Day 17 & $200 Martinis (Hair, Part 2)

For my second wig-shopping extravaganza, I chose a second TV reporter friend. Not having seen each other in a few years, we both gave a pre-rendezvous heads-up:

“After three years of island and boat life, I don’t exactly have TV hair anymore.”

“Well, I’m blonde now. About as blonde as a black woman ought to be.”

My journalist friend—let’s call her Beyoncé—arranged for us to meet with someone from the American Cancer Society’s free wig program. Having seen some of the ACS publications, with all their photos of (gasp!) CANCER PATIENTS wearing (ugh…) horribly outdated 80’s-styles, I was snobbishly skeptical about this. I was not one of those people.


My friend, however, had a plan. This is what I love about reporters. Tell them in the morning what you need, and by 6 p.m. they’ve got names, locations, prices, consumer reports, testimonials, maps and, in the case of this assignment, a list of 25 establishments ranging from the most basic downtown retail wig shop to the best custom services Park Avenue money can buy. Beyoncé was on a roll and unstoppable. I acquiesced and agreed to meet her in the lobby of the American Cancer Society’s mid-town Manhattan headquarters.

“Margie!” Beyoncé squealed when she saw me. “You look great!”

“YOU look amazing, Blondie!” I shouted back.

“No, I mean you look REALLY good,” Beyoncé gushed.

“Thank you! You too! Really!”

“No, I mean, you look TOO good…”

“Because I’m supposed to look sick?”

“No, it’s just that, well, I told them you weren’t working, and they asked me about health insurance, and I said I didn’t know if you had it or not, and I also didn’t exactly have a current address for you…”

“So they think I’m homeless and destitute?”

“Maybe let me do the talking…”

Inauspicious start notwithstanding, the following two hours proved invaluable. The young woman who runs the program—auspiciously named Karina, spelled differently, but the same name as the boat on which I sailed across the Atlantic (That’s a good sign, right?)—was superb, compassionately and expertly explaining what to expect from chemotherapy-related hair loss. She had pre-selected several wigs based on photos my girlfriend had sent her, and patiently showed me how to wear and style them, all the while stressing that the program had no financial need prerequisites. She even listened while we complained that perhaps their marketing materials could use a makeover.

By the end of the session we had chosen a wig we all agreed would work for my upcoming TV appearance and named it Karina, in honor of our benefactor. (Most mass-produced retail wigs come with names. Even before our get-together, Beyoncé had procured a Raquel Welch from one of her sources. “The names are really queer,” warned the woman sitting in the chair next to mine during my first chemo session. “You feel kind of stupid ordering a Tiffany or a Shirley, but you just have to get over that.”) Karina pronounced us the highlight of her day, and packed my free wig, free hat and free scarf into a cherry red tote bag so en vogue, Beyoncé leaped out of her chair when she saw it. “I’m sure she’ll share it with you,” commented Karina. We all cried and hugged. Beyoncé promised to feature the wig program on her radio show and I promised to go home and write a check to the American Cancer Society.

Afterwards, we stopped in a retail hair and beauty shop (Wigs And Plus!) where Beyoncé bought me a package of nude skullcaps, a wig brush, two Styrofoam heads and a pair of fishnet stockings. I was ready for, well, apparently pretty much anything.

It was another former TV colleague who told me my hair would start falling out on the 17th day. We were having beers about a month ago at an Irish pub in the town where I grew up and he told me the woman he’s been dating was just starting to get her hair back after going through chemotherapy.

“I call her my punk rocker.” My buddy likes to tease.

“The doctors say it’ll come out after the second treatment, usually three weeks after you start,” I told him.

“Day 17,” he stated, with anchorman authority. I figured he was pulling a random number out of his ass, but didn’t argue, especially since he offered to be my emergency contact person. (Relationship to patient: Former co-anchor.)

I got my second round of chemo on April Fool’s Day and every morning after that my city friend Ellen sent me a text message: “Do you still have hair?” My island friend Celia chose this week to fly up for a visit so I would have moral support for shaving my head. My girlfriends are amazing. First Dr. Lisa flew up from Miami to hold my hand through surgery. Now Celia was flying up from St. John to hold my hand through a bad hair day. The locals have been flying into the city on a moment’s notice whenever a dose of cheering up is warranted. My childhood friend Cynthia even showed up in my oncologist’s office with a gift party bag containing pink napkins, Disney princess paper cups, Tabasco, personal-sized bottles of vodka and Bloody Mary mix.

The normally light-traveling Celia arrived at Philly International on Day 16 with two pieces of checked luggage.

“I had to bring an extra bag because of all the gifts for you from St. John,” said my captain friend. “I had people chasing me down at the ferry dock this morning giving me stuff.”

She handed me a yellow envelope.

“This one’s from Texas Rose. I think she stuffed some mad money in it.”

Texas Rose rewrote the get-well card to read: “Every cancer has an angel that watches over it and whispers… Die, little cancer! Die!” Her southern twang jumped off the words. I opened the card and four $50 bills fell out.

“She sent $200!”

“Yeah, well, she said have martinis on her,” said Celia, “and I guess she knew what that was gonna cost her. She’s seen us drink.”

On Day 17, like clockwork, I started shedding. Washing my hair in the shower Friday morning, I thought maybe there was a little more than usual in the drain, but couldn’t be sure. My scalp was tingling. That wasn’t normal, was it? Throughout the day, I compulsively ran my hand over my head, each time ending with a fistful of strands, but each subsequent check in the mirror confirmed that everything looked the same.

In the bathroom later that night, Ellen and Celia were both running their fingers through my hair. Definitely not normal. My tresses lined the tub like blonde moss.

Ellen told me she had a fleeting thought (“emphasis on the word fleeting”) about shaving her head in solidarity, but decided against it as she had just started a new corporate job. (She has, however, already made a much more substantial commitment by offering to go through menopause with me.)

Since Celia’s Virgin Islands work commitments have no dress code, she insisted she was going to shave her head. Celia, however, is The Breck Girl and I don’t want her to lose her gorgeous locks. We argued but, as I have cancer (and, for now, hair), she conceded the first round. (We went a few more rounds during her stay, but I was ultimately victorious, not because I have cancer, but because Celia decided I look so good in my scarves, hats, and long red curls, she no longer feels sorry for me.)

Celia accompanied me to another ACS-sponsored program, one on makeup tips for cancer patients which, naturally, I dismissively scoffed at when my mother first sent me the information. My experience with Karina, however, swayed my opinion and as usual, Mom turned out to be right. The women at the session—who all sat around a conference table and whipped off their wigs before applying moisturizer, eye shadow and blush—confronted themselves in their mirrors with good humor and grace. It was disconcerting trying to imagine applying makeup without eyebrows or eyelashes but to help with the challenge, everybody left with another red bag, this time stuffed with Clinique, Aveda and Estée Lauder.

That same day I had to stop at the oncologist’s office for another check of my blood counts. The white blood cell count, which dropped drastically after chemo, was back up, thanks to the $3500 white-blood-cell-stimulating injection I got the week before. Good to know the Super Shot did more than just leave a giant bruise on my arm and a red flag on my file with the insurance company. Dr. R was back from vacation, but tied up with another patient. “He says your counts are excellent and he doesn’t need to see you unless you’re having problems,” said the nurse. What did a girl have to do to get noticed around this place?

Since I was momentarily problem free, Celia and I decided that called for a celebration, perhaps even the $200 martini kind. We cozied up to the bar at trendy El Vez, conveniently located just a couple short blocks from Thomas Jefferson University Hospital, and ordered margaritas and guacamole. Okay, so the tab was more like 30 bucks. Truth is, I’m more likely to drink tea than tequila these days, and when I do imbibe, I can usually only handle one before I need to go take a nap. But it’s good to have goals.

Today, Day 22, I still have hair. Celia returned to St. John this morning and took her electric shaver with her. We figure I’m prepared now to handle it when the time comes. I am picking hairs off my laptop as I type, but I don’t look different. I tried out my Karina wig during an on-camera rehearsal yesterday, just to get used to it. Nobody said anything rude, and more than a few people remarked that they liked my new haircut.

I also don’t feel all that bad. So far, I don’t have any of the more insidious side effects like nausea, mouth sores, or excruciating bone pain, although from time to time I do feel these weird aches, this creepy sort of movement deep in my core. It’s like I’ve got the Barry Bonds of bone marrow, knocking out white blood cells with unnatural force to take on the despised rivals, the visiting cancer/chemo team, their combined bad sportsmanship shaking the bleachers of my little ballpark body. The season has just begun, but at least I won the opener. Hey, that’s more than you can say for the Phillies.

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