INTERSECTIONS

PART 5

No, I Didn’t Have Favorites, but . . .

Coiffing Grandma

Chemotherapy presents a host of serious physical challenges, but for many people, fear of hair loss is the first reaction when they hear they need chemo. It’s easy to think hair loss is a minor concern when facing a life-threatening situation, but it is an emotional and physical mountain to climb for almost everyone. Before minimizing someone’s concern about hair, consider that shampoo alone is about a 90-billion-dollar a year business. Imagine the market for conditioners, gels, dyes, doodads, and styling. Hair is important in our society, with or without a serious disease. No one wants to look like a “cancer patient” or endure stares and questions. Of course, hair loss can represent a host of other losses associated with cancer and chemotherapy as well.

We took care of a big, strong Iowa farm woman. She was, as K.D. Lang sang, a big-boned girl with a big laugh. She wrangled kids, grand kids, hogs, combines,  ditch witches, and her husband. She would not be brought to her knees easily. Mrs. Miller underwent multiple rounds of chemotherapy over about ten years. After each round, she returned to the farm, resumed her hard work, and regrew a full head of hair. We wouldn't see her until her disease recurred.

We got the call from the clinic that Mrs. Miller was on her way over to our unit to start another round of chemo. When she got off the elevator, everyone froze in place. She walked up to the counter, but we could not speak. The only reasonable reaction to her hairdo was being speechless. She had hair, but it was, shall we say, periodic. Imagine one of those chia pets if a relentless cat chewed on it. There were tufts, some long, some short. She hadn’t had chemo in a few years so we were stumped. Had her oven exploded? Had she gotten involved with the wrong end of a weed trimmer? She looked at our faces and laughed.

“Well, I knew I was going to lose my hair again so when the grand kids asked to give me a haircut yesterday, I let them have at it. All of them. Some of their toy scissors weren’t too sharp.” We all began laughing along with this bighearted, indomitable woman. All but one of us, that is.  A young resident sat at the desk with something akin to horror spreading across her face. She looked pale, about to faint. Why would a bad haircut, even such an astonishing haircut, make an oncologist so sad? So stricken?

“Mrs. Miller,” she said, then hesitated.

“Yes, Doc?” Mrs. Miller answered.

“Your chemo? It’s a new kind. It–actually, it doesn’t cause hair loss.”

We all spun back around to Mrs. Miller. And, what did she do? She did exactly what you’d expect such a soul to do. She laughed her head off. She roared. She slapped the desk. I figured she wouldn’t be running for fair queen that summer.

How fortunate were we to cross paths with people like this? If I find myself in this situation, I plan on raising a fair ruckus. Then, I hope I also can muster a little Mrs. Miller. Such people teach us how to live.