In America, we have always taken it as an article of faith that we 'battle' cancer; we attack it with knives, we poison it with chemotherapy or we blast it with radiation. If we are fortunate, we 'beat' the cancer. If not, we are posthumously praised for having 'succumbed after a long battle.'
Dad's cancer experience included periods of relatively good health as well as bouts of hospitalisation as he coursed his way through a variety of different chemotherapy treatments.
To clear the air once and for all, I don't have cancer. I'm not going through chemotherapy. I have alopecia. Alopecia areata, to be exact about it. I love the way that I look; I'm not worried about it.
When I had my cancer, the chemotherapy took my hair away. So then I decided I would just keep it short, and this is my signature now. The great thing about it is that I am a bit of a chameleon, so you can put a wig on me and I look totally different.
I'm happy to tell you that having been through surgery and chemotherapy and radiation, breast cancer is officially behind me. I feel absolutely great and I am raring to go.
Chemotherapy isn't good for you. So when you feel bad, as I am feeling now, you think, 'Well that is a good thing because it's supposed to be poison. If it's making the tumor feel this queasy, then I'm OK with it.'
Chemotherapy isn't good for you.
When doctors tell you that your only hope for survival is 14 straight days of intense chemotherapy, 24 hours a day, you sit there, and you count down the 336 hours. You see, each day is a blessing.
Everything was going for me, I didn't even know the meaning of the word insecurity and suddenly I am surrounded by words like operation, cancer, chemotherapy, radiation.
Chemotherapy is such a hard, hard kiss. Anything we can do to alleviate its side effects should be intelligently explored with an open mind.
