Chemo Savvy

Those of you who have been readers for a while, as well as those of you who know me in real life, are aware that I never got a wig. I did have a couple of hats that I would wear while I was bald, but I also spent a lot of time just walking around with a big shiny bald head. Many of you would probably say that you could never pull off the bald thing, and I used to think that, too. However, some things are worse than being bald.

I submit to you Exhibit A, the strap on curly bangs with turban (sold separately) and Exhibit B, the Gallagher hairpiece.

These are just two of the super-chic offerings from a catalog I picked up at the Radiation Shack yesterday called Chemo Savvy. I originally picked up the catalog not because I fell in love with the stylish Grape Ape colored beret on the cover, but because as someone who enjoys word play, I couldn’t resist the name: Chemo Savvy.


I should be able to get my radiation tatts today. That’s a good thing, because I’m already flunking Radiation 101: Keeping Your Markings Intact Over the Weekend. I knew I was in trouble when we found one of my stickers on the kitchen floor on Sunday morning. Oops. On Monday I was sent to remedial simulation because my sharpie marks and stickers were so jacked up. I think the radiation therapists were relieved to figure out that they could give me the permanent marks before the long weekend ahead—seeing as how a two day weekend was apparently too much for me to handle.


Remember how they told me that I couldn’t wear deodorant or shave my left armpit during radiation? And remember how they told me that it was really no big deal because the radiation would cause the hair to stop growing and the sweat to cease? Well, as Darth Vader might have uttered, “You underestimate the power of my pit, young Skywalker.” Truly. It has neither ceased sprouting, nor dried up. Good thing I don’t feel any guilt about using my electric razor. And you’d all better remember to give thanks tomorrow for cooler weather, which is the only thing that is saving you from copious funk right now.


Monday will be my 37th birthday. Somehow that sounds so much older than I feel. You might think I’d feel older after what I’ve gone through this year. I’ve read that doing chemo ages a person—but I don’t feel any older than I did in May when I started. Shoot, I don’t even feel 6 months older! Molly would tell you that I’m just immature. She’d be right, too. After all, it takes one to know one.

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