White Scalp of Courage
Bald.
That is the one word no 22 year old woman wants to be used to describe her. Yet, now every time I look at my reflection that is what I see. A bald head.
Everyone keeps saying how beautiful I look and how I have a perfect bald scalp and how it brings out my eyes. Blah blah blah. I'm still bald. My hair is not my identity, but it is what set me apart. It is what people pointed out when they told me I was pretty. For my whole life people have always coupled my beauty with some referral to my hair, even if they really were just talking about my genuine heart.
Sunday night we had a "shaving party" and it will forever be etched in my mind. At that point I had already lost 2/3 of my hair, but I curled the remaining strands. Each person took a turn cutting a curl. With my hair cut short I felt free. Then my aunt buzzed my head and I cried. Almost everyone in the room cried. I knew everyone was hurting with me. I could feel their hearts breaking with mine. I could feel the love and support in the atmosphere. Together, with all of them surrounding me, I felt strong. I felt able. I felt empowered. I felt safe enough to feel deep sorrow.
As she shaved the last section, suddenly it hit me -- the hair that has accompanied me for my entire life was gone. Now I can't escape the fact that I have cancer. I can't hide it anymore or pretend like I'm normal when nothing about my life is routine. I feel like I look sick and vulnerable and physically weak . . . all the things that I wish deep down weren't true.
Now I look the part.
All of this happened Sunday and today (Tuesday) is the first time I can bring myself to write about it. . . to feel it. Yesterday, I felt heavy. Every time I looked in the mirror I was shocked by my reflection, as if I was staring at some distant version of myself that I hardly recognize.
I went to the park in the afternoon and got really hot on the walk. I took my bandana off and suddenly felt SO exposed, almost naked. Vulnerable. Sick. Weak. As I walked I encountered two types of people. The first looked me straight in the eye and gave me a confident smile, either out of pity or a shared sorrow. The second wouldn't make eye contact, as if my suffering made them uncomfortable. Cameron told me to wear my bald head like a badge of honor -- to let it be my white scalp of courage. I'm trying to, but I think it takes time. Time will help me adjust to my new reality. Time heals. Time grows confidence.
I want to draw attention to the fact that faith in Jesus doesn't negate pain. Knowing God is good doesn't make the suffering hurt any less, but He provides hope through it. Believing in His purpose doesn't change the reality that loss cuts us to the bone, but it also equips us to trust that He will heal.
I know that there will come a day when perhaps I don't cry when I think about my head being shaved. Today is not that day and I'm ok with that. The loss is still fresh, but I know it will get better.
God is still good, even when you're bald.
That is the one word no 22 year old woman wants to be used to describe her. Yet, now every time I look at my reflection that is what I see. A bald head.
Everyone keeps saying how beautiful I look and how I have a perfect bald scalp and how it brings out my eyes. Blah blah blah. I'm still bald. My hair is not my identity, but it is what set me apart. It is what people pointed out when they told me I was pretty. For my whole life people have always coupled my beauty with some referral to my hair, even if they really were just talking about my genuine heart.
Sunday night we had a "shaving party" and it will forever be etched in my mind. At that point I had already lost 2/3 of my hair, but I curled the remaining strands. Each person took a turn cutting a curl. With my hair cut short I felt free. Then my aunt buzzed my head and I cried. Almost everyone in the room cried. I knew everyone was hurting with me. I could feel their hearts breaking with mine. I could feel the love and support in the atmosphere. Together, with all of them surrounding me, I felt strong. I felt able. I felt empowered. I felt safe enough to feel deep sorrow.
As she shaved the last section, suddenly it hit me -- the hair that has accompanied me for my entire life was gone. Now I can't escape the fact that I have cancer. I can't hide it anymore or pretend like I'm normal when nothing about my life is routine. I feel like I look sick and vulnerable and physically weak . . . all the things that I wish deep down weren't true.
Now I look the part.
All of this happened Sunday and today (Tuesday) is the first time I can bring myself to write about it. . . to feel it. Yesterday, I felt heavy. Every time I looked in the mirror I was shocked by my reflection, as if I was staring at some distant version of myself that I hardly recognize.
I went to the park in the afternoon and got really hot on the walk. I took my bandana off and suddenly felt SO exposed, almost naked. Vulnerable. Sick. Weak. As I walked I encountered two types of people. The first looked me straight in the eye and gave me a confident smile, either out of pity or a shared sorrow. The second wouldn't make eye contact, as if my suffering made them uncomfortable. Cameron told me to wear my bald head like a badge of honor -- to let it be my white scalp of courage. I'm trying to, but I think it takes time. Time will help me adjust to my new reality. Time heals. Time grows confidence.
I want to draw attention to the fact that faith in Jesus doesn't negate pain. Knowing God is good doesn't make the suffering hurt any less, but He provides hope through it. Believing in His purpose doesn't change the reality that loss cuts us to the bone, but it also equips us to trust that He will heal.
I know that there will come a day when perhaps I don't cry when I think about my head being shaved. Today is not that day and I'm ok with that. The loss is still fresh, but I know it will get better.
God is still good, even when you're bald.
