Apparently I’m not meant to have any attachment to my ego. Vanity has flown out the window. I feel as though I’ve been handling all these changes as gracefully as I can; I’ve accepted my new figure sans breasts and haven’t even felt the need to go get prosthetics. I’ve even stepped out in public in a bikini, it’s nothing to write home about, but it’s not too bad either. I cut off all my long curls preemptively so that the moment my hair begins to fall out wouldn’t be such a shock. The cute little pixie I have right now helps me look forward to when my hair begins to grow back, I now know that it will be just fine. I was looking forward to rocking the bald head. My hair should be gone by this weekend and I haven’t felt the need to run out and buy a wig; I was excited to see what I’ll look like with a bald head. Until now.
Two days ago I woke up with a face full of cystic acne. Not like a few zits here and there, full on red, raised, welts, all over my ENTIRE face. Damn. It’s one thing to rock the whole bald look with clear skin and red lips, it’s another entirely when you look like something out of a horror movie. The Nurse Practitioner at the clinic wrote it off as just another chemo side effect but was sure to tell me that they’ve never seen a case as bad as mine before. Thanks, that helps. Now I’m the freak with the extremely severe and extremely rare acne. Sweet. I spent last night scouring Sephora trying to find a miracle worker to save my poor cancer face.
I know it’s a small price to pay for my life. I know that looks aren’t everything. I know that this too shall pass. I do, but put yourself in my shoes for a moment. It’s bad enough that in a few days every single person I meet will know I’m battling cancer. I won’t be able to hide behind my cute pixie cut and retro shades, everyone will know. On top of that, I look like I’ve contracted some horrible flesh eating disease of the face. It’s a good thing I have a wicked sense of humor and my husband appears to be blind. It’s going to be a long year.