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My last short fiction instructor told us not to write about cancer. "It's been done," she said. Well, the hell with that. I learned in the last three weeks that I have stage III breast cancer. Writing, painting, and assorted other arts are how I process stuff, in addition, of course, to long conversations with friends. These conversations have begun in earnest these recent days, but I realized my Facebook page in particular was in danger of becoming a medical-update site. I do not want that. My life is still going to be about more than cancer, as much as that may not seem possible right now. Also, I don't want to alienate friends who are not ready to walk this particular valley with me at this time. For example, one elderly friend who called to cheer me up this week can't even handle the "c-word," and there is no way she will be up for any truly frank discussion of what's about to happen here. So she is advised to keep in touch with me via Facebook. People who are comfortable with the c-word, honest discussion and occasional cursing are welcome to join me here.

Thursday, February 20, 2014

Stupid thyroid


                Well, when I last wrote here, we were hoping we had found a breakthrough in the mystery of why my hair isn’t growing back.  I mean, it is about 2 ½ years since chemo ended, and I am still bald.  Bald enough that strangers stop me in the supermarket to compare notes on how we got bald.

We had hoped that we had found the culprit in my case:  a lazy thyroid, possibly because it had accidentally got nuked while we were deliberately nuking the lymph nodes nearby.  This would have been a relatively easy problem to fix.

                I am very sad to report that my blood test results are back, and my thyroid numbers are perfect. So were all my other numbers.  Even my cholesterol, which I am the first person to admit, is unfair as hell, given what I eat.  I am healthy as a horse.  I mean, if your horse has breast cancer and mysterious baldness. I should be happy about this, I know.

                The next step, apparently, is to talk to a dermatologist.  My doctor suspects I was just going to be an old lady with thinning hair, anyway, eventually, because of genes, and the chemotherapy just speeded up the timing of that.  I have my doubts, since all the elderly women ancestors I can remember had plenty of hair.  But I will go talk to the dermatologist anyway.  I suspect he will simply recommend Rogaine for Girls, which I rejected a year ago because of the potential side effects.  Am I desperate enough to try it now?  I don’t think so, but ask me tomorrow…

                I do think all the oncologists out there should stop telling women that their hair will definitely grow back after chemotherapy.  Yes, it usually does.  But not always, and I have now heard enough comments around the Internet and at the supermarket from women whose hair didn’t grow back, to know I am not alone in my shiny baldness.  Researchers, are you listening?  Saving our lives is Priority One, for sure.  But if you want to take a crack at the baldness thing, there are a lot of us out here who would appreciate it.