Silhouette of woman beneath umbrella in front of trees

I’m at day 15. My chemotherapy began two weeks ago, thus today is “day 15” after that initial infusion. Two weeks ago, I was told that my hair could begin falling out after day 14. So today, day 15, I’m on Hair Watch.

I’ve been babying my hair. I played with my mother’s dolls when I was young, and now I’m treating my own hair as gently as I once did those dolls’ hair. I’ve been brushing it so gently and carefully. And washing it so gently and carefully.

But, it’s going to come out.

I’m getting one of the taxane drugs in my “chemo cocktail”: Taxol. These taxane drugs are really terrific at fighting breast cancer, but also good at killing off all the hair on my body. The only difficult hair loss will be of that on my head.

I know it can be hard for all women when the chemo does this to their hair. It’s odd evidence of belonging to a sort of cancer sorority. Losing my hair is difficult because, in terms of physical assets, I believe it’s my best asset. I have thick, quite nice hair. What will I look like without my best asset?

And I could have tried to save it. Some women try to retain their hair during chemo and use a cold treatment, wearing caps containing dry ice packs during treatments. It is expensive: you must rent the equipment and hire a specialist to change the dry ice packs repeatedly. But I chose not to use this process because I learned it requires sitting in place for eight hours. I can barely sit still for the two- to three-hour duration of my infusion. So, I had an option of potentially keeping my hair, and I knowingly chose not to take it. It was helpful to know the option was there.

In the meantime, I’m armed with lots of camouflage: I have scarves, ball caps, hats (some from a particularly thoughtful friend) and a wig. My best-hairdresser-on-planet-Earth took me wig-shopping last week. He thought we should get that task out of the way before I actually needed the wig. I chose the wig that was closest to my present hair color and style. If I get another wig, I may be more adventurous. We’ll see.

Today I’ve washed and am air-drying my hair. (Remember, I’m babying it!) But, when my hair is dry, I think I’m going to run some errands while my hair seems rooted to my head.

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

Thinkstock image by m-gucci


Chemotherapy was the first intervention chosen to treat my breast cancer, given the size of the tumor and the fact that I had triple negative breast cancer (TNBC). TNBC is the catch-all category of breast cancer that is not fed by estrogen, progesterone or the HER2 protein. Scientists are working hard to develop targeted therapies for this type of breast cancer; however, they believe that there are actually multiple forms of breast cancer that fall under it, which makes it more difficult to treat. Therefore, chemotherapy is often recommended first so that the oncologists can see if it is effectively killing the cancer.

To be prepared for chemo, I had a port surgically placed to protect my veins from the 5 months of poison I was going to receive. My port was a blessing because it eased the anxiety and pain from all of the needle sticks, but it terrified me because one of the risks was it could carry an infection straight to my heart. Having to make such enormous medical decisions in the chaos of the diagnosing phase is so representative of the challenges one faces after being told you have a life-threatening condition. TNBC is a very aggressive form of cancer, and mine was locally advanced, so there was no luxury of time for decision-making.

Once treatment had ended, I turned to art to process the experience. I had all of these breast casts that we had done prior to surgery, and on the anniversary of my first chemo treatment (which coincidentally was also my wedding anniversary), I sat down and processed the experience on the cast. Instinctively, I knew what I wanted to do, and as I worked lines of poetry emerged that validated my emotional needs in that moment. It came first in Spanish, and then I translated it for the cast. “Oh Red Devil (nickname for one of my chemos), I am here on my knees, please save my life, because I am not done yet, I have work and purpose still.”

It’s normal to fear that dipping into a painful memory will make it worse, but this rarely is the outcome. In fact, the externalizing of our pain onto paper is tremendously relieving as we are carrying the memory within our body, mind and spirit. Kind of similar to making a shopping list – once you have it on paper you no longer have to worry that you will forget what you need.

Additionally, witnessing your experience in a tangible, visible form is self-validating, which is an important component of healing. Our feelings are messengers – they need an audience that is listening. When we are compassionate and accepting of them, they feel satisfied that their work is done and they fade away. Experiences that are complicated often bring out conflicting feelings and needs, and they may need repeated audiences with us in order to feel heard, especially if we have developed the habit of banishing or repressing them.

When we practice expressing our thoughts and feelings through process art, we can gain a deeper experience of listening to them as well as understanding them because they are no longer running around in circles in our head if we are placing them on paper. I have experienced and witnessed many “a-ha” moments from process art making; in fact, they often come faster and more frequently through art because of the benefit of gaining distance visually from our internal struggle.

After I had completed my chemo cast, I left it alone for several months. An opportunity arose for me to tell my treatment story through art, and I pulled it out to spend some time reflecting about that experience. The words poured easily out of me and I wrote a few poems. Here is one below:


The battle to kill the cancer

Feels like a death march of self

Wondering which cells are going to outlast the other

Each week we measure

Making sure the damage is not irreversible

Holding our breaths to see if

The medicine that kills

Is killing effectively.

My body grows more tired with each round

I cling on to whatever normalcy I can muster

My onc must have nerves of steel and deep conviction in the treatment

For to observe this battle, day in and day out

Must be brutal

Come , she says,

This will soon be over

And then you can rest.

This post originally appeared on Creative Transformations.

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

If you know someone who has breast cancer or even is a breast cancer survivor, you might be deciding what would be a good gift to buy them. I complied a list of ideas that I think will hopefully inspire you to find the right gift for your family member or friend. But remember to keep in mind their personality before everything else as you pick their gift.

1. Comfy clothes are a great idea for someone recovering or undergoing breast cancer treatment. Big hoodies and flannel button-down fashionable pajamas are welcome. Fuzzy warm socks are also great.

2. Moisturizers are a good gift idea because treatments can leave skin dry and itchy. Having a good moisturizer can make all the difference in the world.

3. A kindle is an excellent present for someone undergoing treatment or recovering. Reading is a great distraction from upcoming appointments, procedures and tests. Kindles are also small enough to fit in a purse or bag to transport.

4. Word search books, crossword puzzles or any games that can be used for fun and as a distraction.

5. Candles and candle holders are welcome.  Nothing like a beautiful smelling candle to have in your room when you are trying to relax and heal.

6. Gift cards to grocery stores or any store for that matter just to help take some financial burden off the family. Cancer isn’t only miserable but also terribly expensive so any help is appreciated. Speaking of gift cards, gift cards to clothing stores are excellent because clothing doesn’t always fit or feel the same as it did prior a mastectomy or double mastectomy.

7. Home made gift certificates offering your assistance in services such as cleaning the house, cooking, gardening, help with child care, help with pet care, running errands and such will be a welcome help. No one likes asking for help so having these home made offers relieves stress.

8. Heating pads and blankets are appreciated especially as we approach the winter months. When I recovered, I relaxed on a recliner, and wrapping in a blanket helped me feel even more comfortable.

9. Inspirational breast cancer awareness ornaments, cups, shirts, earrings and just about anything is good for a breast cancer survivor. As I was going through cancer treatments, I didn’t appreciate the pink ribbon as I do now. Now when I look at breast cancer awareness merchandise, I don’t get a pit in my stomach. I look at it and actually smile that I had cancer, went through it and am still here.

10. iTunes gift cards and anything with music can help the survivor or the person going through breast cancer. Music carried me through just about all the seasons of cancer. Songs helped me through finding out, biopsies, lumpectomy to mastectomy. When I hear certain songs, I have a memory attached to the song. I will always carry these memories with strength.

11. A day at the spa to get a massage, nails done and whatever else to make them feel wonderful makes a terrific gift.

12. For women and men dealing with cancer, adventures and helping them do things that they have never done before. A chance to drive a sports car, amusement parks, the beach and whatever they wish to experience is so important.

13. Movie gift cards are fun and a well-needed distraction.

14. Hugs and visitors from family and friends are unmeasurable. Knowing you are not alone and people have your back can lift your spirits and hope.

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

Thinkstock photo by joingate

“Your grandma is headed to the ER. The doctor called and told her she needs emergency spine surgery,” my mom told me.

The next day, my grandma had fast-growing masses removed from her spine, and she was diagnosed with breast cancer for the third time. In addition, a rod was surgically added to her back as the cancer cells had been eating her spine — and once the masses were out, she would need that extra support. Once her surgery was complete, her doctors told us that because of the location of the masses, had she come in a day or two later, she could have been paralyzed. Since her surgery, she’s been in and out of the hospital three times, and radiation was put on hold.

… And this all started a month ago.

Thinking about the last 31 days, I can’t help but think about my family’s current journey — both the moments of fear and the beautiful moments. As I think about these beautiful moments, I can’t help but see and feel love.

Here are eight lessons I’ve learned about love on our journey. While I already knew many of these things listed, they’ve been highlighted again and again throughout the last few weeks.

1. Love is patient.

There’s so much patience that comes with love. With my grandma’s illness and surgeries, love meant taking one day at a time, one moment at a time. It’s about rearranging furniture in the house so it’s easier for my grandma to get around. It’s about creating a schedule for family members to rotate during the nights she was in the hospital.

2. Love is kind.

So much kindness has been shown to my family since this journey began. People have gone to visit my grandmother at the hospital and at her home. They’ve made meal after meal and have even helped with some house duties when needed. We’ve even received messages from people around the world, just to let us know they were praying for my grandma and our family. Kindness hasn’t been shy.

3. Love is more than skin deep.

It may be cliché to say, but I believe beauty is ever-changing, as are our bodies. Love is loving your spouse when you meet them — and when weight is added after her child-rearing years. Love is loving your spouse when she ages and permanent creases are added from laughter to her once-smooth skin. Love is loving your spouse when cancer takes over and scars are added from life-saving surgeries and permanent reminders of time spent in radiation are tattooed onto her skin.

4. Love is laughter.

In the midst of the struggle, there have been many moments of laughter in the mix. My family members are naturals at finding the light in the darkness, laughter being one way. During my grandmother’s six-hour surgery, I may have offered to teach my 75-year-old grandpa to “whip” and “nae nae” in the waiting room… And he may have accepted the offer.

5. Love is thinking of others.

The day after my grandma’s major spine surgery, she was on a ton of medications, and she was on a mission: to find me a husband. The poor men who entered the room had no chance. As they walked into her room, she would say, “My granddaughter, Crystal, was on the front page of the Fresno Bee yesterday. Are you married? She’s looking for a husband.” (Teamwork makes the dream work? Ha!)

6. Love is creative.

A few weeks after my grandma’s surgery, many of my family members left town. She seemed to be in the clear and out of danger, and my grandparents insisted we go on our previously scheduled trips. One aunt went to a work event, the rest of us headed to my grandpa’s family reunion in Florida. Yet halfway into our drive to Florida (from California), my mother received a call. Grandma was put back into the hospital. We hated to not be home while she was hospitalized, but they insisted we continue on. It was important to them that we were at the reunion when they couldn’t be. And during the reunion? The most precious thing took place. All of my grandpa’s eight siblings sat together and brought them to the reunion via FaceTime. Everyone was crying by the end of the call, but hospital or not — grandma and grandpa were going to be at the reunion. (Mom and I also brought 36 pounds of frozen boiled peanuts home so they could also enjoy one of their favorite southern foods.)

7. Love can be scary.

Loving another human being can be terrifying — regardless if they’re a family member or friend. Loving them means you care about them, and when the hardships come? When cancer diagnoses are made and emergency surgeries are unexpectedly added to your calendar — it can be scary, and you can’t imagine life without those special people in your life.

8. Love is worth it.

As scary as loving another human can be, it is so worth it. Love means you’re never alone, that someone is there for you in both the good times and the bad. Love means you have others on your team, rooting for you through all the moments that come your way. It means having a grandma who wants you to find a loving spouse when you’re single, because she wants you to experience the kind of love and joy she’s had for nearly 57 years of her life. It’s having people you can call or text at midnight when you are on the brink of tears, knowing they’re there for you regardless. Loving other people can create memories, happiness, and an extra special adventure. Love is scary… But it is so worth it, and life would be lonely without it.

Image via Thinkstock.

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

The Mighty, in partnership with Fuck Cancer, is asking the following: Write a letter to yourself in regards to a cancer diagnosis. What would you say or wish someone had told you? Find out how to email us a story submission here.

Recently, I’ve realized that my hair is long enough to start clogging the drain in my shower again. Rather than feeling a slight repulsion about the clump of hair, it makes me smile every time I step into the shower. Intellectually, I knew that having my hair again would make me happy, but the physical joy I feel when I experience it is truly pleasurable. Here are a few other small (and large) victories I have felt fully with my body, mind and spirit:

  • Walking through the grocery store and realizing I no longer had to cling tightly to the handle of the cart for support
  • The incredible sensation of literally feeling your cells come back to life — kind of like having billions of tiny balloons re-inflate themselves inside of your skin
  • Being able to breath deeply again, without pain or wheeziness
  • Hearing my son’s authentic joy at seeing me in my workout clothes again — “Mama, you look so beautiful!”
  • Having enough energy to be out and about on adventures with my family, and not having to rest for the remainder of the day
  • Watching the transformation to my eyes as the eyelashes began to grow in again

The list could go on and on.

I find it important to internally identify and note these changes, because they help me to have a deep appreciation for my health and my body, as well as assisting me in cultivating a deep compassion for what my loved ones and I went through.

I did practice this exercise this during treatment as well, because often my anticipation of how I would feel was much worse than what I actually felt.

I see this as a vital part of reclaiming myself, of emotional healing, and as a counterpoint to when I feel those feelings of frustration about the losses we have experienced. It’s about having a healthy balance of the two, our celebrations and our sorrows, to walk in this world as a resilient person.

I’d love to hear about your small victories. Feel free to share them below.  Let’s inspire one another.

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

The Mighty, in partnership with Fuck Cancer, is asking the following: What was one thing you thought immediately after your diagnosis that you completely changed your mind about? Find out how to email us a story submission here.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. The last day I ever saw my grandmother.

I stood at the sliding, wooden door that separated her kitchen from the stairs that led to the side door of the house. My grandmother sat, frail, skinny, hunched over in her chair in the kitchen. She looked so sad. She looked lonely.

I was afraid.

I was 15 at the time. It was the beginning of the year, early February and the VHS tapes (yes, VHS tapes) had just been released of my Christmas dance recital. It was a cold, snowy day in Michigan. My mom and I were at my grandmother’s house to help clean up, sort bills and take care of her. I remember it like it was yesterday.

My grandmother was sick but not a normal everyday cold kind of sick. This was different. This wasn’t the woman I had always known. For my entire life, my grandmother was nothing short of a superhero. She was a sweet and gentle as Mother Teresa, as wise as Solomon and as fierce as a lion. She was Grandmother. She was my world.

When she was diagnosed with breast cancer, she didn’t want me or any of her other grandchildren to know. She wanted to be strong. She wanted to beat it. After she beat the breast cancer, colon cancer came next. I never knew my grandmother had cancer until after she passed away. I suppose she wanted it that way because I would’ve had a hard time letting go of her. I would have wanted to save her.

I remember the last time I saw her so well because of what happened that day. As my mom was helping feed and take my grandmother to the bathroom, I sat in the living room watching TV. My grandmother called to me and asked if I was ready to watch my Christmas dance recital video. We had talked about it for months now, and they had finally handed out the videos at school. I was so excited for her to see it since she had missed my recital.

Yet, when the time came for us to watch the video together, of me in all my ballet and modern dance glory, I said no. I don’t know why exactly, if it was the teenage angst in me not wanting to do what I was told. Perhaps, I was just too restless from being in my grandmother’s house all day cleaning. I was ready to go. I left the tape, and I think I told my grandmother we could watch it later.

The last time I saw her was when I slid that wooden door to her kitchen and walked out into the cold, Michigan air. I regret that moment so much. How I wish I could go back and just be. I’d go back and watch that silly dance recital video with my grandmother. I wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to go. I would’ve sat next to my grandmother, rested my head on her lap and laughed at the silly costumes we had to wear. I would’ve told her the parts of the choreography I struggled with. I would’ve pointed out the parts where I messed up, but no one could tell.

I would’ve stayed with her. I would’ve held her hand. I would’ve told her how much I loved her. I have would just been.

I got another lesson on “just being” that same year when my closest friend came into the girls’ locker room to find me. I was changing for dance class, and she came in the room trying her best to hold back tears. She told me her cancer had come back. She was afraid, and she came to tell me. Out of all her friends, she came and found me.

I don’t know what level of profundity a 15-year-old girl is expected to have, but again, I didn’t know what to do. It reminded me of my grandmother, when she was sick and frail. I was afraid. So I just hugged my friend. We stood there, her crying and me holding her in the girls’ locker room.

We stood. We cried. We embraced. Her mom stood watching us, and she let us just be. I wouldn’t change that moment for the world. Two years later, in our senior year of high school, my friend passed away. I still hold that memory of us in the locker room tight.

We don’t always have the most eloquent or beautiful words. We don’t have the right words or answers, no matter how much we want to. Sometimes, it is just a matter of being. Just being there through the hurt, the scary diagnoses and the uncertainty. There is so much power, so much unknown healing, in just sitting with someone in all of life’s hurt and confusion and just being.

Image via Thinkstock.

We want to hear your story. Become a Mighty contributor here.

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.

Real People. Real Stories.

150 Million

We face disability, disease and mental illness together.