“Treat it like a pair of earrings”

That was PJ’s response to my hesitation about my new wig. “Maybe you accessorize, maybe you don’t,” she said, trying to help me find a sliver of a reason to be optimistic about the new look. She was trying to be my cheerleader and it’s part of why I love her. But it wasn’t working.

Today’s wig shopping expedition turned into an extremely emotional experience. It came on suddenly and overwhelmed me. All I wanted to do was escape from what I was feeling and there wasn't anyplace I could go to get away. I really can't explain what happened because I don’t understand it myself.

I recently decided, what the hell, I'll look into getting a wig. No promises, just explore the possibility. After being repeatedly ignored by wig banks on a list provided by the American Cancer Society, I took my prescription to LeTourneau's Pharmacy in Andover (yes, a prescription for a wig, on the same square of paper that your doc might write you up for Prozac).

Actually, I’d called ahead and had an appointment with a wonderful woman named Cindy, who’d taken time on the phone to learn about my situation and what I might be looking for. She had a few styles ready for me to try. Some good color matches, some styles that weren’t to my liking, and one in particular that seemed like a good choice. I decided to go ahead and take it and when she left the room to do up the paperwork I burst into tears.

Where did all this come from? I felt like the bottom had fallen out of the safe world I’ve concocted for myself. I’d betrayed myself. I’ve spent so much time and energy convincing myself that I didn’t want or need a wig, that I’m beautiful as I’m balding, strong, loaded with courage, wearing my diagnosis and treatment plan like a badge of honor and with tremendous pride. And I ruined when I said, “I’ll take this one, the short, brown one.”

But there was more to it than that. The bald me is a constant reminder of my condition. The wigged me looks normal. Real me versus normal me. That’s what I’m really struggling with, and I can’t resolve it.

I don’t have the right to look normal. The real me is the way like is. I convinced myself it was right to pass on a wig and that in doing so, made a commitment to the real me that I broke by taking the wig. I’m struggling with the feeling that I quit on myself and took the easy way out.

The wig is a pass, like the “Easy” button the Staples commercials. The wig is something to hide behind, a mask for weakness. Real is right and strong, normal is wrong and weak.

I’m in such a difficult place and it’s going to take some time to figure it all out.

Part of what makes this so painful is how quickly the whole thing went to hell. That made me wonder whether I’ve given myself the appropriate opportunities to grieve. Mourn the fact that I developed breast cancer in the first place, had to go through two surgeries, now through chemotherapy, later through radiation, years of drug therapy, will be scared to death every time I go in for a mammogram from now until the day I die. What if I get a call back? What if I have to have a biopsy? What if the breast cancer comes back?

I know most of the answers. I’ll go, get tested, be brave, fight like hell, and on and on. In the mean time, I’m busy feeling scared, overwhelmed, and sorry for myself. And I’m going to wallow in it for a while.

I’ll get over it. I always do. We can talk later about accessorizing.