A prominent aid to my artistic whims came to me by way of my father's love and craftsmanship; he spent hours of his spare time constructing a shadow box for miniature arrangements. Through the same five days, during which time Mom and I were in Rochester for my treatment, he also repainted my bedroom. I was awestruck upon my return to think of his feverish, love-wrought labors; through work he was able to ease his internal suffering which accompanied my physical trials. If nothing more, he was at least DOING SOMETHING, which seemed to allay one of his foremost grievances toward my illness in a temporary fashion.
I felt relieved to stay at home that year; it would have been difficult to feel comfortable when I was sporting a wig. At this age, so many kids allow themselves to be governed by popular opinion, whether or not that opinion has been justly founded. One may be treated kindly only to be defaced later in private discussions. When fear based on one's acceptability governs his actions, it is his convictions and conscience that sustain punishment. While many students may have attempted to understand the unpleasantness of my situation, others would have taunted malicious threats or voiced insensitive remarks; physically I was to weak to withstand such cruelty on a daily basis.
That which I most detested surrounding the aspect of baldness was the wig itself, for although I was grateful for the mask it provided, I abhorred its artificiality. Wearing a wig was unnatural, especially at my age. People failed to recognize me. Moreover, it presented inherent problems of its own. It would shift precariously in a stiff wind, and a blustery day brought visions of it cartwheeling tumbleweed-style, across a street. I began wearing headbands, though definitely not in style, simply to assure that it remained atop my head. Another dilemma was the well-meaning oldster who still enjoyed pulling a child's locks; unaware and full of only good intentions, what would he have thought if his teasing gesture unveiled the entirety of my hairless skull? The wig, therefore, was mainly a social impairment, for it was during group situations that I experienced the majority of my embarrassment.
Aspects which aided social interaction were my attitude and a light-hearted countenance. It is essentially one's appearance that opens the door to conversation and eventual relationships; and despite my different visage, I wished to remain approachable and self-secure with my health problem. I tried to nurture realistic, yet humorous outlooks toward problems, for a sickly person wearing a smile appears more inviting to others than one who shrinks within his ailment while displaying steadfast displeasure for his predicament upon his face. If one is open and jokes about his health situation, he is also less apt to evoke fear and hesitant inquiries from friends, and for that matter mockery from the ignorant; it is no fun to insult an individual who fully accepts himself and his problem, for there is no fuel to evince an emotional fire.
I felt totally secure in my baldness only with my family and select individuals who neither balked nor poked sadistic mirth at my loss. The wig was worn on all social outings, of course, just as it was generally donned at home as well. Certain days, however, I elected to prance through the house without it; the wig was tiresome and hot, and my head needed to escape its smothering imprisonment during the day in addition to its nightly freedom. Happily, my parents did not seem to mind the sight of my head, claiming it was "kind of cute"; a more appropriate manner of expressing my parents' view of my loss of hair was to say it was a necessary evil which had been part of the "insurance plan," and therefore deemed as acceptable as it could have been under the circumstances. I was initially amazed that they could love a child having no hair, since appearances rated so incredibly high on the scale of societal importance, and my best feature had been obliterated. To think that people found me tolerable and remained a loyal friend touched deeply upon my heart.
Thus at home baldness posed no problem for me, although I would sometimes hold back tears when I discovered a long strand of hair woven inside a sweater or glanced at an old photograph. The image of myself reflected in the mirror contrasted dreadfully with the girl I viewed in the picture albums to such an extent that physically I felt myself to be an entirely different person. Unfortunately, I felt less of a person when I compared my selves, past to present; I therefore tried to limit these recollections by keeping occupied with crafts or other mental detours from reality.
By January I was completely used to my way of life. There was comfort to be had in monotony and sameness of routine, and while I would sometimes feel alienated from society, my solitary existence provided me with emotional security which would not have otherwise been possible.
Each day was very much like the next, and time melded the days together into oblique obscurity. When I was not occupied with my lessons or crafts I would sit, allow my mind to empty itself of all thought, and then drift to other places, beyond my own stunted life, and there catch a glimpse of reality as others saw it to be. Were it not for vivid daydreams, my year of chemotherapy would have doubtlessly provoked more duress, yet through fantasy, I was able to surpass my physical limitations. Moreover, while public interaction would often degrade my self-image, thought would instill confidence in my unseen strengths. I found that the mind possessed more beauty than any bodily attribute, no matter how brilliant the eye might perceive it to be.
If it were humanly possible to correct physical shortcomings, everyone would mold his face and body into perfect specimens; disease could no longer wreak havoc upon one's dimensions or features, and amputated limbs would quickly be restored. This is not life, however. No one chooses his personal characteristics or form any more than he chooses to be born or die; over one's features and time-ridden transformations, one exercises no choice.
Although I was a loner at heart, I became accustomed to feeling brief surges of loneliness when I would peer from a window and observe the activity that went on in normal lives. To be able to come and go, unhindered by any physical dysfuntions, must have been pure joy… joy which the vast majority of people took for granted. It was a shame that they did not pause for an instant with their bustle of plans and breathe in the fresh air of their greatest fortune, their health. To think people actually worried about popularity, or buying a certain brand of blue jeans, or getting their hair cut one half inch too short began to seem utterly incredulous. Those who doted on trivials I could seldom abide, but now I had to constrain fury; perhaps instead I should have pitied those individuals who, in their selfishness, dwelled only upon that which they lacked rather than their well-being. Though my life at the time was far from ideal, I still felt myself to be quite lucky; I had witnessed at Mayo Clinic various gruesome and startling examples of disease… one woman's face was riddled with large, fleshy bumps… another woman's unearthly jaundiced eyes clashed with her dark complexion to bespeak trouble within… a pretty young woman with one leg nimbly propelled herself into the elevator, smiling, conspicuously contrasting with the throngs of people who walked about, eyes downcast and dreary, searching for the location of their next test or consultation. I felt a slight pang of embarrassment regarding my appearance yet I was grateful to be spared the more obvious discomfort which would have accompanied drastic, irreversible abnormalities; my pain would end, and my hair would grow back.