask me what’s for breakfast this morning even though he’s more than capable of making his own.

I’m waiting for the unattainable, and I’m waiting in vain. It’s like waiting for the last train that you know isn’t coming.

I will feel those feelings again about work, bins and breakfast, but never again in their own exclusivity. After my cancer bombshell, I can only feel those feelings alongside “cancer fears.” Cancer fear is the monkey on my shoulder that grows in stature, depending on my inner feelings. Some days it’s a huge gorilla, making me wonder if the ache in my stomach is stomach cancer or if the headache I’ve had all morning is a brain tumor or a rash is skin cancer. Or cancer fear can be just the fear of your cancer metastasizing at a later date or that your cancer has not been fully removed and will come back again.

This cancer fear is there every time I open my eyes. Sometimes it’s just a little monkey allowing me to immerse myself as much as possible into the normality of everyday tasks like the school run, shopping and defrosting the freezer.

Today, this fear is attempting gorilla status, and as I lie on my living room rug wrapped in my son’s arms, I wish and hope we can have many more years of hugs and try hard not to think about my own mortality as I press my cheek against his. I enjoy the feel of his skin against mine and soak up the moment. “The old normal” will never come, so instead I make a deal with myself to enjoy the moment and embrace the new normal.

I read somewhere that happiness is allowing yourself to be perfectly OK with “what is,” rather than wishing for and worrying about “what is not.” “What is” is what’s supposed to be, or it would not be. The rest is just you, arguing with life.

I think about that for a minute while reveling in the warmth of my son’s cheek, waiting for him to stir and gently detach my cheek from his.

A version of this post originally appeared on The Huffington Post.

The Mighty, in partnership with Fuck Cancer, is asking the following: What do you wish you had found on Google when you were first diagnosed? Find out how to email us a story submission here.

To wear or not wear the bathing cap.

This was my dilemma one late summer afternoon in 2013. I was a recent “graduate” of surgery plus chemo for breast cancer, and I was enjoying a brief hiatus before daily radiation treatments started up in October. My sons, ages 6 and 8 then, were with me in the locker room of our local YMCA in Woburn, Massachusetts, as I debated whether or not to wear a hot pink bathing cap.

It was my children who wanted to swim that day, not me. When they asked me about it that morning, I lied and said I had to work. I was a freelance writer then, but business was slow. The truth was I didn’t want anyone to see me bald.

“Please, Mama,” Jonas begged as he shimmied onto my lap. “Can we swim?”

It had been a tough six months for them, too. “OK,” I said.

My husband watched the kids as I ran to a local sporting goods store for a bathing cap. I hadn’t worn one since I was a kid at Camp Monroe in Orange Country, New York, back in the ‘80s. The choices overwhelmed me. Should I go with simple white? Or the more fun cupcake one? The American flag was too patriotic. After several wasted minutes that I’ll never get back, I grabbed a hot pink cap and called it a day.

“Why not just swim without one?” a friend asked when she called later that morning. I explained I wasn’t comfortable flaunting my baldness. Self-consciousness, specifically about my hair, came to call around age 12, and it’s never left. Back then, it was all about having the perfect feathered bangs like Farrah Fawcett in “Charlie’s Angels.”

I’d had a love/hate (mostly hate) relationship with my hair for decades — always wishing I could trade my coarse wavy mane for something smooth, shiny and straight. Combine that with my aversion to risk taking (simply stepping into an elevator or a revolving door is angst-ridden enough for me), and you’d never find me skydiving or bungee jumping like my cousins who inherited some crazy daredevil gene I did not.

Out of everything during treatment, chemotherapy scared me the most, but not because I’d lose my hair. I was terrified of feeling sick, of vomiting, of all the unknowns. As for my locks, I scoffed when someone suggested I could keep them by freezing my scalp after each chemo session with what she called a “cold cap.” It sounded unpleasant. And cold.

After the hair was gone, I immediately hid my naked noggin under a fabulous auburn wig a friend bought for me. I also purchased several hats and various coverings, what my mother would have called “schmattas,” the Yiddish word for rags. She never saw my schmattas, however, as she died of ovarian cancer in 2002 at age 69. Like me, she wore a stylish wig much of the time. I never saw her bald.

Unfortunately, when I first tried to slip the pink bathing cap on my head in the Y locker room, it was like trying to stuff a grapefruit into one of my kids’ socks.

“I don’t think I can wear it,” I said to the boys. “It’s too tight.”

“But you have to wear it,” Jonas said.


“Because people will think you’re weird,” he said.

“Yeah, Mom,” my older son chimed in. “You should wear it.”

That’s when I recalled the bald woman I’d made eye contact with in the grocery store that week. I stared at this woman, hoping she would notice me — hoping she would see that we were “one,” she and I, under my schmatta. When our eyes finally met, I smiled. She, however, did not. I’d been judged.

And so it was her disapproving face, I believe, that pushed me over the edge that day at the Y. I would show her — and my kids and my crippling self-conscious self — that I could do this thing. That after all I’d been through already — the blood draws, the biopsies, the surgery, the chemo — I could get in a pool bald and survive.

So instead of packing up and heading for the parking lot, I chucked the bathing cap back in my locker and confidently said, “Let’s go swimming guys!” 

“Really?” Ethan said looking at my head. “Like that?”

I nodded.

“OK,” he said and shrugged.

“OK,” Jonas agreed.

In the pool, my boys played as though nothing was unusual. Strangers looked at me: not all, but some. A little girl floating by on a couple of noodles stared in the obvious way kids do. I smiled and she turned away, then turned back once more just to make sure I was still bald. I saw the curly-haired, young lifeguard who had taught my kids to swim. We made eye contact, and he smiled politely. There were others who looked, but no one pointed, or laughed or said anything.

Swimming bald, I discovered, was no big deal. Rather, it was just one more reminder that scary things in life often don’t turn out as bad as we think they will. Swimming bald made me feel bold. Sure, it was nothing compared to jumping out of an airplane. But like the silky pool water as it lapped against my smooth, naked head, damn, it felt good.

Lead photo source: Thinkstock Images

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